K





BLIND MAN'S
0F F.E RING:
BY   B. B. BOWEN.
"All do something for the general good; the rich give their wealth, the poor
their labor, and even those bereft of sight can contribute their thoughts."
THIRD EDITION.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR.
MDCCCLI.





Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by
B. B. BOWEN,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts


STEREOTYPED BY
GEORGE       A. CURTIS;
NEW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDERY,
BOSTON.





TO
ONE WHOSE DEEP AND TRUE AFFECTION
IS EVER AUGMENTING THE HAPPINESS OF MY DAILY LIFE,
TO
THIS VOLUME IS. AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.





I ken the night and day,
For all ye may believe;
And often in my spirit lies
A clear light, as of mid-day skies;
And splendors on my vision rise,
Like gorgeous hues of eve.
I hear you talk of mountains,
The beautiful, the grand;
Of splintered peaks so gray and tall;
Of lake, and glen, and waterfall;
Of flowers and trees;-I ken them a&.
Their difference understand.
And oh, the heavenly music
That, as I sit alone,
Comes to my inward sense as clear
As if the angel voices were
Singing to harp and dulcimer,
Before the mighty throne.
It is not as of outward sound
Of breeze or singing bird;
But wondrous melody refined,
A GIFT OF GOD UNTO THE BLIND,
An inward harmony of mind,
By inward senses heard!
MARY Howir.





PREFACE.
A FEW words will be sufficient to convey to the reader the
object of our humble " Offering." For whatever it contains,
we, of course, hold ourselves responsible. We cannot but
hope that it will exert a beneficent influence, and contribute
something to deepen the interest already manifested in tht
condition and claims of the blind. It was our intention to
have published a book in raised characters, but the great
expense of such an undertaking has prevented us. We. have,
however, endeavored to give a variety of interesting facts in
relation: to the blind, their education, &c., which, we trust,
will make this book as useful and acceptable as the one we
had previously contemplated. Those who are acquainted
with the extent to which the blind are now educated, will
have no difficulty in conceiving, that one without the aid of
sight could write a much better work than this claims to be;
but as this voluime may fall into the hands of many who may
never have given their attention to this subject, we deem it
proper to state, that the following pages contain the thoughts
of the author as they were delivered to his amanuensis,, without even the slightest verbal alteration. We might have rendered them more acceptable to the reading public, by summoning to our aid one better skilled in the art of bookmaking; but, in such a case, the present volume would have
been deprived of its distinctive original character, which we
were desirous it should possess. Wherever we have made
quotations, they are duly credited. We have thought that
short articles would answer our purpose better than elaborate
essays. We have endeavored to give the reader some idea
1*





vl


PREFACE.


of the effect which blindness exerts upon the mind in influencing the reasonings and modifying the opinions of one who
has been its subject from early infancy. Some may, perhaps,
think they have discovered a want of consistency in our
views. In reply to this, we will only say, that we regard
man as a progressive being, and that, for ourselves, we
change our opinions whenever we find that those we have
previously entertained were wrong. We have always prized
higher an earnest and inquiring spirit, than one who remains
forever in an immovable state, who can boast of nothing but
the pertinacity with which he maintains the ideas inherited
from his fathers.
The author wishes to be distinctly understood, that part of
the design of the present publication is to enable him to obtain
for himself, and for those whose happiness is dearer than life,
the means of an independent subsistence; and whatever may
be realized from its sale, will be appropriated to this object.
If energy and enterprise that have never yet yielded to circumstances, can do it, our humble 1" Offering" shall find at
least a temporary lodgment in every nook and corner of our
widely extended land. Of one thing we are sure, that whoever may honor it with a perusal will do so without injuring
themselves in mind or morals.
THE   AUTHOR.
BOSTON, March 20, 1851.





CONTENTS.
PAGE
Biographical Sketch of the Author,........  9
Lines to the Blind Lecturer,.......  24
Reply,.............  25
Blindness and the Blind,.........  27
Random Thoughts,........... 45
The Friend of my Early Days,........    50
To a Lady Singing,......... 52
A  Tale of the Blind,..........  53
An Adventure of my Boyhood,....... 72
Lines,..............  75
Our Country,..............  76
Thoughts on Immortality,.........  85
Lines to a Blind Beggar,......... 95
The Blind Invalid,.........  '96
An Impromptu,............. 102
Cheerfulness of the Blind,.........  103
The Good and the Bad; or a Tragical Story,.....107
A Blind Man's Beau Ideal of a Beautiful Lady,.... 123
A  Beautiful Village,.......... 125
The Age,  a............  127
The Blind Bride,........... 138
The Benevolence of Christ,.....    142
Nicholas Sanderson,..........148
Glimpses and Reminiscences of Life,......  161
The Reflections of a Blind Man,....... 171L
Reply to the Reflections of a Blind Man,.....  171
Observations on the Effects of Blindness,..... 173
Henry Morton,..........  185
A Night in the Railroad Cars,....... 213
Lines,  a.............  220
Our Government,........... 221
Charity,............  234





viii


CONTENTS.


PAGe
The Blind Pedler,.......... 243
Remarks on Education,........              258
An Address upon the Education of the Blind,.     267
The Man of his Time,....          279
The Infidel and the Blind Man,....... 284
A Sketch,............           286
The Two Aspects,.......... 288
Music,.............   293
The True and the Apparent Life,....... 300
My Mother's Grave,.......      304
A  Hint,.............  307
A Lesson for the Day,...........          308
The Christian Religion,.... 317
True Heroism,...........       326
Contentment,............ 331
To the Memory of a Departed Friend,..               337
A Journey across the Alleghanies,....... 339
Man and his Life,...........          349
The Life and Writings of Rev. Dr. Blacklock,... 356
A Letter to a Friend,........       377
Hints to Young Men,.......... 407
Eternal Life,.........       419
Concluding Observations upon the Blind,.. 425


A FAIRY WALTZ,...   430





SKETCH
OF
THE      AUTHOR'S            LIFE.
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
"When on a master's work I look,
What hath been done with joy I see
But when in mine own book I read,
I see what should have been done by me."
A MAN always stamps the impress of himself on his
works; hence it always happens, that when we look on
a piece of machinery, a beautiful painting, or a finely
executed piece of sculpture, we are, I think, conscious
of an instinctive desire to know something of him by
whose mind they were conceived, and by whose hand
they were formed. It is thus, when we look on the
material world, we feel within our souls the want of a
yet more thorough knowledge of the Great Architect.
The philosophers of antiquity were led, by the study
of nature, to confess that they needed a more perfect
revelation of nature's God.
We see the manifestation of the principle of which
we are speaking in every-day life.
Do we behold a splendid specimen of architectural
skill, almost the first question we ask is, who is the
artist? If we take up a book to examine, we involuntarily turn to the titlepage to see by whom it was
written. We regard this as an amiable trait of the





10


THE OFFERING.


human mind. It is ennobling to contemplate the creative spirit as it reveals itself in whatever it creates. It
must, however, be remembered, that, like every other
principle, it is very liable to be abused; hence it is not
uncommon to find persons in whom this noble desire
has degenerated into a cold and heartless curiosity.
There are, without doubt, those who, on reading my
humble offering, will wish to know something of him
by whom it was written. It is with the hope of pleasing such that we have prepared the following necessarily imperfect sketch of our life.
Do not be alarmed, kind reader; I shall not trouble
you with a long account of my pedigree.
My ancestors were all, without doubt, very distinguished men, or at least they thought so; and this, so
far as I am concerned, answers every purpose.
As for myself, I was, born (so say the chronicles of
those days) in the fine old town of Marblehead, just
sixteen geographical miles from Boston, Mass., in the
year 1819. Of my infancy I cannot say much, for I
have lost all recollection of those balmy days; yet,
reader, an event which happened within the first six
weeks of my life, not only affected my physical, intellectual and moral developments through time, but, it
may be, has decided my destiny forever. For six short
weeks was I permitted to look on the beautiful universe, and then the windows of the soul were closed
forever. During that short period of time, of all the
objects which I was permitted to see, there is engraven
upon my soul, never to be obliterated, the dim outline
of one sweet, sad face. Say, if you will, it is fancy! yet
I would not have erased from my consciousness. the
thoughts which that ideal image has created.
I would, for the sake of those who will read this





SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.


11


sketch, as well as for my own sake, I had the power
of describing adequately the sensations produced on my
mind by that terrible dispensation which consigned me
in infancy to total blindness.
It is probable that our first parents, when exiled from
Eden, retained during their whole lives some recollection of the awful presence of Him whom, while in their
innocence, they were permitted to see. So I have
always fancied (I suppose some persons will regard it
as a mere illusion of the imagination) that I still retain
some remembrance of the beautiful and thoughtful
countenance of her on whom my eyes first gazed, and
whose yearning tenderness, made more intense by my
misfortune, guided and blessed my earliest years.
If there is a place in my heart which the selfish and
sinful world has not yet corrupted, there is inscribed
the image of my mother. It is difficult to explain the
principles (if there be any) upon which the destinies of
individual men depend. There is one rule which I think
holds good, (I may as well remark here that I am a
little superstitious,) that the first great event in every
man's life decides his fate; at least, it was so in my
case. As I have already observed, in six weeks I lost
my sight, -so in six years I lost my mother. Henceforth, without eyes and unprotected by a mother's care,
I had to grope, or rather poke, my way through the
world.
Long and dreary were the hours of childhood spent
sitting in the chimney nook or by the doorside, mournfully speculating on the strange difference which existed
between myself and those around me.
I contrasted, in my loneliness, the dark world in which
I was placed with the bright and better one from which
I had come, of which as yet I had not lost all recollection.





12


THE OFFERING.


The angel of beauty in my youthful heart sighed and
wept for some external manifestation of itself in the
material world. I looked around me, but saw not the
green, beautiful garb in which the earth was clad. I
gazed upon the heavens, but the awful stars blessed not
my eyes with their mystic light.
Men passed me by with a cold expression of pity and
commiseration; and little children, with an instinctive
dread of suffering, shunned,the society of one who could
not participate in their enjoyments. Yet think not the
hours of my childhood were all spent in gloom or in
sadness; for until the light of the young heart's affection
is quenched by the bitter consciousness of sin, it is permitted to enjoy communion with angels, and to bask in
the sunshine of an uncorrupted faith. But the simple
enjoyments of early life and the pure sentiments from
which they spring, are necessarily evanescent and
transient; they soon become corrupted, either by the
habits of those with whom we associate, or by a defective education; but their effect on the heart is never
entirely dissipated. We carry through life a presentiment in our bosom that our earliest were our happiest
and our best days; and the consciousness of the individual, like the consciousness of the race, refers to an
early and a blessed Eden; and Hope, the sweet soother
of all our sorrows, points to the far distant future when
man shall again renew his primeval simplicity and
innocence.
I have been indulging the bright fancies that play
around my heart, spite of the darkness in which I am
shrouded; but there is a blessed sunshine within, as well
as without, and it is sometimes pleasant to bask in its
soft and cheering light.
We will now proceed to note some of those changes





SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.


13


and vicissitudes that marked the days of my boyhood.
My father, being in indigent circumstances, compelled
me early to make some exertions for myself; and the
physical activity which was necessarily excited, proved
highly beneficial to me in after life. My first efforts to
help myself were displayed in the attempt to walk
alone through the streets of my native town. I first, of
course, learned the localities of the neighborhood in
which I resided, then gradually increasing the sphere
of my observations until I was able to go into any part
of the place with the greatest readiness. The manner
in which I contrived to do this was by observing the
irregularities of the ground over which I walked; by
noticing every permanent object that would serve as a
landmark; observing the turns of the road, and carefully
remembering the number of streets I passed through in
going from one place to another. The facility and
readiness with which I was enabled to go to any particular house, not only in my native town, but in those
adjoining it, proved highly advantageous to me in the
business which I afterwards pursued, and by which I
was enabled to gain a livelihood.
When only ten years of age, I was compelled by
poverty to employ that time in obtaining a bare subsistence which should have been devoted to the careful
cultivation of the mind; but at that period of my existence I knew not the wants which the cultivation of the
intellect and the development of the moral nature alone
create; I felt only those imperious appetites which,
though inferior in their nature, must always first be
satisfied.  For some years I was distinguished (and
at that time it was a distinction of which I assure you
I felt proud) as a fish-boy; that is, I was accustomed
to take fresh fish, which were daily caught, and to carry
2





THE OFFERING.


them to the houses in different parts of the place, to dispose of, receiving for my services twenty per cent. The
value of some of the fish was marked in notches on the
head; by counting these, I was able to tell the amount
I was to receive. Some kinds, however, I was accustomed to weigh with a pair of steelyards which were
prepared for my use.
My misfortunes secured for me the patronage of the
wealthy; and I knew what days to supply them, and
what each customer would require.
I would sometimes go in company with others to fish
myself, and on such occasions would receive my share
as well as my commissions for selling. I could help
manage the boat, bait a hook and haul in the fish,
almost as well as if I had been blessed with eyesight.
These employments, although they enabled me to obtain
my daily bread, brought me in contact with those
whose influence on me was anything but favorable;
familiarizing me with habits which in after life it was
difficult to overcome. Yet I was happy, for I enjoyed
a kind of equality with them, which I have found it
difficult to maintain with those with whom I associated
in after life.
At length I heard that something was to be done for
the blind,--that a school was to be established, where
they were to be educated; and one day, when I was
about fourteen years of age, I received notice that I was
one of the six pupils selected by Dr. Howe to commence
the Institution for the Blind, at Boston. Most gladly did
I exchange the fishing-boat for the school-room! As I
have in another place spoken of the institutions at Boston and elsewhere,* I need not go into particulars here


* See article entitled Blindness and the Blind.





SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.


15


further than to say that I entered on my studies laboring under great disadvantages. My fellow-pupils had
been more thoroughly trained at home; they had
enjoyed privileges which I had not; kind parents had
watched over and instructed them during their earliest
years; therefore, they had only to pursue the training
which had been commenced under the parental roof.
But if I was inferior to them in mental culture, I did
most certainly surpass them in physical activity. At
the exhibitions which were given to make the public
acquainted with the objects of the institution, I was
always sent out on some errand, to show the spectators
that the blind could find their way about, alone.
The first two years I spent at the institution were
mostly employed at manual labor; but after that, more
of my attention was given to study; and during my
last year I maintained a respectable position in the first
class in all the principal studies, excepting the higher
parts of mathematics.
On leaving the institution, which I did in 1838, being
then twenty years of age, I received from Dr. Howe,
the director, a certificate, certifying that I was honorably
discharged from the institution, having complied with
all the regulations, and recommending me to any persons disposed to employ me. At the same time, I
received from Mr. J. A. Keller, Professor of Music, a
certificate of which the following is an exact copy:
" New England Institution for the Education of the
Blind.
"JUNE 30, 1838.
" Mr. Benjamin B. Bowen has been a pupil to the subscriber, and has received instruction in vocal and instrumental music, more particularly on the Pianoforte, the





16


THE OFFERING.


Organ, and in Thorough-Bass. As a scholar in Thorough-Bass, he was first-rate; as an Organist, I can
cheerfully recommend him; and for the Pianoforte, he
has gone through Logier's system,. and the last part
of HUinten, and performs several overtures and other
pieces with great accuracy.
1" J. A. KELLER."
On leaving the institution, I returned to my native
town, penetrated with a more profound consciousness
of the deprivation to which I was subjected, without
being able to do much more than before I entered the
institution, to overcome its defects.
Indeed, there had been awakened within me a love
of knowledge, and I had received instruction in most
of those studies usually pursued in our seminaries and
academies. I found that my knowledge of History,
Geography, Mathematics, Natural, Moral and Intellectual Philosophy, was superior to that of my brothers
and sisters, who, previous to my entering the institution, had enjoyed greater advantages; still I found the
difficulties of obtaining an independent subsistence for
myself not only undiminished, but even increased.
I would not urge this as an argument for not educating the blind; I mention the fact because it has not
yet received sufficient attention from society, and I take
this occasion to express (notwithstanding the blind are
sometimes accused of want of gratitude) my grateful
acknowledgments to the people of Massachusetts, for
the provision which they have made for me in common
with others of our unfortunate fellow-citizens.
I would not part with the education I possess, limited
as it is; no! not even for the boon of sight, gladly as I
would behold the beautiful earth, and the serene sky,
or look upon the sweet faces of those around me.





SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.


I17


I proposed at first to spend my days in my native
town, working a part of the time at some of the
mechanical trades which I had learned at the institution, and devoting the rest to the teaching of music and
to intellectual pursuits.
As a teacher of music, I found but little difficulty,
and many of those who had several years before purchased fish of me, now sent their daughters to be
instructed on the pianoforte.
There was not a sufficient number of pupils to occupy
the whole of my time, and I attempted to accomplish
something as a weaver of Manilla mats; but in this
attempt I miserably failed.
A blind person, working with his fingers at this
employment some fourteen or fifteen hours, can only
average about fifty cents per day; and it would be
hard, indeed, if the blind could not have a small portion
of their time for mental cultivation, since the material
world can afford them, at most, but little gratification.
I will not trouble the reader with a tedious detail of
what to him must be uninteresting. Suffice it to say,
that, after one year's trial, I satisfied myself that I could
only obtain a livelihood by those avocations where
sight is not so indispensably necessary as in mechanical
employments; accordingly, I have pursued alternately
the occupation of musician and lecturer. How well I
have succeeded, others must decide; of one thing I
am certain; I have had to contend with difficulties
which I hope do not beset every one in the pursuit
of a mere subsistence.
My pathway through life has thus far been cheered
with friendly sympathy and assistance. I hope, however, I shall not be accused of being ungrateful, if
I say that, in all the mere business transactions of
2*





1s


THE OFFERING.


life, and in all my intercourse with the selfish world,
though subjected to greater disadvantage than others,
yet I have received no special favors. 'It is not true,
as it has been frequently supposed, that in the world at
large (that is to say, among the majority of mankind)
the misfortune of blindness protects the individual from
those vicissitudes and casualties to which others are
subjected.
I have, for instance, been robbed, and have known
of other blind men sharing the same fate; and I have
found those who were ready on all occasions to take
advantage, and were pleased when the misfortunes of
others afforded them greater facilities. I am sorry to
record these things; they are not in accordance with
my views of human nature, but with my experience.
For more than six years I have, by great exertions
on my part, been able to obtain a living as an itinerant
lecturer; and beside this, I have the satisfaction of
knowing that my efforts have, done something toward
awakening an interest in behalf of the blind as a class.
I have in my possession testimonials from distinguished gentlemen in various parts of the country, who
were not induced to give them from mere sympathy, or
from any personal regard, testifying to the fact that my
lectures were eminently calculated to do good.
I mention this, not actuated by selfish considerations, but because I derive great pleasure in knowing that, in seeking my own individual good, I have
still been able, in some degree, to promote the welfare
of others. As society is at present constituted, the possession of sight seems indispensable to enable one to be,
to any very great extent, a useful and active member.
Perhaps the blind man does all that he can be expected
to do, if he succeeds in supplying his own wants and





SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.


19


those immediately dependent on him; and even then his
lot is indeed a hard one, for to him the world presents
none of those inducements that in every age have fired
the ambition and nerved the heroic mind to lofty aims.
No! to plod on, shrouded in midnight darkness, compelled to tax to the uttermost his impaired energies,
receiving only in return his daily bread, and then at
last to sink into an obscure and an unhonored grave!this! this! is the blind man's destiny! I know I shall
be reminded of Homer, Milton, Saunderson, and others;
but the admiration they challenged only proves that
they were exceptions. The remarks which I have
made are applicable to the blind as a class.  Still
I would not be unmindful of the many enjoyments
which serve as an alleviation to blindness, and in which
all who are thus afflicted can participate. I would instance those pleasures derived from the social feelings
and affections. The heart of the blind man yearns for
the sympathy of his fellows; and in social communion
with gifted minds he derives the highest happiness of
which he is susceptible in the present state of existence.
And I may remark here, without exaggeration, that in
the more intimate communion of hearts, based upon the
purest and the loftiest sentiments of which we are capable, he has a far truer conception, than those whose
affections become early corrupted by the objects of
sense.
It is a just remark that "the eye is the organ of the
passions, while the ear is the organ of the sentiments."
The contemplation of mrere physical beauty may indeed
ravish the senses, but it can never give the heart that
pure delight which music always imparts. To look upon
a picturesque landscape affords a great, yet momentary
enjoyment, but in the deep-toned harmony that arises





20


THE OFFERING.


from all created things, and that thrills with deepest
ecstasy the inmost soul, there is a far more enduring
happiness. So the radiant beauty of the human form
and face,--the joy that beams from the speaking eye,
-the smile that wreathes the lip with gladness, -can
never exert that power upon the human heart, nor
make so deep an impression, as the low, soft tones of
the voice divine. If there be any faculty of nature less
corrupted than the rest, it is certainly the human voice.
I:fear I have already indulged too long in generalization. From the preceding observations it will be
perceived that I am fully conscious of the solace
which a beneficent Providence has so bountifully provided for that class of his afflicted children of whom I
have been speaking.
There yet remain but few incidents of my history to
record.
I have already spoken of the:satisfaction which the
blind derive from the exercise of the social affections.
Soon after leaving the institution, I beganD to feel the
want of a friend, whose sympathy, based on something
higher than mere conventional forms, might soothe my
dark and rugged pathway, and whose counsel and
kindly cooperation would assist me to overcome the dif-.ficulties inseparable to one in my situation. To be
frank, I felt the want of a life's companion. When a
child I was taught to believe that there were angels,
whose mission it was to guard the innocent and the
hlelpless; and this superstition (if superstition it be) I
have not yet learned to disbelieve, and I trust I never
shall. Is it not true that we are surrounded by beautiful angels, who daily watch over and bless our pathway
through life, who soothe our sorrows, brighten our joys,





SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.


21


and minister to all -our wants? and are they less angelic because they inhabit the human form!
I could tell you of one who, free from the intense
selfishness in which so many hearts seem shrouded,with graces of person, made more attractive by a brilliant intellect, and a heart of untainted purity,-left
her father's halls, and the society of her early associates, to share the humble lot of one, who could never
see her face, or return her glance of deep affection. It
was not that she was actuated by a morbid sensibility,
nor with the thought that she was making any greater
sacrifice than if she had shared the destiny of one less
unfortunate. No! It was because she honored him
whom she loved, -because her education had made her
superior to vulgar prejudice, -that she was willing to
adorn the humble home of a blind man. Yet would I
by no means be understood to say but that her act manifested a far higher disinterestedness than the unreflecting would suppose. It would be very difficult, nay,
utterly impossible, for me to express how much I owe
to the sympathy and assistance of my wife.
There are many things, a knowledge of which it is
indispensably necessary that a blind man should possess in his intercourse with society, and in which no
one can so well instruct him as his wife. There are
many little things which in themselves may seem trifles, but which, in the aggregate of life, assume a vast
importance, -such as the various rules of etiquette
which in   all well-organized  society are observed.
These rules for the most part are learned by the eye,
and as their observance is what, in the estimation of
many, constitutes a gentleman, there is no way by
which a blind man can obtain a knowledge of them but





22


THE OFFERING.


from one who must indeed be eyes to the blind. Call
these trifles if you will, but, as Goldsmith has it, -
"These little things are great to little man."
Most persons would naturally suppose that even in
his home the blind man would still feel his misfortune
even more keenly than in the world at large; that the
gentle voice of his wife and children would create
within him a more ardent desire to see them, than he
could possibly have to behold other objects in creation.
The poet has thus expressed my meaning:"And who can tell his cause for woe, -
To love the wife he ne'er can see,
To be a sire, and not to know
The silent babe who climbs his knee!"
But so far as my own experience extends, I feel inclined
to disagree with the poet, as well as with all those who
would endorse the sentiment which he so feelingly expresses. For my part, I am consoled with the reflection that I shall never see the effect which time must
produce on those I love; so that I shall know that
they have grown old only by counting the many happy
years that have passed away.
I should, indeed, esteem it one of the greatest of blessings to be permitted to see, if it were only for an hour;
but I would not accept of sight for the rest of my life,
if I thought it would make the merry, laughing tones of
the voice of my own sweet child less musical to my ear,
or less dear to my heart.
I have thus endeavored to give the reader some account of my past history. There is much, however,
which I have omitted, and much that must remain forever unsaid. The events of my past life have not been





SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'7S LIFE.       23
of sufficient importance to require a minute detail, and
I have not judged it necessary to speak of others, excepting where it could not very well be avoided; for
the object was not to write a history, but to furnish the
reader a sketch.
I have sometimes ventured to generalize, and I fear
my remarks have seemed to be crude and imperfect
upon those topics which I could at most but barely
touch; but with all its imperfections it must be read
with that indulgence to which the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed, and the difficulties under
which I labor, may seem to entitle me.





24


TO THE BLIND LECTURER,
BY MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
THOU walk'st the world in daily night:
In vain they gleam, in vain, for thee,
The morn upon the mountain height,
The golden snnset on the sea.
By every rill that trips away,
In music through the woods to go,
In all sweet nooks where sunbeams play,
Our flowers in radiant thousands blow.
They blow for those, who, careless, see
The hourly wonders in their way;
They bloom for them, but not for thee,
Whose soul would bless their bright array.
In vain in heaven the angels bend
Their airy bow of bloom and light;
In vain the stars glide forth, to lend
Their golden glory to the -night.
But he, whom nature thus bereaves,
Is ever Fancy's favorite child;
For thee, enchanted dreams she weaves
Of changeful beauty, bright and wild.
For thee she braids her fairy flowers,
For thee unlocks her gems of light,
For thee she clothes the passing hours,
Like radiant angel forms in flight.,
And pitying seraphs, sent from One
Whose smile is still the spirit's day,
Soft round thee sing, His will be done,
And lead thee on thy faltering way.





LINES BY MRS. OSGOOD, AND REPLY.
And reverent love in every heart
Attunes all voices for thine ear,
For thou art something, set apart,
For all to soothe, and all to cheer.
Thy soul beholds far more than we;
It walks a purer, lovelier land;
It sails upon a sunnier sea;
It looks on skies more wildly grand.
No shadows from the silent tomb
Steal through thy world's enchanted airs;
Thy flowers in deathless beauty bloom,
Thy heaven, a fadeless rainbow wears.
REPLY.
BY MR. B. B. BOWEN.
'T is true, alas! too sadly true,
That unto me all time is night;
Yet, through the darkness, I can view
Much that is beautiful and bright.
Full well I know, on verdant lawn,
By many a gentle flowing stream,
A thousand flowers are hourly born,
That ever in the sunlight gleam.
On many a gently sloping hill,
In music murmureth many a rill;
In many a quiet shady grove
The birds sing all their life of love.
At early morn, the golden light
Gilds the majestic mountain height;
At dewy eve, the moonbeams play
In beauty on the quiet sea.
The stars at night forever shine
O'er loving hearts that fondly twine,
3


25





26


THE OFFERING.


And breathe a deeper joy, I ween,
Than e'er hath blest the poet's dream
From mountain, valley, hill and dell,
Myriads of happy voices tell
Of HIM, whose spirit smiles the light
That makes all nature fair and bright.
That spirit, radiant, beams on me,
And though I ne'er may hope to see
Through the dark veil, that from my birth
Hath hid from view the green-clad earth,Yet in my soul that sacred smile
Doth many a lonely hour beguile,
With fairer worlds, and lovelier skies,
Than e'er hath dawned on mortal eyes.
And fairy forms, on every hand,
Dear angels from the spirit land,
Soft murmur many a joyous lay
To cheer me on my darkened way;
And to my soul forever give
An earnest of a holier rest,
Where all that love, forever live,
And where the pure are ever blst;





BLINDNESS AND THE BLIND.


", Ye have a world of light,
Where love in the loved rejoices;
But the blind man's home is the house of night,
And its beings are empty voices."
BULWBo
IN an article entitled Nicholas Saunderson, we have
spoken of the effect of blindness upon the physical,
intellectual and moral development. We also briefly
referred to several peculiarities of the blind, as the
results of their misfortune. These, and many kindred
subjects, we propose to treat at greater length in the
present paper.
To the philanthropist, as well as to the metaphysician and psychologist, whatever tends to throw light
upon the nature of a calamity so appalling as that of
blindness, must have a deep and profound interest.
Whatever may be the opinion of those who have made
this subject one of mere speculation, and regarded the
loss of sight as a physical defect which could be compensated by the cultivation of the other senses, the
majority of mankind, in all ages, have considered it as
one of the greatest deprivations of which our nature is
susceptible.
The poet and the philanthropist have vied with each
other in describing the loneliness and wretchedness of a
life unblest by the sunlight, and uncheered by the
myriad objects of beauty with which God has adorned
the earth. Among the nations of antiquity, the loss of
sight seems to have been regarded as a much greater
misfortune than  insanity.  The Lacedsemonians, in





28


THE OFFERING.


obedience to a law of Lycurgus, destroyed their blind
in infancy; so did the Athenians. The Carthaginians
burnt theirs, upon a slow fire, as a sacrifice to the sun.
Historians inform us that, among some of the eastern
nations, and also among the Romans and the ancient
Germans, blindness was inflicted as a punishment on
thieves, adulterers, perjurers and others. To this barbarous treatment some of the early Christians were
subjected. In the middle ages, partial blindness was
substituted for total darkness. And even in our own
day, blindness, for a greater or less period of time, is
virtually inflicted on criminals, by incarcerating them
in dungeons where not a ray of light is permitted to
enter.
From the foregoing facts, it will be easy to perceive
that blindness has ever been looked upon as the most
terrible calamity to which a human being can be subjected. It is difficult, if not utterly impossible, for one
in the possession of sight, to have anything like an
adequate idea of the thoughts and sensations of him to
whom the world is shrouded in perpetual night. You
may, indeed, form some conception of the effect of partial darkness upon the mind; and, if we may believe
those who have had an opportunity of testing it, it is
anything but agreeable, producing, in some instances,
mental derangement. It must, we think, be obvious to
every one who will give the subject the slightest reflection, that a person born blind, (or who becomes blind
so early in life as not to retain any knowledge of the
external world, derived through the medium of the eye,)
must have altogether a different idea of men and things,
or at least his ideas must be greatly modified, from
what they would be, if all the organs of his senses were
perfect; -as, for example, his idea of distance, space,





BLINDNESS AND THE BLIND.


29


form, beauty, &c., which is mainly derived through the
senses of touch and hearing. We shall soon have occasion to remark upon the astonishing extent to which
these senses have been cultivated by eminent blind
men.
Of the extent of blindness, we may form some conception by considering the many causes of which it is
one of the effects. We have a few facts upon this subject, which we will now present. The blind may be
divided into two classes: those born blind, and those
who have become so by disease or accident. The latter class, of course, are the most numerous. And we
may here remark, that there is no authentic instance
on record, of an individual, born blind, obtaining sight
by mere human instrumentality. Of those who become
blind in after life, it is believed that the evil in many
instances might be prevented, did physicians possess a
more thorough knowledge of those diseases to which
the eye is peculiarly liable.
The proportion of blind to the rest of mankind, we
have no very accurate means of ascertaining. It is
supposed that the whole number upon the earth is five
hundred thousand. It is found that they exist in greater
numbers in that part of the temperate zone bordering
on the torrid, or in those countries nearest the equator;
and that they decrease as we approximate to the poles.
To this rule, however, there are some exceptions. In
Egypt, for example, some travellers have estimated the
number to be one to every hundred. More accurate
observations have led to the belief that there is, in that
ill-fated land, between twenty and thirty thousand; or
one to every two hundred. Of Europe, we have more
correct statistics. In many provinces of Austria, the
number is one to every five hundred and forty-five
3





30


THE OFFERING.


inhabitants. In Sweden, one to every seven hundred
and forty-seven; in Denmark, one to every eight hundred and forty-seven. Further north, there is considerable diminution. In Norway, one to every nine
hundred; in Prussia, one to every thousand. It is
found, by observation, that the same causes which
operate in Europe, do not exert so great an influence
in similar latitudes in this country. The exact number of blind persons in the United States has not yet
been ascertained. It is thought, however, to be not far
from ten thousand.
Language is inadequate to portray the ignorance and
imbecility, the wretchedness and poverty, to which the
blind, as a class, have in all ages been condemned.
We shall not pause here to show the tendency of blindness to poverty. That begging was almost the only
employment of the blind in past ages, and that the
place to find them was in the alms-house, or by the
way-side, in the quaint, but forcible language of
another, "with their abject hats abjectly protruded,
and their cold hands extended for still colder charity,"
- needs no proof from us. It is, indeed, cheering to
find that there has been, here and there, one who has
risen superior to what would seem almost insurmountable obstacles, and who has taught the world, by
example, that there is no physical calamity, however
great, but must yield to the well directed and earnest
efforts of a brave and energetic mind.
The annals of philosophy, literature, science, and the
arts, furnish many striking instances of blind men,
whose rare attainments have astonished those who,
with greater facilities, have failed to equal them. The
reader need not be told that the greatest poet of
antiquity, and his only compeer of modern times,, wrote





BLINDNESS AND THE BLIND.


31


those works that have immortalized their names, while
to them the world of beauty no longer revealed its
thousand charms.
Before we proceed to give an account of the successful efforts that have been made in our own day to
ameliorate the condition of the blind, by giving them an
education, we must briefly notice some of those who
have distinguished themselves by their extraordinary
acquirements in nearly every department of knowledge,
without the special aid of society. History informs us
of but one who voluntarily subjected himself to blindness. Democritus, it is said, put out his eyes, that he
might give himself more entirely to contemplation, and
not be so much influenced by the surrounding world.
St. Jerome tells us of one Didymus, of Alexandria, who
was born blind, and though without the knowledge of
letters, appeared a wonder to the world, by his learning, logic and geometry. Cicero informs us that his
teacher in philosophy, Diodorus, after being deprived of
his sight, professed geometry, and was able to describe
accurately his diagrams to his pupils. We have more
remarkable instances of attainments in these sciences, in
modern times. We have already spoken of Professor
Saunderson, in another essay. As a parallel case to
him, we may mention Mr. Greenville, who was deprived
of his sight in early infancy. He invented an arithmetical machine, for his own use, very similar to the
one used in the different institutions for the blind, in
this country and in Europe. The London Encyclopaedia mentions the yet more remarkable case of Dr.
Henry Moyes, who was deprived of sight so early in
life as to be unable to remember ever having seen.
The account of his life is so deeply interesting, that we
venture to make an extract from that work:





32


THE OFFERING.


" Possessed of native genius, and ardent in his applications, he made rapid advances in various departments
of erudition; and not only acquired the fundamental
principles of mechanics, music, and the languages, but
likewise entered deeply into the investigation of the
profounder sciences, and displayed an acute and general
knowledge of geometry, optics, algebra, astronomy,
chemistry, and, in short, most of the branches of the
Newtonian philosophy. Mechanical exercises were the
favorite employments of his infant years. At a very
early age he made himself acquainted with the use of
edged tools so perfectly, that, notwithstanding his entire
blindness, he was able to make little windmills; and
he even constructed a loom with his own hands."
Dr. Moyes, in after life, supported himself by lecturing; and he is said to have been a very acceptable
lecturer upon hydrostatics, pneumatics, optics, and
almost every branch of natural philosophy. He was
remarkable for his cheerfulness, and was greatly admired
for his conversational powers.
We must not omit here some account of M. Huber,
of Geneva, who was deprived of his sight at the age
of seventeen. He distinguished himself by writing a
very able work, entitled " Observations on Bees."  He
was aided in his investigations by his wife, an excellent
lady, who spent her life in contriving means to alleviate
the misfortune of her husband. Before such instances
of beautiful devotion, the exploits of your Joan of Arc
seem tame and meaningless. Huber often said, if he
had never been blind, he could never have known the
dep:hs of his wife's affection.
There are none of the pursuits of life from which the
blind man is debarred, excepting the studies of anatomy
and painting. Yet certainly there are many employ




BLINDNESS AND THE BLIND.


33


ments to which he would not seem very well adapted.
Who, for a moment, would suppose, that a man without sight could discharge the duties of a pilot? Yet we
are told of such a blind man, of Manchester, England,
who lived about the commencement of the present century, whose name was John Metcalf. This man was
deprived of sight in early life; uneducated, but possessed naturally of a very active mind. Mr. Bew, who
has written his life, says that in his earlier days he
passed his life as a wagoner, occasionally serving as a
pilot to others over intricate roads during dark nights,
or when the roads were covered with snow. Subsequently, he was employed as a projector and surveyor
of roads, in difficult and mountainous places. It was
his custom to walk over the roads, feeling the irregularities of their surface with his staff. He projected the
famous road in Devonshire, which was designed to prevent the necessity of crossing the mountains to get to
the London road.
We might multiply these instances of remarkable
blind men, indefinitely. We might occupy more space
than we have already done, with examples which
demonstrate, conclusively, that blindness by no means
impairs the vigor and exercise of the intellect. But this
would cover only a part of our design. We must now
proceed to give the reader some account of what society
has done for this class of its unfortunate children.
Hitherto we have spoken of the efforts of solitary individuals, impelled by what would seem an irresistible
necessity.
Distinguished blind men of whom we have spoken
seem to have been regarded, in their day, as passing
wonders--as phenomena that none could explain.
Saunderson alone seems to have suggested to the be




34


THE OFFERING.


nevolent mind of Abbe Hauy the probability that a
system might be invented, by which the blind, as a
class, might be instructed in mathematics and the physical sciences.  The first account we have, however,
of schools for the blind, is of those which were established in Japan, some years prior to the one commenced
in Paris under the direction of M. Hauy. Among the
Japanese, the blind seem to have been instructed orally;
they were emphatically the oracles of their country. It
seems to have been the business of their lives, to transmit to posterity the acts of their government, and the
exploits of their great men. They were the only class
of their countrymen who devoted their whole life to literary pursuits; and they formed, among that religious
and superstitious people, no inconsiderable portion of the
priesthood.
About the year 1782, prompted, it is said, by the earnest solicitations of a benevolent lady, who employed
her whole life in efforts to alleviate the wants of the
blind, M. Hauy made an appeal to his countrymen,
which was promptly responded to, and which finally
resulted in the establishment of one of the largest institutions of the blind in Europe.
M. Hauy invented a method of printing books for
the use of the blind, in embossed characters. Of course,
printing in this way did not require ink. The paper,
when properly prepared, was laid upon the type, which
had been previously set up in a frame for the purpose.
A pressure was then made upon the paper, which gave
the letters in relief on the opposite side. These letters
could be distinguished by the ýtouch, with almost as
great precision as those printed in the ordinary method
can be perceived by the eye. Books prepared in this
way had but one inconvenience -that of their extreme





BLINDNESS AND THE BLIND.


35


bulk. Subsequent improvements, however, have considerably reduced their size. And though a given
amount of matter occupies a much larger surface of
paper, and one volume printed in the common way
makes two or three when prepared for the blind; still,
when we consider the benefits that flow from an invention displaying so much skill and benevolence, such a
defect is of trifling importance.
The more difficult task of teaching the blind to write
is accomplished by simple contrivances, one of which
we will now describe. The reader must bear in mind
that in writing, as well as in reading, and, in short, in
whatever he does, the blind man must feel his way.
Hence the difficulties, amounting almost to an impossibility, of his committing his thoughts to paper in the
ordinary method,-that is, with pen and ink. The
common lead-pencil is substituted in their stead. The
writing-board, as it is called, by which the blind are
enabled to write in straight lines, is formed by pasting
on a piece of pasteboard of the size of a common sheet
of paper, strips of the same material, forming parallel
lines, about half an inch from each other. This board
is placed under the paper, and the finger is thenr. drawn
along upon the surface, so as to press it in the grooves
or between the lines. The pupil is then taught to form
the letters with the pencil. After writing a word, he
measures, with the forefinger of the left hand, the
space to be left between the words. It will be seen
that, by this contrivance, the blind can not only write
straight, but are always sure of having their words at
convenient distances from each other, which cannot
always be said of the writing of those who have eyes.
Thus, by this simple instrument, are gained to the blind





36


THE OFFERING.


all the advantages that are conferred upon seeing persons by the ruled paper.
Other ways have been contrived to enable the blind
to write; but they so nearly resemble that which we
have already spoken of, as to render a description of
them unnecessary. The apparatus employed in the
study of arithmetic is simple and effective. It consists
of a slab of zinc, cast in such a manner as to be divided
into some hundreds of small square holes. Into those
holes are placed types made of the same material. On
both ends of each type is a point which can be made to
represent four different characters, by changing its position. For instance, when so placed as to bring the
point upon the left hand of the upper line, it represents
1. When on the right hand of the upper line, 3. On
the lower line at the right hand, 7. The left hand, 9.
On the other end of the same type, there is a point
slightly different, which, by changing, represents 2, 4,
6, 8. They have another type which represents the 5
and the 0. Thus they are able to form the nine digits
and the cipher. This, for all arithmetical purposes, is
as serviceable to the blind as the common slate and
pencil to the seeing person. In algebra, the only difference is, the types contain letters upon each end instead
of points.  In geometry, trigonometry, &c., they are
aided with diagrams in raised characters.
The study of geography is pursued with the help of
maps and globes adapted to the touch. I have in my
possession an atlas, containing a map of each of the
states, on which are represented the mountains, rivers,
towns, &c.; so that, with my fingers, I can find any
part of the country you may name, and describe its
geographical peculiarities with as much accuracy as I





BLINDNESS AND THE BLIND.


37


could, if in the possession of sight, with the common
nmap or globe.
Most persons would suppose that a blind man's
knowledge of astronomy must be very limited. But
with the use of an orrery, or planetarium, he can obtain
correct and definite ideas of the motions and orbits of
the heavenly bodies. He is also aided with printed
diagrams. Still, his knowledge of astronomy cannot be
as extensive, nor can the pleasure which the study of it
imparts be so great, as to him who, with delighted eye,
rendered almost illimitable in its range by that masterly instrument, the telescope, views those resplendent
worlds that so eloquently preach of God's wisdom and
glory.
We might occupy a much larger space, and detail
more at length the system of educating the blind. But
what we have said must suffice. Other and more important facts deserve to be noticed. We may take
occasion again, before we close this essay, to advert to
the modus operandi of educating the blind.
Besides the Parisian institution, there have been
various others established in the different parts of Europe, most of which owe their origin to the philanthropic exertion of the indefatigable Abbe Hauy, who
devoted his whole life and fortune to the interest of the
blind. And, in the estimation of good men and angels,
he enjoys a far higher glory than that prodigy of the
world, who, after deluging Europe in blood, died unlamented upon an isolated island of the ocean. In most
of the larger cities of Europe, as well as in Great
Britain, there are institutions, or, as they are more
commonly called, asylums, for the blind. Some of
them are dependent upon private munificence; but by
far the greater number are supported by government.
4





38


THE OFFERING.


At these establishments, the inmates receive, in addition
to their education in other respects, instruction in music,
or in some kind of handicraft-work, by which they obtain their livelihood. Music, of course, is the favorite
employment of the blind, and does more to compensate
them for the loss of sight than any other blessing which
Heaven has vouchsafed to them. It is to the "concord
of sweet sounds" that must be ascribed that remarkable cheerfulness which has always characterized their
dispositions, and which, to others, seems so great an
enigma.   In mechanical pursuits they often evince
great ingenuity; but, as they never can make use of
steam and machinery, nor acquire a very great facility
in the use of edge tools, it is impossible for them to
compete with their more fortunate fellow-men. They,
however, manufacture mattresses, mats, hearth-rugs,
baskets, brushes, and many other small articles. But
the problem- How shall blind men obtain for themselves a livelihood? remains yet to be solved. The
sense of dependence can be endured only in a state of
ignorance. The moment you begin to educate the
man, its crushing, blighting influence is felt. It is not
enough, then, that society establish schools, where the
slumbering intellect of the blind man is developed, and
where those higher wants of his nature are called forth.
But something must be done to remove him from the
terrible necessity, under which he has so long suffered,
of eating the bread of charity. As yet, education has accomplished but little more for the blind than to awaken
within them a deeper consciousness of the evils which
they have so long endured. We may yet hope that the
ingenuity and benevolence already displayed in those
wonderful contrivances we have detailed, will discover
some way whereby the blind man, by his own exer.





BLINDNESS AND THE BLIND.


39


tions, shall be able to place himself on a level with
those around him.
In all the practical concerns of life, the deaf and
dumb have decidedly the advantage of the blind. All
the wants of society require sight to supply them;
while not to hear, in some situations, is regarded as a
positive advantage. Much has been. written on the
comparative value of the senses; but the nearest to a
solution of this question, that we have ever yet seen, is
that of a German writer, who said, "If I were rich, I
would rather be blind; if I were poor, I would rather
be deaf. "
It is now time we should say something of the blind
of our own country. In the year 1832, an institution
was incorporated by the Legislature of Massachusetts,
entitled the New England Institutionfor the Blind. It
was established in Boston, under the direction of Samuel G. Howe, M. D., who commenced with six poor
children. The citizens of Boston, with that alacrity
which has characterized all their benevolent enterprises,
came forward and furnished the means indispensable to
such an undertaking. We must not forget to mention
the gift of the truly Hon. Thomas H. Perkins, who
presented the institution with his elegant mansion in
Pearl street,-an act which has entitled him to the
lasting gratitude of all those who love the benefactors
of their race. During the last sixteen years, this institution has conferred upon the blind of Massachusetts
and New England incalculable benefits. It has been
the cause of the multiplication of similar establishments
throughout the country. The one at New York was
commenced about the same time with the one of which
we have just spoken. Soon afterwards, one was established at Philadelphia, by Professor Freelander. This





40


THE OFFERING.


gentleman, whose sympathies were early enlisted in
behalf of the blind, left his native country, Germany,
and, on arriving at Boston, finding that his benevolent
intentions had been anticipated, he proceeded to New
York and Philadelphia, and finally concluded to commence an institution in the latter place. He succeeded
in interesting the philanthropic of that city in the good
work; and, after many ineffectual efforts, at length
obtained from  the Legislature of Pennsylvania an
annual appropriation of a portion of the school-fund.
His success was such as always attends the welldirected efforts of a good man. Desirous only of promoting the welfare and happiness of those under his
charge, he devoted himself, not to build up a magnificent monument to the state, but to rescue from ignorance and degradation the sad victims of misfortune.
He was indeed the friend of the blind. It was his
ambition to bless, not to rule them, - to furnish a home
where they might be made useful and happy, and not
to make use of them to gratify the curiosity of the vulgar, or the speculations of the heartless. We have
heard his pupils speak of him as the truest of friends,
and the noblest of benefactors. Mr. Freelander died
before he had accomplished all that his great heart had
projected. His grave, among strangers, is marked only
with a plain marble slab. But the tears of the sightless, commingling with the dews of heaven, have
watered the place where repose the remains of this
eminent philanthropist.
Besides the institutions we have already named, there
are several others in different parts of the United States.
There is one at Columbus, Ohio; one in Louisville,
Ky.; one in Virginia; one in Nashville, Tenn. The
two last are as yet in their infancy. We hope the day





BLINDNESS AND THE BLIND.


41


Ws not distant, when every state in the Union will have
a school for its blind. It must not, however, be supposed that society has done all its duty to this class of
mankind, by merely establishing institutions where
they may be educated. Something must be done to
protect them from the ruthless and relentless competition, against which they are poorly qualified to contend.
If we have special legislation to protect wealth, (and
who in his senses can, for a moment, doubt we have,)
surely there can be no very serious objection, to a few
special enactments, which shall secure to the poor
blind man at least his daily bread. But let us be a
little more explicit; for on this subject we wish to be
understood. Society, or some one of its commissioned
messengers of mercy, selects from the highways and
by-ways of our land some twenty blind children, and
takes them to a school, where they are educated, and
instructed in some useful trade. Of the whole number,
perhaps only two are qualified for the professions; and
even to these, what we have to say is equally applicable. After a term of years has expired, they are sent
out into the world, relying upon their own resources for
their subsistence; feeling, more deeply than they ever
could before they were educated, the incalculable
advantages which sight confers, in the every-day pursuits of life. Without capital and without friends, what,
for instance, could they do, supposing they had learned
only the art of weaving?  And it must be remembered
that they have not the advantages which the division
of labor affords to those who work in companies; each
one goes from the institution to his home, and there
attempts alone, or with such assistance as the sympathies of his neighbors prompt, to commence business.
He works early and late, (for the blind limit not





42.


THE OFFERING.


their: day by the rising and setting of the sun;) he
weaves a piece of carpet, or a door-mat, and sends it to
market, where it is sold at the current price. But,
meantime, not a mile from his workshop is a factory,
which has turned off some hundred yards while he has
been making one with his fingers. Besides, the factoryman is a capitalist; he can afford to wait for favorable
opportunities to sell, and can buy the materials he
manufactures in larger quantities and for smaller prices.
He must be blind, indeed, who cannot see the disparity;
and he must have an adamantine heart, who would not
do something to prevent it. What we have said of one
trade is equally true of nearly all the trades the blind
pursue. Now, it seems to us the evil can be remedied.
Suppose a city, a county, or state, should confer a
bounty upon the productions of the blind, which shall,
in some measure, remove the evil of which we have
complained.
We have another suggestion to make. We have
already spoken of the general fondness of the blind for
music. In Europe, it is not an uncommon thing for
them to act in the capacity of organists in churches.
Why should they not, in our own country? Nay,
more, why should they not have the preference over
those to whom none of the other avocations of life are
closed?  Another suggestion: Why should not the
blind be permitted to travel on our railroads free of
expense? What objection could there be to provide for
this, in charters granted to private companies, by the
state. These may seem to others unimportant; but to
k s, who have for nearly thirty years felt, in some way
cr other, nearly all the evils attendant on blindness
t:ey seem to be called for, and therefore we have sug
g sted them. There is a kind of* spurious philan




BLINDNESS AND THE BLIND.


A'

thropy, which delights to contemplate men in classes,
but which cannot descend to benefit the individual.
But when institutions for the blind shall overlook the
grand object for which they were designed so far as to
forget the individual welfare of the blind man, they can
very well be dispensed with.
As institutions multiply in this country, some regulations, such as those to which we have pointed, will
become more and more necessary. The time has come
when the blind man can no longer stand by the wayside and beg. Education has awakened within him
the feeling of independence, which too long has been
permitted to slumber. The gentle voice of sympathy,
which in past ages lulled him into a consciousness of
his deep degradation, by bewailing, rather than attempting to mitigate, his fate, has received another direction;
and instead of reminding him of what he has not, it
tells him of what he has, and of what he may become.
We have described, as well as we were able, the
mode of printing books in raised characters. This is a
subject of so much importance to the blind, that we
may again advert to it. Great improvements have
been made in preparing books, not only in the mode of
printing, but in reducing the size of the letters; for
which the blind are indebted to Dr. Howe. This
gentleman, assisted by Mr. S. P. Ruggles, has also
improved the apparatus used for arithmetical purposes,
and invented a method of printing maps, which greatly
surpasses, in beauty and durability, those of European
schools. There are but two presses for printing books
for the blind in this country; the one at the Pennsylvania, and the other at the Perkins Institution.*
Most of the books are issued from the latter.
* The name of the Nen England Institution was changed to that of





THE OFFERING.


The library of the blind is still small. The Bible
has been printed in nine volumes. Some idea of the
expense of works of this kind may be obtained from
the fact that the entire copy of the Bible is twenty dollars. It is, however, furnished free of cost, to indigent
blind persons, by the American Bible Society. The
Tract Society have printed, at their expense, several of
their publications; besides which, we may mention a
History, in two volumes, an English Reader, Geography, Grammar, and several other small school-books.
It will be seen that most of the instruction of the blind,
in the physical sciences, as well as in intellectual and
moral philosophy, must still be oral; and, indeed, it is
in this way that they must ever obtain most of their
knowledge of the world around them, and of passing
events.
The books which the blind can read themselves, and
especially the Bible, furnish benefits that can never be
calculated. They enable them to pass usefully many
an hour which would else be spent in ennui and listlessness, or in repining at a fate to which they ought to
be resigned.
There are many facts and thoughts, slightly touched
in this paper, each of which would be sufficient of
itself for an entire article. We hope, however, that we
have not written altogether in vain, and that what we
have said will attract the attention which the subject
itself merits; for it is not too much to say, that if
there be any misfortune which entitles a man to the
sympathy of his race, it is blindness.
the Perkins' Institution, and the Massachusetts Asylum for the Blind, in
honor of its generous patron.





45


RANDOM THOUGHTS.
"Thought is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught."
THE spirit of independence that characterizes our
age is not confined to politics, but pervades to a greater
or less extent the literary and the religious world. In
times long since gone by, men seem to have had a consciousness of law, system, &c.; but in these days of
ours, liberty, universal and absolute, seems to have
taken the place of all other ideas, or, rather, to have
confounded all other ideas. This seems to be the
thought of the prevailing consciousness at present. We
see it manifested in much of that which passes for philosophy, literature, and religion; and why should we
not avail ourselves of this tendency of our times, and
speak out after our own fashion the thought within us?
For is it not true that if we write systematically, and
obey the dictates of what is complacently denominated
common sense, there are those who would call us prosy;
when, if we but yield to the impulse, and utter, no matter what, we shall obtain the cognomern of philosopher,
and have it said of us that we are beyond our times,
and cannot be understood by vulgar minds? &c., &c.
Well, then, we commence with the remark that this
is a great and mighty universe, and that this life of ours
is a profound mystery; -that nature is beautiful, and
that man is an enigma; and that the heavens and the
earth, the land and the sea, and all the things therein,
are a vast riddle, which none but the sphynx can solve.





46


THE OFFERING.


Therefore dive we into the depths of the vast unknown,
and report thereof what we may of "heroes and hero
worship," and of other matters pertaining thereto. Out
of the womb of ages have sprung pigmies and giants,
treading this earth somewhat rudely at times, and
speaking articulately and inarticulately; - hence it
happens that human history, as it is called by the vulgar, is but a vast pile of jargon. Here and there the
far-seeing eye of some prophet genius, gathering up a
fragment, translates its hieroglyphics to the unconscious
mass who are plodding on, and who know not whither
they are tending.
We know from the indicator within, whereof we
speak, that all things that now are, are in very truth
but mere sham,-not things at all, but the semblance
thereof.
In the days when men did dream and act as if one
was but the child of the other, then heroes in very truth
inhabited the earth, and man did not hesitate to speak
what the sibyl within bade him. Divine words came
from the mouth, big with life and energy;--they built
pyramids, and composed Iliads and Odysseys. There
is no heart now that can beat like that of the blind old
man of Scio's rocky isle. What was more misplaced in
modern times than a Shakspeare or a Byron? We are
not worthy of them. We cannot apprehend what they
would teach; yet there were those who could. But ah
me! the heroic ages are gone! Yet is there something
of significance in the concatenations of developed and
undeveloped thought and actions, in the midst of which
destiny has thrown us, almost without a light to guide
us, whereof we may speak presently.
Life is an epic,--a gospel,-a tragedy, -an altogether fearful thing. We tremble when we think of





RANDOM THOUGHTS.


47


ourselves! All that we can gather, from the past and
the present, will not assist us to the solution of these
unanswered questions:-What am It-Where am I
-and, Whither am I going?
That this casement, wherein I find myself a prisoner,
is strangely and curiously formed, I know; that of
vein and artery, nerves and lungs, there be a most
strange compound, my consciousness doth confess; but
who is this that thinks, and speaks, and acts, and
wills, -this myself, - this unfathomable combination
of angel and devil, of good and bad, that knows everything, and yet knows nothing,-that can soar to the
stars, and move mountains, -and yet that cannot turn
his own feet aside, even for a moment, from the dark,
dark grave?
Where am I? Upon earth, you say. Ay, and of
the earth! The stars above look down upon us, as if
they alone could explain the mystery of our being; -
the flowers give forth their fragrance, as if it was their
mission to anoint us for our burial; -the brooks murmur their sweet music, as if to make us more conscious
of our sadness;-and the trees nod gracefully, as if
they were the sentinels to attend us in solemn silence
to the abodes of the dead. Where am I? An answering echo returns to the heart the question unsolved.
The earth is but one wave of the great spiritual
flood, "whose flux is life,--whose reflux, death;whose efflux is thought, and whose conflux is light."
The grand chant of our mundane sphere is ever the
same: -mystery, -mystery, - mystery!
Whither am I going? From the depths of the soul
there comes a voice full. of music, of beauty and sublimity, demanding its freedom from earth, and proclaiming its home in heaven, drinking with unutterable





48


THE OFFERING.


delight the words of that blessed Being, the proudest
achievement of the ages, the Incarnate God;--typified
in all the religions of the world. He threw from the
heights of the far-off future his shadow to the feet of
our first parents in Eden. Through the mysterious
light that has illuminated in every age the hearts of the
pure, has floated the image, the God-man, Christ. At
length he was seen teaching in the temple,-- in the
market-place, -on the mountain; and, true to his mission, he died for the race. When we know his words,
speculation ends, and the soul is satisfied. The Saviour
has ascended to heaven, and so shall we. But whither
is heaven? Look around thee!-look within thee!look above thee!
Turn we now to contemplate the heroes whose deeds
have rescued their time from oblivion. In the days of
giants,--of a Hercules or Sampson, of a Goliah and an
Agamemnon,--then the heroic in man dwelt in his
own right arm, and his daring exploits were written in
darkness and in blood. He trod the earth as tread
the lion, the tiger, and the leopard; yet very sincere
was he in that age of might!--But the infant soul
awoke, and matter yielded to its sway. Then came
the heroes of the brain and the heart,---a Herodotus, a Pythagoras or Socrates, a Plato, a Seneca, and a
Cicero. Great teachers these, yet all of them together
unequal to that one capacious soul, of whom we have
said somewhat. "Yet, oh Plato! there are but few in
every age that can comprehend thee."  But by those
few thy memory is preserved in the universal heart.
Come we now to the age which men call dark,--
dark, forsooth! because mankind discerned not its deep
significance. The age of poetry, of minstrelsy, and heroes great and brave; an age when lord and lady sat in





RANDOM THOUGHTS.


49


the banquet-hall, and the troubadour sung at the castle
gate; when, fired with holy zeal, led by a priest of
God, the hero band of every land fought long and valiantly to redeem from infidel hands the sepulchre of the
world's Saviour. But the golden age of chivalry has
departed, and the men of great thoughts that are left
upon the earth mourn in their loneliness. Self-love has
usurped the place of virtue, and abject selfishness has
well nigh driven the heroic spirit from the earth.
Wealth and luxury are the deities enthroned in the
bosom of the multitude. Here and there the philosopher is making his last effort to restore the race to its
primeval simplicity, and for this end call we on the
true-hearted to retire from the world, and give themselves up to the guidance of the Divine impulses, that
they may bask in the spiritual sunshine, and by the
light of their intuitions develop another scheme for the
regeneration of society.
5





50


THE FRIEND OF MY EARLY DAYS.
"Be true to the dream of thy youth."
"The heart never laughs; but the deeper the sunlight that blesses it, the
less it looks to outer things for its blessings."
To the mind of the blind man all material objects
idealize themselves; -he may, indeed, be said to live in
a shadowy world. In very truth, life is to him a strange
but a beautiful dream. All that he touches, all that he
hears, become, as it were, to him spiritual verities, and
incorporate themselves into his inmost being; hence it
happens that a great thought, or a beautifill idea, is in
his soul the faithful representative of something he has
known, or some being with whom he has associated.
There is a passage in one of Beethoven's symphonies
that I love to hear; there is something in those sweet,
wild strains, which calls forth from the deepest recesses
of the soul the images of those I have known and
loved.
Reader, I will tell you of one that I once called my
friend, who lived upon the earth, retaining her recollections of heaven until she was again called home to
dwell forever with the angels.
Our brief acquaintance was at that period of existence
when the human heart first yearns for sympathy, and
the youthful imagination begins to speculate on life. It
was the consciousness of suffering we could not explain,
that first brought us together, and formed from the
grief of sinless hearts the mystic band that never can
be broken.   In my dreams (reader, dost thou never
dream?) I see the spiritual sunlight that bathes the





THE FRIEND OF MY EARLY DAYS.


51


beauteous form of one whose silent sympathy gladdened
my early days. Silent! for the love that dwelt in her
soul found no voice of utterance while here upon this
earth she dwelt.  The smile of ineffable beauty,- the
look of intense affection, - the earnest and expressive
gesture, were the means by which the oracle of her
bosom delivered its revelations of innocence and heaven.
She spoke not, she heard not, save the whisper of angels,
Who murmur their music to hearts that are pure.
Along her bright pathway streamed the sunlight of gladness,
Around her bloomed flowers whose perfume she knew,
For it came like her spirit from the garden of heaven,
Unmarred by decay, - untarnished by sin.
The greatest gift of Heaven is the spotless faith of
childhood. It is that confidence inspired by the light
of the soul's intuition that makes our infant days so
placid and beautiful.  Would it not be well for all of
us, if what seems but the dream of our youth should
become the experience of our lives?     If not, then it
were better to bury in forgetfulness the sweet remembrances of our early Eden.
I spent the first years of my life, as destiny had
appointed, in darkness and in sorrow, relieved now and
then by the sweet companionship of a little deaf and
dumb girl. At first, the difference in our condition
rendered the communication of thought almost impossible, but our souls were impressed with the consciousness of our mission, and in obedience to its decree,
all difficulties disappeared.  The thoughts of childish
hearts can only be expressed by those signs which are
as spontaneous as the thoughts themselves.
Cut off in a great measure from communion with
those around us, the entire life of each seemed blended
in one, till after many days there seemed to be but one





52


THE OFFERING.


consciousness. I speak, of course, of the life within!
of the realm of love! for outwardly we were two.
One mourned the want of light, the other, of music.
Uncounted the hours of our existence sped on, till the
dark cloud of care passed over the disc of our souls, and
the dreamy, enchanting spell that encircled us had vanished.   And she who had fluttered like a bird upon the
earth, returned uncorrupted to her home in the skies.
TO A    LADY    SINGING.
WHAT voice is that? - a sorrow deep
Sigheth in every trembling tone,
So soft, so plaintive, yet so sweet,
It seemeth like the wind's sad moan.
When the fair flowers of earth are gone,
And Nature seems no more to smile,
And the dear birds have ceased their song,
That oft our happiest hours beguile.
That pensive voice, it doth reveal
Far more than she would have it tell;
And though her bright, dark eye conceal,
I know the truth, alas! too well.
The rose still blooms upon thy cheek,
And beauty flashes from thine eye,
But oh! thou oft art doomed to weep,
As one by one thy fond hopes die.
Those halcyon hours when thou wert blest,That first bright dream, - all, all are gone,
And thou dost yearn in vain for rest;
So, lady, saith that mournful song.





53


A TALE OF THE BLIND.
IN the institution of which I was a member, and from
which I derived much of the knowledge I possess, the
most trivial incident was sufficient to change the monotony of common school life, and the ordinary incidents of
every day, which to us, confined as we were to a very
limited round, were sufficient to awaken great interest,
and are as fresh to my memory as the transactions of
yesterday. I well remember, though many years have
since passed, when Maria Bordon became an inmate of
our school. The fact of her having arrived was whispered around among the pupils; and when the hour
arrived for the introduction of a new comer, - the time
when we were accustomed to meet for the practice of
music, the most delightful of all employments to the
blind, -to every pupil in the school was known her
name, the place from whence she came, and the time
she would probably remain with us.    These facts
had been grudgingly obtained from our good-natured
director, who was by no means willing to tell us at
once all that he knew, as his principle in dealing with
the blind was, that they should gain knowledge gradually, that they might value it the more.
It is now necessary that I should introduce Maria to
the reader; but as I have never looked on a human face,
or beheld a human form, it will not be expected that I
shall occupy much space in describing her exterior
appearance. Maria was beautiful, if we may judge
from the caresses of those who judge of beauty only by
the symmetry of form and contour of person; but to the





54


THE OFFERING.


blind she was beautiful, as she possessed a most sweet
and musical voice, which, to those who know the existence of those around them only by hearing and feeling,
is the very sine qua non. The unusual sweetness, and
the superior qualities of her voice, were themes of conversation among the pupils for many a day, and one on
which they delighted to expatiate. Maria, like most
persons, when first admitted, was sad; but this we
attributed to the regret she felt in having left home and
the beloved scenes of childhood, or perhaps I should
say, associations, which to the blind are as powerful as
is anything beheld by the seeing, and of which they
delight to speak as constituting "the charms of home."
But when, day after day, for many months, Maria still
continued sad, we were surprised, and none of us were
able to divine the cause of such habitual melancholy.
She was one of the most gentle and amiable of the
females, and every one, without a single exception,
admired the traits of her character as they gradually
unfolded themselves.  No adverse circumstances, no
petty annoyances, which constitute so great a part of
every-day life, could annoy her. She seemed to be
placed above being affected by those things which
severely try common tempers. Her intellect was of no
common order; and having enjoyed the blessing of
sight for the first ten years of her life, she had acquired
many things which those born blind are obliged to
obtain after they enter the institution. But of the
advantage which she thuts possessed over her companions she did not seem conscious, and to it she never
alluded. In short, in the ordinary language of all men,
"she was beautiful!" beautiful, I say, in the highest
and best sense of the term. "She seemed," in the language of Shakspeare, "to be the very top of admira




A '., LE OF THE BLIND.


tion, made of every creature's best."  During the whole
time which Maria spent in the institution, there was
only one perceptible change of the aspect she wore,--
only once did the sadness which rested upon her like
the shadow of a cloud, depart and leave her an altered
being. It was then that we first perceived what she
might have been in her earlier years, - a merry, laughing, happy creature,
"too good
For human nature's daily food."
Now that I am about to introduce another character,
I would remind the reader that I am not dealing in
romance or fiction, but simply portraying what belongs
to the real occurrences of that period which was to me
the beginning of life, though it was not till after I had
somewhat advanced in years.
One day, a little more than a year after Maria came
among us, we were officially informed that a young
medical gentleman, a veritable disciple of Hippocrates,
who had recently been, by accident, deprived of his
sight, was about to become an inmate of our home. As
he had received a collegiate education, and was withal
a great man, having the grave title of "M. D.," some
of the knowing ones among us prophesied that the
I doctor" was destined for an instructor. In this, however, they were mistaken, as many a pretended prophet
has been. Dr. Rochford, for such we will call him,
having been deprived of his sight by one of those accidents to which medical men by their chemical experiments are exposed, and having thus all his bright hopes
in life taken from him, was anxious to seclude himself
from society, or, if that was impossible, to spend his life
with those who, like himself, were forever shut out
from the light of heaven. He requested of the trustees





66


THE OFFERING.


a room, and to share in the amusements and occupations of the pupils, on an equal footing with them.
The day on which he entered was, of course, a marked
one in the annals of our school; he was regularly'introduced, first to the males, and then to the females; and
it was remarked that when he was introduced to
Maria he repeated her name with emphasis, and so in
like manner did she his. There seemed to be a silent
recognition on the part of both, which could only have
been perceived by those to whom the human voice is
the only index to the human heart. It was remarked
on that day that Maria seemed more cheerful than ever,
that her laugh was more frequent, and that she was
altogether a happier being. The teachers - the seeing
ones, I mean-attributed this to the natural cheerfulness and gayety consequent on the introduction of a
new comer, which was in our school a sort of jubilee;
but the most reflective among our number thought of
matters much deeper, but said nothing.
In a few days, the doctor found the way round the
institution, which was always the first lesson to be
learned; and it was observed by some of us that the
rotunda, the place where Maria often chose to practise
her voice alone, was the place which the soonest became
to him familiar. This was, of course, unobserved by
the majority. There was between him and Maria a
similarity of tastes,- they loved the same songs and
admired the same poets; there seemed to be a harmony,
a unison of feeling, which can easily be accounted for
on natural principles, but which some now-a-days
would attribute to the influence of magnetism. Yes,
dear reader, there was a magnetic something between
these two hearts, as I shall reveal in the sequel.
I must confess that long before I knew anything of





A TALE OF THE BLIND.


57


the real history of our hero and heroine, I could not but
suspect that there had existed some relationship between
them, but further than this, I could not penetrate the
veil. I never shall forget one occasion when, unperceived by them, I chanced to stroll into the room where
they, as usual, were singing duets together. Although
I have many times heard that beautiful Swiss air, which
so touchingly appeals to the tenderest feelings of the
human heart, yet never did I listen with so much
pleasure as on that occasion when, with their clear and
beautifully blended voices, they commenced the following melody:
" Why, ah! why, my heart, this sadness?
Why 'mid scenes like these decline?
Where all, though strange, is joy and gladness,
0, say what wish can yet be thine?
" All that's dear to me is wanting,
Lone and cheerless here I roam,
A stranger's joy, soe'er enchanting,
Can never be to me like home.
"Give me those, I ask none other,
Than those who blessed my humble dome,
Where dwells my father and my mother,
0, give me back my native home."
The song so wrought upon my feelings, that when
they finished, I unconsciously moved my chair; the
noise was perceived by tlhem, and the doctor immediately walked up to see who had been intruding. Before
I could succeed in making my escape, he caught me by
the collar, and made me speak, as this was the only
way by which he could know who I was. I expressed
some surprise that he should be astonished to find any
one in that place, as it was the room where we frequently met to practise music; but he seemed to per"





58


THE OFFERING.


ceive intuitively that I knew more of his heart's history
than he was willing should be known. And so, without
any hesitation, he immediately made me his confidant.
He told me very briefly that he had known Maria in
happier days. They had both played on the green
before the same homes; they had walked in the shade
of the same verdant trees, and gazed, alike interested,
into the waters of the beautiful Kennebec. They had
looked on the same sunsets, and watched the infinitude
of stars with kindred emotions. Nature had been alike
eloquent to them, and to them the world was full of
enchantment. They had looked on the blossoms of
spring, on the luxuriance of summer, and the gorgeousness of autumn, and in all the thousand beauties of the
seasons there was always something that knit their
hearts still closer together.
The first disappointment which they knew was when
Rochford's father left his native village for a new home
far away from the scenes of his boyhood. One of the
objects of the removal was that Rochford might receive
greater means of education, as his father had contemplated the fitting of his son for college, and this could
not be done in the place where he then resided. Rochford
entered the academy, made diligent improvement of the
means afforded him, and was subsequently received
into Bowdoin College, where he graduated with all
the usual honors which crown the career of the persevering and successful student.  But amid the new
scenes and occupations consequent on this course, it
may well be supposed that Rochford forgot the associate of his earlier years; not so with Maria-she
remembered him as the friend with whom she had
loved to roam in the wood, or sit beside the stream, and
listen to the music of waving forests and running





A TALE OF THE BLIND.


59


waters. She had heard nothing concerning him, save
occasionally a word or two from the minister of the
parish, who kept up a correspondence with Rochford's
father. His place was in a measure supplied by a beloved brother; in a few years he fell a victim to that
dreadful scourge of New England,- consumption,--and
she was left again alone to wander in paths familiar to
her tread and dear as home. The friends of Maria perceived that day by day her appearance betokened that
health was departing from her; her step became feeble,
and her countenance pale and wan. The physician of
the village advised her parents to provide her with a
change of scene, or she would soon lie low with her
brother in the grave of the early dead. It so happened about this time that the "commencement" of
Bowdoin College was to take place, and the physician
being one of the curators of the medical department,
and the minister being invited, it was arranged that
Maria with her mother should accompany them to
Brunswick, with the hope that the pleasant excitement
of that interesting season might dissipate in some degree her gloom, and revive her wasting spirits. During
the journey the minister remarked to Maria that among
the students who were to graduate the next day, was
her old schoolmate-Francis Rochford.  This called
up in the mind of Maria thoughts of the past, and induced the reflection whether the proud student would
remember at all the poor girl with whom he had so often
roamed " on the banks of their beautiful river."
On the day of the exercises the church was filled with
the elite of Maine, and great expectations were excited
by the unusually large number of young gentlemen
who were that day to receive the honors of the institution. When the procession of students entered the





60


THE OFFERING.


church, the position of Maria was such that she could
not discern distinctly the individuals composing it, and
therefore, did not, of course, recognize her early friend
But as they each took a station upon the stage, she had
a full view of them; and with no ordinary interest did
she watch for the appearance of a new speaker, in hope
of being able to distinguish her Francis; one by one,
the speakers left the stage, till but one remained to attract the attention of the audience. All eyes were
turned to him who was to deliver the 1"Valedictory Address" -to bid farewell in behalf of himself and his
fellows to the friends and the scenes of their college
years. As he ascended the stage, Maria gazed intently
to discern what changes time had wrought, and gladly
did she perceive in the man the fuller development of
all the graces and charms of the boy. His cheek was
indeed pale, and there was a shadow of deep thought
upon his countenance, but there he stood to her a noble
man"( A pure, warm heart and spirit high,
Were written on his lofty brow,
And in his manly eye."
In his address, Rochford spoke of the social feelingstheir power and their charms, and of the ties which
would bind him to the scenes of his most studious
years. He turned to the faculty and addressed them
in a most feeling and'eloquent manner, and took farewell of them and all in behalf of himself and those
who like him were to leave the classic halls, so long
their home. A simultaneous and enthusiastic burst of
applause complimented his noble effort; and as he descended from the stage, it was to Maria like the departure of the sun to him who has no hope of beholding it





A TALE OF THE BLIND.


61


more. Rochford did not, as may well be imagined,
recognize Maria among the vast throng; and the next
day she left with a relative to spend a few weeks in
Augusta.
This, as will subsequently be seen, was a visit attended with most melancholy circumstances. A remnant of the Penobscot tribe of Indians had about that
time visited Augusta, and all the lads of the place had
acquired a great passion for bows and arrows to rival
the skill of the savages. One day, when Maria was
out in the open air, her cousin was at his usual play,
and by a most unfortunate accident, the arrow which
he discharged from his bow, pointed to resemble a
spear, entered her right eye. In consequence of an
inflammation which afterwards ensued, the other eye
became affected, and-sad to relate-she was at length
pronounced by the eminent and skilful Dr. Warren to
be totally and incurably blind! Every means was
used for her benefit that promised to relieve, and she
passed through a season of suffering most dreadful to
endure. At last her friends made the necessary arrangements whereby she entered that noble monument of
Christian philanthropy- the New England Institution
for the Blind.
After leaving college, Rochford spent a few months
of recreation with his father, during which time he
became acquainted with a young lady, of whom it is
necessary that I should attempt a description. Amelia
Brownell was a young lady whose principal attraction
was a fortune which her father intended at some time
to leave her. She had received what is denominated
"a fashionable education," that is to say, she had spent
a few years in a seminary, of course not in her own
town, but at a considerable remove from home, where
6





62


THE OFFERING.


she had been instructed in everything but that which
would have rendered her useful as a wife or companion.
At this time she had just returned from the seminary, and
had arrived at that precise period in such a young lady's
life when she is very desirous of making an impression.
She seemed to be conscious of her personal defects, but
hoped to make up in flippancy and ostentatious display
all other deficiencies. She was very particularly desirous of making a decided impression on our young hero,
who was the guest in many a circle, and with whom
she frequently met. Rochford did not admire her, nay,
he was not infrequently vexed with her efforts to conceal her real deficiencies, but, in consideration of the
fortune in perspective, he overlooked all the want of
real excellence of character, and when he left for Boston
to pursue his studies as a physician, he was regarded as
her accepted suitor.
Rochford's progress was rapid as a successful pupil of
the Medical School, and he was about, at the end of the
third year, to receive his degree of "M. D." with honor
to himself and his teachers, when, by a sudden explosion
of some chemical preparation with which he was experimenting, the fragments of the glass bottle which contained the substance were thrown into his eyes, and he
was almost instantly rendered blind! He had expected,
at the close of the term of his studies in Boston, to have
returned to his father's, and to have fulfilled his matrimonial engagement with Amelia. But, on learning his
misfortune, she positively refused to receive any further
attentions from him, and it is easy to perceive that her
affection had no sympathy with the true and holy passion which impels even to martyrdom for the one beloved.
Dispirited by his misfortune, and unable to make any
use of his acquirements as a physician, he resolved to.





A TALE OF THE BLIND.


63


enter the institution of which we have more than once
spoken. It was there, as we have seen, that he again
met Maria. His mind was carried back to the happiest
years of life, and the powerful associations of the past
came thronging into the soul, leading him captive to
what had once so delighted him. It was natural, in
meeting with the being he had known in other days,
sharing with him a common misfortune, and being in
other respects similarly situated-it was natural for
him to feel for her a deeper interest than he would be
likely to feel for any others with whom he was surrounded. Associating with her day after day, and discovering the many amiable traits of her character, he
soon found himself cherishing towards her a deeper
affection than he had entertained towards any human
being; and, in short, gentle reader, he loved her with all
the ardor of which his nature was capable. And this
was strikingly manifested, when, by the regulations of the
institution, the male and female departments were made
entirely distinct, and, of course, the opportunities of their
meeting were less frequent. It is singular to see how
difficulties will be overcome by the ingenuity of a mind
when impelled by that master passion which poets and
philosophers have vainly endeavored to describe. This
ingenuity was brought speedily into requisition by the
separation made by the regulation alluded to; and the
contrivance they adopted whereby to correspond with
each other was singular indeed. They had a method
used in the institution-that of pricking the letters
with a sharp-pointed pencil, so that by the touch on
the opposite side of the page, the words could be read.
The room occupied by Rochford was in the left wing,
and that of Maria was in the right wing of the building, and the windows of both opened into the yard.





64


THE OFFERING.


Rochford would de his letter on the end of a long string
or cord, and would then throw it a few times, till he
succeeded in making it lodge on the window-sill of Maria's apartment, retaining in his hand the other end of
the string; she would tie her letter on the string, and
Rochford would speedily draw it in to himself. This
correspondence was of course carried on at night, when
the darkness favored them, and was continued for some
time undetected. Now it chanced that there was a tree
in the centre of the yard, and on a certain time when
Rochford was endeavoring to draw back the answer to
an epistle he had transmitted, the letter caught in the
tree, and, in endeavoring to extricate it, the string broke,
the letter fell, not on the ground, but on a man's hat,
and he-the man under the hat-was the last person
into whose hands they would have chosen to have had
it fall, for he was none other than the chief in authority.
He could read it, and the effect of it may be judged of
by the following: Both parties were severely reprimanded for indulging those feelings with which God
had endowed them, and the exercise of which constitutes in those who are so fortunate as to cherish them,
the purest happiness which this world affords. This
long lecture, however, did not turn them from their
purpose, and, therefore, the first opportunity of meeting was improved to fashion a new alphabet, by which
they were able to correspond in a manner, or with a
mystic language, which could not be read by any third
person. in this way they did find ways of corresponding for a considerable time, though the windows aforementioned were nailed down. It was deemed proper,
in consequence of this, and the known ardor of their
affection, to make more complete the separation, and to
stop, if possible, all means of intercourse between them.





A TALE OF THE BLIND.


65


Accordingly matters were so arranged that Rochford
received a peremptory letter from his father, requiring
his immediate return home. He was determined not to
comply with this requisition till at least he could have
one interview with Maria, and be able to leave her with
a full understanding of their mutual feelings and purposes. This interview he obtained the eve previous to
his leaving the institution. They met at a place to
which I have before referred as the home of music, and
both seemed to feel a vague apprehension that it would
be long before they should meet again. Rochford told
Maria briefly that his father was a firm man, and would
doubtless object to their union, yet he was determined,
that, although he had never disobeyed his commands,
yet he now should consult his own feelings, and Maria
might depend on his unchanging affection. It was arranged on the part of Maria, that, at the coming vacation, she should return to her mother's, and Rochford
should meet her there. But now they must part, and
the lovers were agitated beyond expression. As Rochford clasped his Maria to his breast, language was inadequate to express the deep emotions of their souls, and
in nature's simple eloquence they but uttered each
other's name-O Francis! 0 Maria!     They separated, melancholy proofs that what God intended to
constitute our purest bliss is too often made a source of
our keenest misery!   The next day, Rochford departed.
A few weeks passed, and the vacation came. Maria
was soon in her own home, full of hope and joyous expectancy. In a few days Rochford joined her, and once
more they walked amid the scenes of their early years.
It was a beautiful evening in June, at the mellow hour
of sunset. The loveliness of the heavens reflected the
6*





THE OFFERING.


serenity and beauty of their own souls, and they felt the
charms they could not see. But, alas! how changed
was their condition when contrasted with what they
were when last they stood amid those endeared retreats,
and walked by the glowing waters of the majestic river!
They sat by the waters on a prostrated tree, and both,
without any understanding save that which was natural to two hearts thus sympathetically tuned in harmony
with each other, commenced the following melody: -
"Softly the shades of evening fall,
Sprinkling the earth with dewy tears,
And Nature's voice to slumber calls,
And silence reigns amid the spheres."
The last sad notes of their voices died away over the
quiet waters, and a silence ensued, which was broken
by Maria.
" Francis, it is a beautiful evening! 0, how often
have I wished that the close of my life might be as
calm as such an eve fading away into night, when I
have wandered amid these scenes with you or alone, and
have felt the holy influences of the hour. Did you ever
think, Francis, that the time must come when we must
part- when one of us should be called to leave this
world, and no more listen to the voice beloved or the
sounds so dear?"
"That, Maria, is a thought on which I delight not to
dwell. When I am with you, my affections are satisfied; I am contented with the present, and ask not to
look into the future."
" 4But," replied Maria, "love must have a future. It
is a dread thing to think of love only where death is
permitted-to exert its power, and my dearest meditations
are of that world where reigns immortal youth."





A TALE OF THE BLIND.


67


"There is poetry in that; but my reasonings have
been confined to the present existence. I know, indeed,
that we shall live again, but more than that is not revealed.'
"No more revealed! For what did Jesus live? for
what did Jesus die? for what did Jesus rise? Was not
the great object of his advent and mission to reveal
God's everlasting love, reaching to all souls and enduring through all ages, here and hereafter?  This, Francis, this is a truth which I have learned at Jesus' feet,
and it is to me the sweetest solace in every hour of
gloom and pain, and which I would not relinquish for
the greatest boon which I could possibly receive--no,
not even for the gift of sight! Gladly would I look on
the scenes of life's earlier days, and admire the beauties
which once so entranced my vision, but dearer, far
dearer, is the hope of gazing, with an undimming eye,
on a world of fadeless loveliness. 0 say, Francis," said
the enthusiastic girl, clasping, almost wildly, his hand in
hers, " 0 say, Francis, do you not believe that we shall
meet in that bright and better world?"
The earnestness of the girl astonished Rochford, and
he exclaimed-" "0 God! is this a reality? is the beautiful creature at my side my Maria, or is it all a dream,
and she an angel?"
"'No," replied she, "I am no angel, but the weak,
erring girl you call your Maria. I am earnest, for there
is something - I know not what - that tells me this is
the last time we shall meet on earth."
"Nay, nay, Maria, there are yet for us many happy
years in store. But the hour is late --let us return to
the house."
They arose and directed their steps towards Maria's
home. All the cheerfulness and gayety which Rochford





68


THE OFFERING.


could throw into his conversation as they pursued their
way, could not remove the weight of melancholy that
pressed on Maria's heart.  When they reached the
dwelling, Rochford felt that he must part, and he
briefly informed her that he was required to set out
early on the morrow to meet his father, and must therefore say farewell to her.
"Ah!" said the poor girl, "are we then never more
to meet?"
" 0 do not utter such words. We shall meet many
times,--I have told you there are happy years for us
in store;" and imprinting a kiss upon her fair brow, he
bade her " good night!"
Early the next morning, Maria could have been seen
sitting at her chamber window listening intently for the
sound of the departing coach that should bear the
beloved away. At length the rumbling noise, disturbing the hush of morn, broke on her ear, and she intently
listened to the sound till it died away and no echo
remained. Then did she feel her doom was sealed,
though she could not in the least account for the apprehensions under which she labored.
At evening Rochford arrived at his journey's end.
His father immediately called him into a private apartment; and there he frankly informed him that by
letters from Boston he had been fully advised of all that
had occurred between him and Maria, and that he
should not consent, on any account whatever, to any
further intimacy between them. " You are blind," said
the stern father, " and can do nothing for yourself! I
must therefore provide for you. Now, Mary Ann Neal
is a good girl; she has lived with us several years, and
I know she will make you a good wife. She has consented to marry you on condition that I will settle upon





A TALE OF THE BLIND.


69


you a sum the interest of which shall be sufficient to
maintain you and her. This, though my property will
hardly justify it, I agree to do, if you will decide to be
united to her. To-morrow I shall go to Portsmouth,
and shall return in a week,- that time I give you to
decide, with the understanding that if you still cling to
your present wild project, I shall discard you forever!"
We will not attempt to describe the feelings of Rochford, but return to Maria. Two days after the departure
of Rochford, she was called to the bedside of her dyinmg
mother, who, always in feeble health, had received
several apoplectic strokes, and was now struck down by
another and a fatal one. But the religion which had
always consoled Maria did not now fail to afford her
the consolation she needed in this the most trying hour
of her existence. Her mother had been to her all that
maternal love could be in the soul of a Christian, and
now that she stood by her side in death, a new and the
darkest mystery of life pressed heavily upon her soul.
But she remembered God and was comforted.
After the last sad rites were attended to, and Maria
began to feel how much had been taken from her, a
kind sister, residing at a distance, sent her word that
her home should be hers if she would make it so.
Maria received this affectionate message with gratitude;
and after a few days, she visited for the last time the
graves of her sainted mother and darling brother, and
strewed a few flowers on the place of their repose, as
the last offering of her undying love, and then bade
farewell forever to the scenes so hallowed by the varied
events of the past.
The week apportioned to Rochford had now expired,
and after vainly endeavoring to dissuade his father from
his cruel purpose, he yielded a reluctant consent, and





70


THE OFFERING.


promised to marry a being he did not love. Having
taken this step, he dictated to a confidential friend, a
letter to Maria, in which he informed her the situation
in which his father's determination had placed him, and
that he was compelled to unite his destiny with a woman
he did not love; but that, though the husband of
another, she would always have his affections.
One day, sometime afterward, Maria was sitting
listening to the reading of a newspaper by her sister,
and among the variety the list of marriages and deaths
attracted attention. Her sister, unconscious of reading
a name dear to Maria, read the marriage of " Dr. Francis Rochford to Miss Mary Ann Neal."  The effect of
this was electrical, but as soon as she recovered from
the first shock, Maria immediately concluded that there
were two Dr. Rochfords -she thought the I Doctor'"
sounded unnatural, so unwilling was she to believe the
fact of the case. But this indecision was of short duration, as soon afterward she received Rochford's letter,
that had been sent to her former residence, and after a
long delay, was transmitted to her enclosed in an epistle
from the minister of the parish. The awful truth now
flashed upon her mind. She was now indeed miserable.
This was the last of a long series of misfortunes which
had made her life a painful one, but which had revealed
to her the power of religion in the soul. The effect of
this last sad and heavy stroke was not perceptible to
the observer, and while a tear trembled in her sightless
eyes, she prayed God to bless her Francis.
Not long since, it was my happiness to visit Maria,
and as I conversed with her of the past, she appeared
to have lost nothing of that enthusiasm which seemed
to be a part of her very nature. " But once have I seen
Francis since he was a man; but oh! that once was





A TALE OF THE BLIND.


71


sufficient to keep him ever distinct in my soul, the ideal
of all perfection. He is compelled to drag out an existence far less happier than mine, united as he is to a
being he cannot love, and who has no sympathy with
his high endowments of mind."
I mentioned to her that I should probably visit the
East, and might perchance meet Rochford. " Tell him,
then," said she, " that at the hour when last we met, I
shall ever offer up to heaven a prayer for him." Then,
in a more subdued tone, she added, "Tell him not to
forget me."
Before I parted from her, she sang to me, with the
same touching sweetness as in other years, Rochford's
favorite-The Flower Girl's Song, in the "Last Days
of Pompeii."  As I took my leave of her, I could not
but say half audibly, " Poor girl! sad victim of a love
too deep, too pure, for such a world as this."
But yet in her soul she has hopes that give her the
living waters of immortality, as she rests her spirit in
the expectancy of the time when the mighty and loving
voice of God shall speak -  Ephphatha!" ("that is,
Be opened!") and on her vision shall burst the ineffable glories of that world where there are no changes
but from glory to glory!





72


AN ADVENTURE OF MY BOYHOOD.
EVERY one requires time for relaxation. There is
real pleasure in throwing off the self-imposed dignity
of manhood, and of yielding, without reserve, to those
sincere feelings and emotions that guide and govern to
a certain extent our childhood.
It is a pleasant thing to recall in after life the pranks
we have played in our boyhood, and to have a hearty
laugh over the jokes we then perpetrated at the expense
of others.
I well remember an incident which, at the time it
occurred, made a great deal of amusement for those who
witnessed it, and which I will now relate.
Some years ago, there was a man who was in the
habit of visiting our native town, as often as once or
twice a week, for the purpose of disposing of the produce of his farm. The principal commodity which he
brought to market was butter, which was usually contained in small covered boxes. He was accustomed to
bring some forty or fifty in his cart at a time.
It happened that he one day met with me, just after
he had been offering up his libations to Bacchus, and
when, probably, he was as mentally blind as I was
physically.  Not perceiving that I was blind, he
requested me to drive him around the town, and to
show him where he would be most likely to dispose of
his butter.
Now I was always an ambitious youth, though I say
it myself. Having learned to go about town alone on
foot, I was anxious to try my skill at driving around;





AN ADVENTURE OF MY BOYHOOD.


73


besides, boys are always glad to have a good ride.
Therefore I closed at once with the butter-man's proposition. He, by this time overcome by the potent draught
wherewith he had regaled himself at the tavern, had
quietly stretched his person in the back part of his cart,
as if coveting repose.
Taking the reins in one hand, and the whip in the
other, I drove off in what was at that time denominated
a furious style, for, seeing no danger, I feared none.
The spectators, witnessing the rapidity with which we
rattled through the principal street, looked on with
astonishment, especially when they found that the
driver was a blind boy. The horse kept the middle of
the road, and we moved on for some distance, when,
finding by the air upon my face, that I had arrived at a
cross street, and knowing that there was a store on the
corner, I stopped, but as no butter was wanted, I drove
on again. I had received instructions to call at the minister's, he being a regular customer. We soon reached
his house; I knew when we had got there, from the
fact that it was situated on a high hill. Accordingly,
when we were ascending it, I informed the butter-man
of the fact, who succeeded, after a considerable difficulty, in getting out of the cart by the time we had
arrived opposite the door of the parsonage-house.
He was gone a few minutes, but being unable to
trade, returned and told me that if I would turn round
and go up into one of the cross streets, he would call
into the houses and try to sell his butter.
Emboldened by my success thus far, I pulled, unfortunately for all concerned, the left rein rather too
quickly; the horse attempted to turn,---the wheels
came in contact with a large stone at the corner; in an
instant the cart was upset, and the contents thrown
7





714


THE OFFERING.


upon the ground. The boxes containing the butter
were thrown down the hill, and as ill-luck would have
it, it had rained the night before, so that it would have
required the chemical skill of a Sir Humphrey Davy to
have separated the butter from the mud. The poor
man stood for a few moments looking on in perfect
amazement.   At length he exclaimed, "You confounded fool! could you not see that rock?"  By this
time, the minister, who had witnessed the accident
from the window, came out. His manner was usually
solemn, but on the present occasion he was nearly convulsed with laughter. As soon as he could collect
himself sufficiently, he addressed himself to the unfortunate butter-man, who had sufficiently recovered his
senses to begin to estimate the extent of his loss, and
who was denouncing me in no very choice terms.
"My dear sir," said his reverence with emphasis,
"that lad is totally blind."  " Blind! blind!" repeated
the indignant man; " then why, in the name of common sense, do you keep blind pilots upon the coast?  I
will never come to this market again."
It may well be supposed that by this time a large
number of persons had assembled. As for myself, I
attempted to leave the ground as soon as possible, carrying off upon my shoes a large quantity of the butter.
By the aid of others, the poor man succeeded in repairing the slight damage done to his cart. He gathered
up his empty boxes, and returned home. Reflecting
upon the adventures of the day, (for by this time lihe
was thoroughly sober,) he saw that it was to his intemperance that the loss he had sustained was to be
attributed. He never came to our market any more,
but he lived ever after a temperance man.





75


LINES
SUGGESTED ON HEARING A LADY SING THE SONG "WHEN WE WENT
GYPSYING, LONG TIME AGO."
O, LADY, sing that song again!
To me 'twill e'er be dear;
It calls up sweet remembrances
Of many a by-gone year.
It speaks of early childhood days,
When life was free from sorrow,
When happy went the day away,
And brightly came the morrow.
When each returning hour that came
Brought its peculiar joy;
When all was bright and fair around,
And I a gladsome boy.
It whispers of those halcyon hours
When innocence was mine;
When round each object of my love
Did every fond wish twine.
But now, alas! those days have fled!
And those I loved are gone;
But, lady, thou canst call them back;
O sing again that song!
And know, it can assuage the grief
Of one lone child of sorrow;
Whose only hope, whose every wish,
Is for life's latest morrow.
Then sing again that plaintive song;
To me 't is ever dear;
It calls up sweet remembrances
Of many a by-gone year.





76


OUR COUNTRY.
To one conversant with the history of our country,
the events which have transpired for the last twentyfive years possess a deep and thrilling interest.
The great problem which we, as a people, have attempted to solve, involves a greater responsibility than
was ever, in the providence of God, committed to any
nation, in ancient or modern times.
It behoves the true lover of his country and his race,
to pause and attentively consider what we have been
doing for the last quarter of a century. Have we done
anything to advance the cause of civil and religious liberty throughout the world? Have we strengthened and
rendered more permanent our own free institutions?
Have we endeavored to strengthen the bond of union
between the states of this great confederacy? Have we
presented to the world the sublime spectacle of a great
nation controlled by laws enacted in accordance with
the will of a majority of its citizens? Have we always
preserved social order, and maintained inviolate the
freedom of the press?  Have we never sacrificed our
national honor? In short, do we still retain uncorrupted the noble legacy transmitted to us by the heroes
and patriots who fought the battles of the Revolution,
and formed, by their collective wisdom, the charter of
our liberties? These are important questions. Would
to God that to each of them might be given an affirmative answer!
The true friends of man throughout the world have
looked to America as their only hope. Here the fond





OUR COUNTRY.


77


enthusiast trusted he should see realized Plato's idea of
a true republic. The splendid example of a Washington led the disappointed friends of liberty in Europe to
believe that here, in a country which had never been
cursed with despotism, man would prove to the world
for the first time his capacity for self-government. The
tyrant pointed with a proud satisfaction to the republics
of Greece and Rome; but the friends of 'liberty replied,
In America there are no despotisms to overthrow, no inherent evils to overcome; and the united wisdom of a
Washington, an Adams, and a Jefferson, will form a
system of government which shall survive the monarchies of Europe, and which shall defend the millions
that fly to it for protection.
The Goddess of Liberty, which for ages seemed
driven from the earth, established her dominion upon
the western continent, and millions of the oppressed
from the old world came hither to enjoy her protection.
Every movement of our government has been watched
with a jealous eye by the friends and opponents of
republican institutions throughout the civilized world;
and, so far as we can judge, we have disappointed the
expectations of the former, and allayed the fears of the
latter; and accordingly we hear it said that the idea of
a permanent republic in America is still problematical;
that our government is at most but an experiment; and
we hear this from those who, a few years ago, felt confident of our success. Our enemies, with an assiduity
worthy of a better cause, are availing themselves of
every opportunity to sow dissensions among us, and to
engraft on our system of government the elements of a
future despotism. Can any one doubt this?  Witness
the encouragement afforded by the powers of Europe to
emigration. Thousands annually flock to our shores,
7*





78


THE OFFERING.


asking for protection; but the ship that brings them,
like the wooden horse which was introduced into Troy,
has concealed within it those who will, ere long, acconmplish our destruction.
It is a trite maxim, that the perpetuity of our institutions depends on the purity of the elective franchise.
Now, it is an undeniable fact, that, in many parts of
our country, foreigners are permitted to vote as soon as
they land on our shores. The mischievous influence
which foreign voters have already exerted upon our
elections is beginning to be felt, and if a speedy remedy
be not found to the evil, the time will come when our
liberty will be a mere name. I know it is said, that
those who emigrate to our country come to enjoy, and
not to destroy, our liberties; but it must be remembered that they constitute for the most part the poorest
and the most degraded portion of the population of
Europe, and, consequently, can have no just idea of
rational liberty. They are, therefore, the fit subjects to
be wrought upon by the artful and designing demagogue; and that they form a powerful element, which
the enemies of liberty will not fail one day to use to our
disadvantage, no one can for a moment doubt.
See the appeals to their prejudices contained in our
newspapers on the eve of an election; proclaiming the
candidate of this or that party to be of Dutch, French,
Swiss, or Irish origin, and calling on his country.
men to support him! Nor is this all; in the principal
cities of the United States they form themselves into
political clubs, parade the streets with their banners,
and he who can most successfully appeal to their passions is sure of their votes.
The most successful chief magistrate this country
ever had, he whose iron will could control the repre




OUR COUNTRY.


79


sentatives, and did not fear the senate, -next to the
magic power of one great battle, was indebted for not a
little of his influence to the fact, that he was of Irish
descent. We hope we shall not be misunderstood; we
would not deny to the famishing, starving population
of Europe an asylum, where, by their own labor, they
may obtain bread for themselves and their children, and
where they might enjoy forever all the advantages of a
good government; but we would not forget, in discharging the duties to our race, the obligations we owe to our
country. We would go down to the shore, and welcome the foreigner to our country and our home; but
we would not surrender to him those rights which, if
he possessed without knowing their value, would, without benefiting him, inijure us, and, in process of time,
would render this country but little better than that
from which he has emigrated. It is not thought wise
to intrust a native citizen with the tremendous responsibility of the elective franchise, until he has had the
experience of twenty-one years; and shall we surrender
to aliens, whose prejudices, habits of thinking and education, so far as they have any, render them inimical
to republican institutions, those dear-bought rights, at a
shorter period of time than is required of our own citizens. I say, no! and until the majority of the people
of the United States shall give the same reply, in a
manner that cannot be mistaken, the palladium of our
liberty is in imminent danger.
There are, indeed, many evils at work in the body
politic, which the clear-eyed philanthropist sees without
being able to remedy; but there is a cure for the one of
which we have spoken, in the speedy alteration of our
naturalization laws, so as to prevent the alien from
voting until he shall have resided among us long





80


THE OFFERING.


enough to become acquainted with the genius of our
institutions.
An attempt has recently been made, in at least one
of the largest states in the Union, by a portion of our
foreign population, to obtain a complete separation of
their part of the public fund for the support of common
schools. The effect of this movement must be apparent
to all. They are desirous of imparting to their children
their own peculiar notions in government and religion,
which will be found to be adverse to republican institutions. It has been openly avowed that they would not
suffer their children to enter our common schools, and
that if they could not be allowed separate schools for
themselves, their children should grow up in ignorance.
It was the proud boast of our pilgrim fathers, that they
had established our institutions on the Law of God,
contained in the Old and New Testament; and yet the
principal objection urged against our free schools by
that portion of the population to which we have referred, is, that the Bible is read in them daily.
It is deplorable to see with what readiness the two
great political parties, for the sake of a temporary advantage, yield to the demands of those to whom our public
schools have become so obnoxious. Indeed, it is said
that foreigners already hold the balance of power, and
that party which can most successfully appeal to their
prejudices, and who will pledge themselves to comply
with their demands, is alone sure of success. In a
short time, those who, a few years ago, humbly craved
an asylum here from the oppression of their own country, will boast, and justly too, that they are our rulers.
Even now they begin to taunt us. One of their number, in an organ devoted to their interest, did not hesitate, on a certain occasion, to call Native Americans





OUR COUNTRY.


81


cowards and the sons of cowards. This, it may be
said, is not of much consequence; but it must be remembered that " straws show which way the wind blows."
The fact is undeniable, that those who are constantly
emigrating to our country come here without any very
exalted notions of liberty, and with no very strong
attachment to republican institutions; this is already
seen, and when they shall outnumber us at the ballotbox, it will be felt, bitterly felt. Now is the time, if
ever, to remedy the evil.
If the battle for civil and religious liberty is to be
fought over again on this continent, it is quite time that
the friends of freedom were marshalling their forces.
For one, we are not afraid of the result. We can anticipate with certainty a bloodless victory, if we but avail
ourselves of the ballot-box, while it is yet under our
control. We have always had a firm faith in the success of those great principles which it was the object of
the fathers of our republic to establish, and which it is
the duty of their children to maintain at all hazards; but
we freely confess that there are times when it would
seem as if we were pursuing a retrograde movement;
when a degrading subserviency to party seems to take
the place of a lofty patriotism, and a noble love of
country appears to be supplanted by the desire for office.
Most of the political papers of the day, instead of discussing, in a calm and dispassionate manner, the great
questions affecting the happiness of the people and the
perpetuity of our institutions, are filled with inflammatory appeals to sectional prejudices-designed to influence the worst passions of the multitude -to accomplish
a temporary triumph; and we look in vain into the
published speeches of our statesmen for that dispassionate wisdom and far-reaching sagacity that characterized





011


THE OFFERING.


a Hamilton and a Jefferson.  It was once thought that
intrinsic merit alone could entitle an American to the
suffrages of his countrymen; that he who had served
his country with the greatest fidelity was alone worthy
to become its chief magistrate;-but the palmy days
of republican simplicity have passed away, and political intrigue is, in our day, more likely to be successful
than statesmen-like ability and sterling virtue.
Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe and
his immediate successor, compare well with each other;
but since their day, there has been a gradual deterioration, and it will be long before American intellect and
American virtue will be fairly represented in the person
of her chief magistrate. The man who a few years
ago brought forward, in the Senate of the United States,
that great measure which demonstrated alike his ability
and his patriotism, and which was alone adequate to
preserve the Union, which artful political demagogues
were endeavoring to destroy, has been forgotten by
those who were unworthy his services, and supplanted
by one who is his equal in nothing; but the pen of the
historian will render that justice to his merits which
even contemporaries have not been able altogether to
withhold, and his name will be enrolled in that bright
galaxy of illustrious men we have already mentioned,
and whom we now venerate as the benefactors of our
country.
The presidential chair, which every aspirant to popular favor regards as the ultimatum of his ambition, has
within the last few years been brought within the reach
of every one who will stoop to the means by which it
is obtained. The question is no longer asked, when a
candidate is to be selected for the suffrages of the
people, Is he a man of ability? Is he capable of admin




OUR COUNTRY.


83


istering the government in such a manner as shall best
promote the great objects for which government was
instituted? -but, Is he available? Can he appeal and
pander to the prejudices of the multitude-? Why is it
that so many of our great minds, of our truly great men,
shun the political arena, and prefer literary and scientific pursuits? Because the military chieftain is preferred by the multitude, while the scholar is often
rejected. There is a popular prejudice against learned
men, of which the artful demagogue always avails
himself.
He who has shot an Indian stands a better chance
of an election than the graduate of our universities. It
is a mournful fact that our legislative halls are not
unfrequently the theatres where, for a time at least, all
law, to say nothing of decency and propriety, is violated,
and by the very men whom we send to make the laws.
" He who governs freemen must himself be free."  If
we select our representatives from among those who are
more remarkable for their pugilistic than their intellectual or moral powers, we must expect to be poorly
governed, and we ought not to complain of those frequent violations of all law that so often disgrace our
legislative halls. We believe that the evil of which we
are speaking can only be corrected by a more thorough
dissemination of knowledge among the people. There
is no more cheering sign of our times than the need
which is everywhere felt of a more perfect system of
education.
When the study of the science of government shall
receive that attention to which its importance entitles it;
when the constitution and the laws of our country shall
be thought of sufficient consequence to be more generally taught in our common schools; we shall no longer





84


THE OFFERING.


look to the camp for our rulers; and the distinction of a
representative will be worth something, --not for the
mere emolument of office, but for the opportunity it will
afford him of contributing to the prosperity of the
country, and the progress of the race.
There are many other evils with which our country
is afflicted, perhaps surpassing in magnitude those we
have named, and which we hope will receive their
appropriate correctives from the hands of an enlightened and patriotic people. Those of which we have
spoken call loudly for immediate redress, and we have
no doubt but they will receive the attention their enormity merits.
If any one thinks we have written hastily, or that our
words are harsh, let him remember that we have written with the feelings of an American, and let this be our
apology. We wish not to survive when our country
shall become unworthy of the high destiny for which
God has designed her.





THOUGHTS ON IMMORTALITY.


IN the calm, quiet moments of reflection, when, freed
in a measure from the cares and pursuits of life, we sit
down to contemplate those great truths and sublime
mysteries which have in every age employed the
mightiest intellects, and inspired the noblest hearts, that
have adorned and enlightened humanity, we feel overwhelmed with a sense of our own littleness, and of our
indebtedness to those whose investigations have opened
to us such vast fields of thought and speculation.
There is no subject fraught with such deep and thrilling interest to every thinking being as the future destiny of the human soul. It is a theme upon which the
wise and good of every age have delighted to expatiate,
for it engages at once the most discriminating power of
the intellect, and the warmest affections of the heart.
It appeals alike to our judgment, and our consciousness;
to the facts of our experience and observation, and the
evidence afforded by the light of our intuitions. In
fine, it is as vast and illimitable as earth and heaven,
-- time and eternity.
Of all the questions which a thinking mind ever proposed to itself, there is probably none which has called
forth so much thought, and excited so much speculation,:as the proposition contained in the following: " If a man.die, shall he live again?"
There are those who have not only denied the immortality, but the very existence of the human soul. They
maintain that what we call mind is but the result of
the organization of matter, According to this theory,
8





86


THE OFFERING.


thought and feeling is but an effect of the higher laws
operating on the most perfectly organized bodies. What
is instinct in the animal becomes mind in man, because
he is more perfectly developed. The materialist compares the soul to music; as the latter is but an effect
produced by the peculiar construction of the instrument,
so the former is but one of the effects of that more cunningly contrived instrument, the human body.
It would be needless to show the absurdity of this
analogy, - the fallacy of such reasoning. Its best confutation is found in the lives of those who have most
strenuously advocated it. It is the basis of that dark,
skeptical philosophy whose highest maxim is, that
pleasure and self-gratification is the end of life; but
there are those who, admitting the existence of the soul,
affirm, nevertheless, that it has no natural immortality;
that when the body dies, it remains in a state of unconsciousness, and in fact ceases to exist, so far as the consciousness of life is concerned; but, in the great day of
the resurrection, it will be again resuscitated, and its
destiny forever fixed.
The advocates of this theory profess to draw arguments in support of it from the Bible.
We can conceive that it would not be very difficult
for one who accepts tke fundamental principles of
Locke's philosophy to give his adherence at once to
this dark and unsatisfying view of the human soul; but
he who admits the fact of his own consciousness; who
is iufluenced in the slightest degree by a spiritual faith;
who prizes more the revelations of his intuitions than the
doubtful facts he perceives by his senses; must reject it
with abhorrence; and all other views that detract from
the divinity and dignity of our nature.
There are arguments in favor of the immortality of





THOUGHTS ON IMMORTALITY.


87


the soul, which the materialist never has, and never can
satisfactorily answer. He may indeed have attempted
to ridicule them, and, like Voltaire and others, sneer at,
and satirize those who make use of them; but no one
has ever succeeded in refuting them, and it is fair to
presume that they cannot.
The first which we shall mention, is that derived
from the universal consciousness. There is no nation,
no matter how degraded, that has ever existed, but has
manifested, in some way, a belief of the soul's future
existence. The Hottentot, the Hindoo, the aborigines
of our own country, and even the New Zealander,
although it has sometimes been asserted to the contrary,
have each a firm faith in future life; and we should as
soon think of discovering a people that deny their own
individual existence, as we should to find a nation in
which a belief in the soul's immortality did not form a
part of their religion. We know, indeed, that there
have been individuals who have denied that they had
any consciousness of a future existence. Hume and
his disciples denied that they existed in the present
world; and we believe that our present existence can
no more be proved than our future life; those who
would doubt either, subject us to the alternative of
questioning their sanity, or their honesty.
Another argument in favor of the soul's immortality,
is founded upon what we know of God. It cannot be
that a being of infinite perfection could have created
and so wonderfully endowed man with such an exalted
nature, if his existence was to terminate with the
present life. No! it is as inconsistent with the character of the Creator as it is contrary to all the analogies
of nature, to suppose that our being terminates at the
grave. Against such an idea, the best feelings of the





88


THE OFFERING.


heart and the deepest convictions of the intellect are
alike opposed. It cannot be that unbounded goodness
and infinite wisdom have placed us here to partake of the
evanescent joys of the world,-to endure its sorrows
and participate in all its vicissitudes, - and then to be
consigned to total annihilation. Oh, no! the thought is
too revolting. We could not even here enjoy sleep after
the fatigues of the day, were we not cheered with the
hope of a coming morrow.
There is, in the soft sunlight of heaven, and in the
ravishing beauty that it everywhere reveals, stamped
upon every part of the material universe by the finger
of God, an assurance to man that he is destined for a
better world and a nobler existence.   It is written
alike upon the earth and the sky, the flowers and the
stars; and in the bow that spans the clouds, there is a
pledge that, after the storms of this life, we shall enter
in calmness and peace upon a higher and a holier existence; and in the tones of the human voice that bless
us here, is symbolized the music of the angels that shall
gladden us there.
We come now- to the consideration of another argument, which, upon most minds, probably exerts a greater
influence than those we have mentioned, in deepening
the conviction of the soul's immortality. It is drawn
from, the nature of the soul itself. We find that we
possess faculties and capacities, affections and aspirations, that this world cannot satisfy.
The truths wrapped up in the material forms around
us, embodied in all that we see and know, do but make
us conscious of the extent of our powers, without fully
gratifying them. They invite us to ascend to Him from
whom they emanate, - for no truth, properly considered,
terminates here; hence it is, that we only view truth in





THOUGHTS ON IMMORTALITY.


89


fragments. An atom, and a world, alike symbolize
some spiritual fact, which we are yet to discover, and
which we are capable of comprehending.
If we reflect upon the vast discoveries which the
intellect of man has made upon this mundane sphere,
and consider how eager he is to learn yet more, can we
for a moment doubt that an opportunity will yet be
afforded him, under more favorable circumstances, to
unfold and expand those mighty energies with which
God has endowed him, and which are here so necessarily limited and confined?. Does not that ardent love
of knowledge, which this world is too poor to satisfy,
prove that it shall yet have a broader field, a wider
range, for its endless development?  Besides, if we consider the nature of our affections, how little there is in
this changighg, transitory world, to satisfy their cravings;
-love, that noblest of all principles, that divinest of all
impulses, how seldom its deep yearnings find a response
in a world whose mightiest law is change - we cannot
but conclude that this is but the beginning of our existence, the infancy of our being; and that there yet
remains for man an eternity in which his exalted faculties and inexhaustible affections will continue forever to
develop and expand.
Can we, upon any other supposition, explain the fact
that the wisest and most learned of our race have felt, at
the close of their earthly existence, that they had but
just commenced learning; or, as the great Newton
expressed it, " that they were mere school-boys in the
study of nature." The most that we can hope to obtain
in the present state of existence, are the rudiments or the
elements of knowledge. We but learn here the alphabet
of nature, and then pass on to a higheer school, to make
room for those that come after us.





90


THE OFFERING.


On: the hypothesis of the materialist, -that man, in
common with the beast, ceases to exist when the bodily
powers no longer perform their functions, - there would
not only be want of wisdom, but positive injustice and
cruelty; in conferring upont him capacities and affections, which are but awakened to a consciousness of
their vastness and grandeur, to be forever extinguished
in total annihilation. It was not for this that God conferred upon man an intellect capable of ranging at will
throughout his vast creation, -discovering its laws,--
examining its parts, -revealing the secrets hidden in an
atom, or a world, -now penetrating to the interior of
the earth, and anon ascending to the most distant star.
It was not for this, that to his expansive heart was
given a love so broad and so vast as to embrace the
whole family of man, and aspire to the sympathy of
angels. No; in man's very nature is written the certainly of his immortality.
There is another argument in favor of the soul's immortality, drawn from the incompleteness of life. Nothing in the present state of existence seems permanent;
all is change, though nothing is annihilated.
The most gigantic works of art in time crumble into
ruins, and everything in the material world seems subjected to the same fatality. Nor is man exempt from
this general law. Our physical system is continually
undergoing change. The body, every seven years, we
are told, is entirely renewed; nor is this phenomenon less
certain because it is unperceived. But amidst all the
mutations to which everything material is subjected,
the human soul remains the same, ever developing and
expanding itself, acquiring more energy, and becoming
more exalted as the period approaches, when, freed
from its earthly prison-house, it shall expand its wings





THOUGHTS ON IMMORTALITY.


91


and rejoice in the absolute liberty of a higher existence.
It seems to us that all of that which we call the ex.perience of life, - those nameless events, those hourly
occurrences, which, when viewed separately, seem to be
the effect of chance, or accident, but, when regarded in.
their relation to each other, have, to the philosophic
eye, a profound significance, -refer us to a higher development than we are capable of receiving in the present
imperfect state of existence. We believe that there is
nothing which the heart can conceive, or the intellect
plan, in harmony with the ultimate good, but that will
finally be effected. The many schemes which the wise
and good of every age have projected, designed to remove those evils with which the world has been afflicted, which still darken the fair face of the beautiful
earth-and which, because they have not succeeded,
have been pronounced by some, Eutopian, chimerical,
&c. -are capable of being actualized. The error has
been, that men have attempted to accomplish on earth
what can only be effected in heaven. The soul never
forgets entirely its former home; its aims and aspirations are always above the earth. In its darkest estate.
and lowest degradation, it still retains some faint
glimpses of its high destiny, and in every stage of our
earthly progress, it whispers to us of a better land.
And when, alas! as it too often is, darkened and deformed by ignorance and sensuality, and its blessed
sunshine obscured by the blackness of sin, it still yearns
for that baptism that shall regenerate it, for that voice
that shall welcome it, redeemed, to its home in the skies.
When we have admitted the immortality of the soul,
there are many passages in our earthly pilgrimage,
which, though they cannot be considered as proofs in





92


THE OFFERING.


themselves, yet may still serve to confirm our faith.
We would instance the fact, that in all our actions we
have an object, and that object is usually in the future,
-something that is to be attained; we are never satisfied with the present. What is it but the consciousness
of a future life, that makes us desirous to do something
to preserve our memory when we are gone?
Whence the desire of fame, if the grave is the goal of
our existence? Why does the humblest human being
desire some friend to adorn his tomb with flowers, if he
is to sleep beneath all unconscious of the act?
Why is it so difficult for us to conceive of death?
Because the soul has only the consciousness of life.
Fired with the enthusiasm of youth, the young man
goes forth from his father's home to play his part in the
busy world; from time to time he hears that father,
mother, sister, brother, all have fulfilled their earthly
pilgrimage; still, in sad sincerity he struggles on, to accomplish a purpose greater than he thinks; and when
at last his physical energies are nearly all exhausted,
he returns to the home of his childhood to die; whatever may have been the vicissitudes to which he was
subject in the world of strife, he is still cheered with the
hope of a blessed reuinion with those he loves.
From  almost every incident of our daily life, when
correctly understood, we may derive something to confirm our faith in the soul's future destiny. That which
to-day seems dark and mysterious, to-morrow will be
explained. Humble virtue, that now goes unobserved
and uncared for, and that, in its very loneliness, weeps,
shall in the future be honored and glorified above all;
and vice and wrong, that now enjoy the favor and applause of the multitude, shall in the coming future be
forgotten and consigned to oblivion.





THOUGHTS ON IMMORTALITY.


93


Thus have we endeavored to state some of those arguments usually adduced to prove the immortality of the
soul. We have not been influenced by what Addison,
Dick, or any other writer, has suggested. It has been
our object to state only those which, to our mind, seem
to carry the clearest conviction. We cheerfully grant,
that all the arguments which reason can devise, or
which the nature of the soul itself can suggest, come far
short of the teachings of Divine revelation; but when,
as in the present case, what God has taught in his
Word confirms the voice of nature, they are worthy of
our serious consideration.
Christ has brought life and immortality to light.
What, to Socrates, Plato, and other spiritual philosophers of antiquity, was at most but mere speculation, is
to the Christian absolute certainty.
Christ has risen-death has lost its sting, and the
grave its gloom; henceforth the humble Christian
hears, as it were whispered by an angel, "In my
Father's house there are many mansions."
We need not dwell upon the advantages which the
contemplation of the subject which we have been considering confers. It is fit that we should sometimes
withdraw our mind from the all-engrossing pursuits of
the world, and reflect upon that higher life upon which
we must all so soon enter. It is good to think of heaven,
and the angels; it purifies and elevates our affections;
it exalts and ennobles our whole nature; above all, it
brings us nearer to God. We would not detract, in the
slightest degree, from the importance of the present life.
We know that there are duties and obligations which
must be discharged in this state of existence; man has
an earthly mission, and he should fulfil it; but he
should never cease to remember that he has a heavenly





94                 THE OFFERING.
destiny. There is nothing which can so console us in
all the disappointments and afflictions incidental to our
present life, as a steady, unwavering faith in the soul's
immortality; nothing that will so elevate us above the
contaminating influence of sin, and bring us into a
more intimate communion with our Father in heaven.





95


[The following lines were suggested on meeting with a poor blind man
who obtains a precarious subsistence by begging in the streets of New York
city. He does not ask charity, but attracts the attention, and endeavors to
awaken the sympathy of those around him, by chanting a low, plaintive song.]
ALONE he gropes his dark and dreary way,
With none to soothe or bless his humble lot,
Shut out forever from the light of day,
By all unpitied, and by all forgot.
Compelled to beg his bread from day to day,
Without one kindly look, or friendly tone,
To cheer him on his darksome, lonely way,
Poor, sightless man, without a friend or home!
In vain he chants the sad and plaintive song;
In vain the tear streams down his sightless eye;
He ne'er can move the cold and heartless throng;
They heed not now the blind man's feeble cry.
And yet the boon he craves ye well might give,
For surely unto you much hath been given!
Oh! say, in mercy's name, shall he not live,
And share with you the bounteous gifts of Heaven
I pity thee, poor man! thus doomed to dwell
In this cold world, all friendless and alone;
Yet, happily for thee, it may be well,
Fot this, thank God, is not our final home!
No; there are worlds that gem the vaulted sky,
The bright abode of all that suffer here;
There thou shalt one day dwell-no more to sigh,
No more to shed misfortune's bitter tear.





96


THE BLIND INVALID.
IN this world there is a continued contest between
good and evil; and so intimate is the connection, that it
is sometimes very difficult to distinguish the one from
the other.
They are the antagonistic principles of life, but they
are often so mysteriously blended, as to defy the calmest
and the clearest scrutiny. Yet, in proportion as we are
influenced by one or the other, is our destiny decided
for weal or for woe, for time and for eternity.
Almost every hour of our existence, are we called
upon to perform some act, the influence of which, upon
our future life, transcends the power of human calculation. How fearfully great is the responsibility which
God has imposed upon every human being, and how
little is it felt and understood by the majority of mankind! Is not much, very much, of the misery and
wretchedness which we see around us every day, but
the inevitable result of this ignorance and neglect?
How often, for example, does the transgression of a
single physical law entail upon others wretchedness
and misery, which no kindness can alleviate, and no
sympathy assuage. How often are we called to mourn
over the grave of the young and the beautiful, who
have fallen the victims to a disease engendered by the
ignorance of those who might have blessed them. How
often do we meet, in our daily walks, the young man or
woman whose early doom is written in terrible distinctness upon their pale and wan countenances. How frequently do we hear, when at church, a hollow cough,





THE BLIND INVALID.


97


and see the cheek of the young, now flushed, now
deadly pale, telling but too plainly that, like half developed flowers, they must die before the spring-time of
life has passed away.
Is it not a sad thing to witness the sufferings of one
who has entered upon existence only to endure the
pains and penalty of a law that others have transgressed, and whose only hope for relief is in death?
Yet there are thousands of such.
Reader, I will tell you of one, whose mournful lot has
suggested the preceding remarks.
In a small upper chamber of an old wooden building,
in one of the most obscure streets of our city, there
dwells a wretched human being, compelled to endure
sufferings which can never be adequately described, but
who might have been as happy and joyous a creature
as ever pressed the earth.
I am now about to sketch no mere dream of the
imagination, to gratify a morbid sensibility, but to
relate the melancholy story of one whose life has been
marked only by misfortune and suffering.
I happened one day to complain to a friend of the
difficulties that beset the pathway of one in my situation. He rebuked me, saying he knew of one who
suffered more in a day than I did in a year; and on my
expressing doubt if such a being existed, he said he
would convince me if I would go with him the next
day. My friend was one of those good men who
employ all their time in visiting the abodes of poverty
and misery, in providing for the wants, and in alleviating the miseries of the suffering and ill-fated victims
of our imperfect civilization.
I cannot now recount the acts of his daily life; they
are all unseen save by the recipients of his bounty, and
9





98


THE OFFERING.


by the blessed angels who ever hover over the abodes
of the children of want.
It was a fine morning in the early part of May, when
I set out with my friend to visit one whom he said was
a poor blind invalid. As we passed through the principal streets of the city, we met with those who were
going in all directions, some to business, some to recreation, and each one seemingly occupied with his own
peculiar wants, unmindful of those around him.
There is a sad and terrible necessity manifested, all
unconsciously, by the multitude that throng the streets
of a large city; but there is a deep significance even in
their intense selfishness; yet it is melancholy to contemplate it, and so we passed on. We reached, after a
short walk, one of those dark, narrow streets, which
always indicate the abode of the poor.  On turning
into an obscure court, 1 Here we are," said my friend;
and conducting me through a narrow entry, up two
flights of stairs, he tapped gently upon the door, and we
were admitted to the chamber of the blind invalid, who
at once recognized the bland tones of my friend's voice,
and in tremulous accents thanked him for this visit.
He, in return, made many kind inquiries that manifested how deep an interest he felt in the suffering being
before us.
As soon as I was introduced, we sat down, and, at
the request of my friend, the poor blind invalid related
the incidents of her melancholy story.
" My name," she said, "is Mary Lee; I am about
eighteen years old. My father and my mother were
both blind; they resided some time after their marriage
in the town of B., in the state of Maine. My father contrived to obtain a livelihood by sawing boards; we
were always, however, very poor,





THE BLIND INVALID.


99


" My father died when I was only eight years old;
my mother and myself were then supported by the
town. My aunt, who was a milliner in this city,
visited us soon after father's death.  She persuaded
mother to let her take me home with her. Soon after I
came to this city, I heard of my mother's death. My
aunt was very kind, and said I should never want for
a home.
" From  my earliest infancy I have scarcely ever
known a well day. My whole physical constitution
seemed to be completely prostrated, and the doctors all
say that they can do nothing for me. The slightest
exposure always subjects me to the most intense pain
for days and even for weeks. My aunt always tenderly nursed me, and provided for all my wants. I was
in hopes I should recover my health, that I might enjoy
the advantages of the Institution for the Blind; but my
health did not improve as I grew older. My cousin
Sarah, who was about my own age, used to read to me
every day; she even obtained a book with raised characters, printed for the blind, and taught me to read with
my fingers. This is a very great blessing; for now
that Sarah has to work constantly to maintain us, I am
able to read to her from the Bible, and from other books
which Dr. Howe was so kind as to send me; and when
I cannot sleep, I take the book on the bed, and read
with my fingers how Jesus opened the eyes of the blind;
and I know that though I can never behold the beautiful earth, he will one day restore me to sight, and I
shall be permitted to see the glories of heaven."
"Is your aunt still living 3." I inquired. "Oh, no!
she has been dead these two years!"  Here the poor
girl manifested great emotion. At length, however, she





100


THE OFFERING.


overcame her feelings, and inquired if Sarah was in the
room; and on being told she was not, she proceeded:
" One night the bonnet-store of my aunt took fire, and
in the endeavor to remove some valuable articles, she
perished in the flames. Oh! it was a dreadful night!
Poor Sarah! I thought her heart would break!
"A short time after, the creditors came and took all
excepting the few things with which this room is furnished. We were unable to pay the rent where my
aunt formerly resided, and so we moved here, where
we have been ever since. Sarah with her needle is
able to pay the reit, and kind friends supply all our
other wants. But it will be easier for Sarah by-andby, for Dr. L. says I shall not live long, and then she
will not have to work so hard." At this time the door
opened, and Sarah entered. Going up to the bedside,
she kissed the invalid and said, " Mary, I have got
something for you. That good old woman, who everybody says is crazy, and whom they call a fanatic, has
been here again, and brought this package. She said
she could not come up now, but would come in and see
you to-morrow."
The package was opened, and found to contain articles of clothing for the invalid, and a silver dollar.
My friend now said that we must leave, having
several other engagements. He inquired if their wood
was nearly gone, -and on being told it was, he promised to send them some in the course of the day.
"Well," said my friend, when we were once more min
the street, "what do you think now? Are you as
much disposed as ever to complain of your lot? Besides being blind, poor Mary Lee endures every day
sufferings that would make you and me think that life
would be scarcely worth possession; yet she is resigned,





THE BLIND INVALID.


101


nay, is comparatively happy! I was there the other
day, when she had fallen into one of those terrible paroxysms that must very soon terminate her existence.
She not only inherited blindness from her parents, but
consumption, which brings in its train a complication
of other diseases. They ought never to have been
married; and the man who would sanction such a connection, will one day have a terrible account to render
to God, unless, indeed, as is frequently the case, he can
plead ignorance as an excuse."7
I have visited Mary Lee several times since, and
have had occasion to admire the meekness and serenity
which she ever manifests, though compelled frequently
to endure the most excruciating pain; and I am not
ashamed to acknowledge that as I have listened to her
simple and unaffected expressions of confidence in God,
I have learned many salutary lessons, which I trust
will not soon be forgotten.
9*





102


AN   IMPROMPTU.
THE following lines were written in reply to a question addressed to us by a lady, whom we had the pleasure to meet while travelling on the Western Railroad.
We give the question, as nearly as we can, verbatim:" If you, sir, were permitted to see, for this day only,
which, of the many beautiful objects by which you are
surrounded, do you think would engage your undivided
attention "
I dictated to my friend the following, which I presented to the lady:Oft I have wished in vain to view
The earth, the sea, and sky,
The pretty flowers, the lovely stars,
That gladden every eye.
But oftener far I 've yearned to see
That home of love and grace,
Where beauty ever sits enshrined, -
A pretty, maiden's face.
And oh! if I could see to-day,
Fair one, I tell thee true!
I 'd turn from all the world away,
And gaze alone on you!





103


CHEERFULNESS OF THE BLIND.
I HAVE often heard it remarked that the habituaL
heerfulness of most blind persons seems truly astonishing; but if we bear in mind that human happiness depends much more upon the condition of the head and
heart than upon the external world, and that those
who are in a measure cut off from the enjoyments derived from the contemplation of the physical world,
have a keener appreciation of the pleasure arising from
moral and intellectual pursuits, we shall have, I think,
no difficulty in understanding how it happens that the
blind are generally so happy.
We would by no means countenance that common
mistake, that those who are deprived of sight are not
conscious of the magnitude of their misfortune, and that
their happiness is but the result of their ignorance. So
far from this, we believe that if most blind persons could
be suddenly restored to sight, their first exclamation
would be that of disappointment. We think, as a general rule, the advantages of sight are too much exaggerated. We know that many persons, on reading the
description of some foreign country, highly colored by
some enthusiastic traveller, are very apt to be disappointed when an opportunity is afforded them of contrasting with his description their own observations.
Indeed, the actual seldom comes up to the picturing
of our imaginations. The blind man, in his darkness,
figures to himself a beautiful world; but if he were permitted to see it, how often would its beauty be marred
with darkness more terrible than that in which he is
shrouded! Besides, it must be remembered, that, with





104


THE OFFERING.


the aid of his other senses, he is enabled to obtain, notwithstanding his deprivation, a much more extensive
knowledge of the material universe than one would
upon first thought be apt to suppose.
He has a correct idea of space, of form, and of beauty; and, by the means of association, even of color.A
The great disadvantages to which the blind man is subjected, are, after all, not that he cannot behold objects
around him,--not that he cannot look upon the earth,
the sea, and the sky,-but that all the wants of society
are so arranged as to require sight to supply them;--so
that he finds it very difficult, and not unfrequently impossible, to obtain for himself an honorable independence, and to render himself useful to others.
When he can succeed in accomplishing this great
object, there is no reason in the world why he may not
be as happy and as joyous as the rest of mankind.
The smile that wreathes the lip with gladness comes
not from the sunshine without, but from within.
The physical world is not beautiful until the soul has
breathed upon it. The highest happiness of which we
are capable can proceed only from the heart that has
been sanctified by sorrow.
There is, then, after all, not so great a mystery in the
cheerfulness of the blind man. The happiness it imparts is sometimes the only return he can make for the
favors he receives from  those around him. He has
often a motive for being cheerful when in society. It is
that he may avoid the attention which his misfortune
would otherwise attract, by manifesting how little apparent effect it has on his own feelings and disposition.
* It can, we think, be demonstrated, that there is something analogous between color and sound. Blue, for instance, corresponds with
the tones of the flute, violet with the violin, &c.





CHEERFULNESS OF THE BLIND.


105


Besides, it is the dictate of courtesy to suppress, in the
company of others, all private feelings. The sedentary
life to which he is not unfrequently subjected, and the
great difficulty he sometimes finds in walking alone,
often prevent him from taking that amount of physical
exercise which health seems to require. Hence, in most
blind persons, the natflral tone of the nervous system is
destroyed often before they arrive at manhood; and if
we take into consideration the fact that blindness is
generally but one of the effects of a cause which deranges, to a greater or less extent, all the physical functions, we can readily see why it is that the blind die at
an earlier age than perhaps any other class of mankind.
It would not, therefore, be strange, if they were sometimes found peevish and fretful, since, in most other
persons, these are usually the effects of the causes just
referred to; but in the blind they are modified, if not
always entirely counteracted, by that habitual cheerfulness of which we have spoken, and which undoubtedly
arises from their ardent temperament and strong social
affections.
It will not, I suppose, be denied but that the blind
are more spiritual, -that their conceptions and ideas
are less liable to be corrupted, and that the general flow
of their thoughts is more uniform, than if they were permitted constantly to look upon the material world.
They often manifest through life that buoyancy and
joyousness of disposition which, in most persons, is
confined to youth.
The foregoing remarks will apply only to those who
were either born blind, or were deprived of sight in
early infancy, for it is only in such cases that blindness
can exercise any considerable influence in forming the
character.





THE OFFERING.


We can never be too grateful to God for so arranging
the allotments of his providence that there is always
something in the situation of every one which exerts an
alleviating influence. We have seen that in the case
of the blind man, it is cheerfulness. But this is not all;
we may instance his love of music, which is of itself a
source of boundless enjoyment. If we add the innumerable pleasures derived, from a good education, which
nearly every blind man at the present day may obtain,
there would certainly seem to be no earthly reason why
he should not enjoy a good share of the happiness of
life. There is, indeed, one form of blindness that knows
no mitigation. It is the blindness of those, " who, having eyes, see not,"-who, though they can behold the
beautiful earth and the serene sky, have never yet seen
the Divine Being that created them,-who, though
they can see the light of the natural sun, have never
beheld the light that comes from the Sun of Righteousness. If there be a misfortune that calls for the heart's
deepest pity, it is this.





107


THE GOOD AND THE BAD, OR A TRAGICAL STORY.
I STOOD, the other day, by the death-bed of a young
and beautiful girl. We had been friends for many
years, and the attachment which existed between us
was that of brother and sister.  Possessing a truly
exalted mind, she called forth in me a feeling of admiration akin to that which the poets tell us the sons of God
once felt for all her sex. I stood there almost the only
mourner. She had lived in this darkened world but
eighteen years; and though she possessed many rare
attractions, and though the sweetness of her disposition
was perhaps never surpassed save by Him whom we
reverence as the perfect pattern of humanity, yet her
acquaintance with the children of this world was limited. Her nature was too pure-too ethereal, to impress
common minds.     There were, however, those who
admired her, and who reverenced in her what, perhaps,
they could not themselves equal. These assembled
around her death-bed, to cheer her last hours with that
consolation which Christianity alone can impart. It
would be difficult for me to convey, through the imperfect medium of language, the impression made upon my
mind by the events of that day, when she whom I had
ever considered the perfect paragon of excellence closed
her earthly pilgrimage, that her pure spirit might dwell
with its God. But she is gone,- and the only satisfaction we can now enjoy, is in dwelling upon her virtues,
and recording, for the benefit of others, some of the incidents of her eventful life.
Mary Landon, for such was the name of our friend,





108


THE OFFERING.


was early doomed to feel the power which suffering
alone can exert upon the youthful heart. She had seen
but seven summers when she was called to shed tears
of regret, and to strew flowers of affection, upon the
grave of her sainted mother.  She was hardly old
enough, it is true, to appreciate the loss she had sustained, yet a void had been made in her young and
susceptible heart, and she found some consolation in
this appropriate manifestation of her grief.
The father of Mary was a noble and kind-hearted
man. For his daughter, he felt an affection which
none but a parent can ever know. Possessing an ample
fortune, he devoted his whole time to the education
of his only child, and most amply were his efforts
rewarded by the rapid attainments she made in her
- studies. Such was her advancement, that, at the age of
ten years, her father found it necessary to place her
under the direction of a teacher more competent than
himself to finish her education. We need only remark
that he selected for this purpose a lady every way
qualified to discharge this high responsibility. Under
the direction of her fair instructress, our young heroine
made rapid progress in the sciences, and in those graceful accomplishments which are considered in our day
the indispensable prerequisites of a female education.
At the age of fourteen, Mary was deprived by death
of her only remaining parent, and consigned to the
guardianship of her uncle. We will not pause here to
tell how bitterly she wept when she found herself alone
in the world, nor dwell upon the regrets she experienced
on leaving the place which had so long been her home.
To Mary the transition was great. Her own home was
on the banks of the Merrimack,--that of her uncle on
the banks of the Hudson. In order that the reader may





THE GOOD AND THE BAD.


109


understand the incidents we are about to detail in relation to our heroine, it is necessary we should describe
the individual who was now her only protector. Mr.
Landon, the uncle of Mary, was, at the time she entered
his family, just passed the meridian of life. He was
engaged in successful mercantile speculations, and was
regarded by all who knew him as one of the richest
men in his neighborhood. He seemed to have been
formed by nature for the business in which he had
spent most of his life. He was a cold and calculating
man, and judged of everything by dollars and cents.
At the time of his brother's death, he formed a plan to
get possession of his property, and to accomplish this he
was anxious that our heroine should become the wife
of his only son. Accordingly, she had not been a
member of his family many months, before he ventured
to broach the subject, and with all the arguments which
his knowledge of human nature enabled him to use,
endeavored to persuade the young and artless girl to
become the wife of one who could have no sympathy
with her high endowments. Mary had not been long
enough acquainted with the individual for whom her
hand was solicited to judge of his character; and,
besides, she thought she was too young to take upon
herself the responsibilities of married life. Subsequent
acquaintance with her cousin assured her that he was
not the man calculated to make any woman happy,
and she therefore declined the proposals made to her,
with all the delicacy, and at the same time with all the
firmness, which the occasion required. Charles Landon
was a young man who had just passed his minority.
As his father was wealthy, he did not judge it necessary
to learn a profession. He had indeed entered college,
but was expelled the second year, in consequence of his
10





110


THE OFFERING.


immoral deportment. After this, his time was usually
spent in that London, or perhaps it should be more
appropriately styled, that Babylon of the western world
-New York city. Here he associated with those who,
like himself, lived upon their fathers' wealth, frequenting those haunts of vice with which that den of iniquity
abounds. At the time his father wished him to become
the husband of his fair cousin, he was a confirmed sensualist. He looked upon a wife as a useless appendage, and was desirous of being married only that he
might obtain the means more fully to gratify his vitiated
taste and depraved desires. Though very young, Mary
Landon, with a penetration far beyond her years, discovered the motives which actuated her avaricious
guardian, and saw plainly that it was her money, and
not her heart, that he would secure for his dissolute son.
But, to do him justice, we would say he was not without his hopes that, could his niece be induced to comply
with his proposals, she would exercise a powerful influence in reclaiming his son. After many ineffectual
attempts, however, to accomplish his object, he determined to do by force what he could not do by persuasion. In the mean time, however, we will introduce to
the reader another personage connected with the fate of
our friend. Henry Morndale was a young man, about
the age of Charles Landon, but his opposite in character. His father had bestowed upon him a liberal
education, and at the time we speak, he bid fair to
become a distinguished member of the New York bar.
Though not an associate of Charles, he was a constant
visitor at his father's house. He of course became
acquainted with our young heroine, and was delighted
with the rare talents manifested in one so young. As
his acquaintance with her increased, he learned to





THE GOOD AND THE BAD.


ll


esteem in her what is far more estimable in a lady than
mere intellectual powers-that sweet and amiable disposition for which she was always distinguished. 'T is
not, therefore, strange that Mr. Morndale should feel an
attachment for one in whom he beheld all the attractions calculated to render a truly noble man happy.
He was, therefore, assiduous in bestowing upon Miss
Landon all those polite attentions which a young lady
has a right to expect, and which a true gentleman is
always proud to bestow. It would be needless for me
to add, that they were much in each other's society.
They walked together and rode together, and there was,
besides, great similarity of tastes between these two
gifted beings. They admired the same poets, and sung
the same songs. In short, the attachment of which we
have spoken soon ripened into high regard, and high
regard soon deepened into devoted love. Yes, dear
reader, they loved with all the enthusiasm of which
their young natures were susceptible. In a shady
grove, on the banks of the beautiful Hudson, they
plighted their vows. Alas! how bitterly to be disappointed;- but we will not anticipate.
Mr. Landon perceived, with fiendish satisfaction, the
intimacy which existed between his fair ward and the
son of his old friend, and he rightly judged that he now
had an opportunity to take his revenge for the scornful
manner, as he called it, in which Miss Landon had
rejected all proposals of marriage with his unprincipled
son. Accordingly, one morning, calling her into his
room, he briefly informed her that she had been laboring under a great mistake in supposing that the property
of her father had become hers as his only heir. "Private considerations," continued he, "induced your
father to bequeath his property to me, knowing, of





112


THE OFFERING.


course, what my generosity would dictate when you
should become a wife; nay, more," he said, perceiving
the effect he had already produced upon the innocent
being before him, "it was your father's desire, or at
least his expectation, that you would become the wife
of my son, and he made this arrangement with a view
of overcoming your frivolous scruples. I was in hopes
that you would have accepted my son, and then the
property would have reverted to you, and you would
have been spared"-affecting a sympathy he never felt
-" this painful intelligence."
What were the feelings this speech awakened in the
bosom of Miss Landon, it would be difficult to tell. It
is certain she did not shed a tear, nor manifest, by any
outward sign, that she at all regretted the arrangement
of her father. She simply remarked to her uncle that
she hoped he would show himself worthy the confidence her father had reposed in him. " I shall deem it
my duty," said her uncle, " to inform Mr. Morndale of
the circumstances of the case; for, from appearances, I
have no doubt that he is laboring under a mistaken
idea that with your hand he can obtain the property of
your father."  To this remark his niece made no reply,
but bade him " good morning," and left the room.
Mr. Landon was completely disappointed; his villany did not have the effect he expected. Sending for
his son, he informed him that every effort to induce
Miss Landon to consent to unite her destinies with his
had been ineffectual. "Perhaps," said he, "you can
do more for yourself than I can do for you. Perhaps
you can induce her to commit herself. Can you not
manage her as you do some of your city girls? Do
you understand me, sir "  " I think I do, father," was
the reply. "Still, there are many difficulties. There





THE GOOD AND THE BAD.


113


is something in the glance of her eye that makes me
stand abashed before her. However, I will see what I
can do. Something must be done, or that young gentleman of the bar will get her hand as he has her heart,
in spite of me."  The father and son then separated;
the former admonished the latter to be cautious.
Miss Landon embraced the first opportunity to communicate an account of her interview with her uncle to
her lover, and ask his advice as to the course which
she should pursue. "1I think," said Morndale, with
that candor which always characterizes a truly noble
mind, " that your uncle-pardon me for the expression
-is a consummate scoundrel. He could not help perceiving the regard I felt for you, and he supposed me a
mean-souled wretch like himself, incapable of loving
aught but your fortune in prospective. But if," said
he, gazing upon her with a tenderness which told how
deeply she was beloved, " it shall be my good fortune
to have you for my wife, I ask nothing more. I trust,"
said he, "I shall ever be able, by my humble abilities,
and with what wealth I possess, to administer to your
every want. So you need give yourself no uneasiness
in reference to your uncle's designs. They will not
affect me. Let us wait a few days, and we may be
able to understand more fully the plans which your
uncle intends to pursue."
One day, sometime after the interview we have just
described, Miss Landon was sitting in the parlor of her
uncle, attentively perusing an article in a periodical,
from the pen of young Morndale, when her attention
was attracted by the entrance of her cousin, who
advanced towards her with a beautiful bouquet, of which
he begged her acceptance. As this act manifested more
courtesy and politeness than she had ever witnessed in
10o





114


THE OFFERING.


him before, she at once accepted it. Taking a seat on
the sofa beside her, he began his conversation by some
inquiries relative to the periodical which lay upon her
lap. After his inquiries upon this subject were satisfied, he said, " I am glad, my dear cousin, to find you
alone. I have long been seeking an opportunity to
declare to you, more fully than I have ever yet done, the
deep and devoted love which your beauty and accomplishments have inspired in my breast. Why is it "attempting to take her hand in his-" that you will
continue to reject the honorable solicitations I have so
frequently made for your hand? Is it because you are
incapable of feeling the heaven-born passion with which
I am inspired? No!" said he, "I will not, I cannot
believe it. Surely, one so lovely cannot long remain
insensible to devotion enkindled by her own transcendent beauty."  With the impudence of a libertine,
he now attempted to pass his arm around her waist.
At this instant, however, she arose and stood before
him in all the majesty of conscious virtue. " Charles,"
she said, with a countenance speaking more plainly
than words could express, the indignation she felt,
" you have forfeited all claims to my respect. I know
you better than you think I do; and I wish you now
distinctly to understand that the man whom I shall
consider worthy of my love must pursue a course altogether different from that which has marked your life
since I became an inmate of your father's house. But
in order that I may no more be troubled with your
importunities, I tell you, sir, that the pretended attachment you feel for me can never be reciprocated."  He
attempted to reply, but she immediately left the room.
The effect of her words was only to increase the passion of the libertine, and he determined to make another,





THE GOOD AND THE BAD.


115i


and, as he trusted, more successful attempt upon her
virtue.
Nearly three years had now elapsed since Miss Landon became a member of her uncle's family. She had
employed most of that time in the cultivation of those
kindly feelings which bring with them  their own
reward. She was daily accustomed to visit the abodes
of poverty and wretchedness, and manifest, by her
munificence and sympathy, that she who suffered could
feel for the sufferings of others. She was regarded by
the simple-hearted villagers as the guardian angel of
their village. She was, as it may well be supposed, a
frequent visitor at the house of Henry's father, and in
the society of Mrs. Morndale and her young and amiable daughter, she found that happiness which she could
not enjoy in her uncle's family.
It must not be expected that we can give a minute
detail of all that our young friend suffered during the
few years she remained under the roof of her unnatural
guardian; nor does it comport with our plan to dwell
upon the various stratagems by which he hoped to
compel his niece to submit to his unreasonable requirements. We will therefore proceed to relate the circumstances which conspired to induce Miss Landon to leave
forever the place which had been to her anything but
a happy home, and to place herself under the protection
of those who could feel for her sufferings, and guard
her from further insults.
Not far from the home of Mr. Landon, and upon the
margin of the beautiful river to which we have more
than once referred, was the favorite retreat of our two
young lovers.  Here, accompanied by Henry, Miss
Landon was accustomed to resort, that she might enjoy
those beautiful scenes which can be appreciated only





THE OFFERING.


by those who have stood upon the banks of the Hudson
at the hour of sunset. One day, as she sat intently
gazing upon the beautiful prospect before her, and
anxiously waiting for him who had now become the
centre of all her affections, her attention was suddenly
attracted by the rustling of the leaves, and on turning
round she discovered her cousin, who, without saying a
word, approached, and throwing his arms around her
beautiful neck, and endeavoring to stifle her cries for
assistance, attempted to consummate his wicked and
malicious designs upon her person. The poor girl gave
one shriek, and in an instant the spoiler was lying
senseless at her feet. Now it happened, at the time
Charles Landon left his father's home with the foul
purpose of insulting his cousin, he was perceived by
Henry Morndale, who carefully watched all his movements.  When he beheld him    enter thle grove, he
rightly divined his purpose. As soon, therefore, as he
heard the shriek of the young lady, he rushed to the
spot, and with one stroke of his cane brought the villain
to the ground. The next moment the lovers were
clasped in each other's embrace.
This disgraceful affair was immediately communicated to Mr. Landon by the father of Henry Morndale,
and that gentleman further informed him that the
young lady had fled to his home for protection, and that
there she should remain, where she would ever find
friends to protect her,- " And where, I suppose you
mean," interrupted Mr. Landon, "she will soon find a
husband."  " In six months more," replied Mr. Morndale, " your guardianship over the young lady will
close by limitation, and then I presume she can marry
if she chooses." "1I would suggest," said Landon,
with a significant look, " if she is to marry your son,





THE GOOD AND THE BAD.


117


she had better be married before."  "Y our caution,
sir," retorted Morndale, with a look implying that he
understood the base insinuation, "' had better be exerted
for your own son, - mine, sir, is fully capable of vindicating his high character as a gentleman and a man of
honor."  As he said this, he left Mr. Landon to his own
reflections, and these, forsooth, were not of the most
pleasant nature. All his infamous plans with regard to
his niece had failed, and his son, in the eyes of all honorable men had become unworthy of respect and esteem.
What else he might have been tempted to do, to retain
the property which of right belonged to his niece, it is
difficult to say, had not the losses which he sustained
in his business drawn his attention in another direction.
In the mean time Miss Landon remained at the house
of her protector, enjoying that quiet happiness to which
she had been a stranger since the death of her venerated
father. Every day she spent hours with her lover, and
enjoyed those sweet interchanges of thought and of feeling, which can be appreciated only by hearts sympathetically tuned in unison with each other. The day
was fixed on which their nuptials were to be celebrated,
and they both looked forward to it with that joyous
anticipation which can be felt only by young and innocent hearts. It would be well, perhaps, for the happiness of many, if marriage was not always considered
the highest attainment of earthly felicity, since, as it too
often happens, it is but the beginning of the misery of
life. But we must go on with our story.
The enjoyment of Miss Landon was now marred
only by the fear that her cousin, defeated in his attempts
upon her virtue, would seek revenge upon her deliverer.
Indeed, Henry Morndale had received several chal




118


THE OFFERING.


lenges from him, couched in insulting language, which
he treated with the contempt they deserved. Though
three months were yet to elapse before the happiness of
the affianced couple was to be consummated, yet the notes
of preparation for their wedding day had already been
sounded in the happy home of Mr. Morndale. One day,
while looking for some ornaments worn by her sainted
mother, and which were handed to her by her father at
his death, with the injunction that they should not be
examined until she should need them to adorn her person when led to the hymeneal altar, she discovered that
the paper in which they were carefully enclosed was
no other than a copy of her father's last will and testament, by which his property, amounting to seventy
thousand dollars, invested principally in real estate, was
bequeathed, without reservation or condition, to his only
child. She then understood the extent of her uncle's
wickedness, and felt how deeply he had wronged her.
But she thought no more of the suffering he had caused,
nor dwelt upon the scenes of the past. For her, there
was a bright future, or, at least, so it then seemed, and
she lived only in the joyousness of anticipation. But
one image was enshrined in her heart, - but one bright
thought filled her imagination. Her happiness, her
existence, her all, was centred in one, and that one
was Henry Morndale. Her affection, deep and intense
as it was, was fully reciprocated by him upon whom it
was bestowed. But the love they felt for each other
was too bright, too pure for earth. It was such as may
be enjoyed only by those ethereal beings who never felt
the touch of sorrow, or shed the bitter tear of regret.
Reader, hast thou ever looked upon a delicate flower,
which blooms, and fades, and dies, in the brief space of





THE GOOD AND THE BAD.


119


a day?-if thou hast, in it thou hast beheld a beautiful
emblem of human felicity.
" In six weeks more, Mary," said Henry Morndale,
as one day she sat by his side, " six weeks more, and
you are mine."  A beautiful smile, more eloquent than
words, told how ardently she, too, longed for that hour;
and the glance of her deep blue eye spoke the intensity
of thoughts and feelings that language can never but
imperfectly express.
O how sad is the life of him who has never beheld
the glance of affection! who may never see the face of
a friend!*
" 'Tis strange, 'tis very strange!" said Mr. Morndale one day, dropping the newspaper which he had
been intently reading; " What can that mean?" said
he to his son, who had taken up the paper and commenced reading the paragraph which had occasioned
the expressions of surprise. "Why, it means, father,"
replied his son, with, it must be confessed, a smile of
satisfaction, " why it means that-but I will read the
paragraph for the benefit of the company, and all, I
dare say, can understand it."
" MELANCHOLY  SUICIDE. -We regret to learn that
Charles Landon, Esq., who has of late been extensively engaged in mercantile speculations, and who was
extensively concerned in several houses in this city,
committed suicide last evening, by hanging himself in
the attic of his counting-house. His body was discovered at a late hour by one of the clerks in the establishment. An inquest was holden upon the body this
morning. Verdict of the jury-' Death by suicide,
while laboring under mental depression, caused by
* The writer of this, it will be recollected, has been totally blind from
infancy.





120


THE OFFERING.


extensive losses.' We learn, in addition to the above
that the deceased has suffered much from  domestic
difficulties, which probably contributed to hasten this
melancholy termination of his life."
The reading of this paragraph was scarcely finished,
when the company was thrown into the deepest consternation by the bursting in of one of the doors of the
apartment, through which rushed Charles Landon, and
deliberately aiming a loaded pistol at the head of Henry
Morndale; before he could be prevented, the contents
were lodged in the young man's head. The unfortunate victim reeled back and fell upon the floor a lifeless
corpse, while the daring assassin fled from the house,
exclaiming in fiendish triumph, " I have got my revenge!
I have got my revenge!" It would be difficult to
depict the heart-rending scene which ensued.  Mary
Landon-poor girl, what language can describe the
misery she endured in that dreadful hour! Her cup of
bitterness was full. She threw herself in frantic despair
upon the body of her lover, exclaiming, " They have
killed you, my Henry! they have killed you!"
Attracted by the noise, the neighbors soon filled the
house; but it was in vain they attempted to console the
afflicted family. The grief, the agony manifested in
every countenance, the tears of the mother and sister,
the frantic cries of the delirious Mary, together with the
half suppressed groans of the wretched father, rendered
the scene truly appalling. The surgeon, who had been
sent for by the neighbors, soon arrived; but, alas! his
assistance was not needed. The murderer had been
but too successful.
As soon as the confusion had in some degree subsided, the body of the unfortunate young man was





THE GOOD AND THE BAD.


121


removed to another apartment, and Miss Landon, having in some degree recovered, -was persuaded to leave
him; not, however, until she had enjoyed the melancholy satisfaction of closing with her own fingers those
eyes which had so often reflected back the form of her
whom he had so deeply and so truly loved.
We will, now leave the house of affliction, and follow
to his end the libertine and the murderer. Aware that
he should be pursued, and, if taken, punished for his
crimes, Charles Landon attempted to reach New York
city as soon as he had perpetrated the deed of blood.
In a few hours he succeeded in doing so, but justly concluding that he could not long find a place of concealment here, he succeeded in finding a small vessel bound
to Texas, in which he took passage. Before, however,
she reached her port of destination, he became involved
in a dispute with one of his fellow-passengers, -a
Spaniard, who, like himself, was a desperate man; and
before any person on board could interfere, the bowieknife of the Spaniard had entered his heart. Thus the
murderer met the murderer's fate. Thus crime ever
brings with it its appropriate reward.
Let us return once more to the abode of suffering,
and view the concluding scene of our sad and tragical
story. Gladly, indeed, would I drop the curtain, but
justice to the interest which I am sure the reader must
feel in the fate of our young and beautiful heroine,
demands I should say something of the last hours of her
sad and eventful life.
For nearly a month after the murdered Morndale
had been consigned to the tomb, she moved around
among her friends, but it was apparent to all eyes that
she soon would follow her lover. Day by day she
became more feeble. For hours at a time, she would
11





122


THE OFFERING.


sit gazing vacantly around her, as if in. search of some
lost but cherished object. But soon her fragile form,
worn upon by grief, lost its fair proportions; her step,
once so joyous, its elasticity; and her sparkling eye
became dim, or lit up with an unnatural brightness.
On the morning of the day which was to have witnessed the celebration of her nuptials, impressed with a
conviction it was the last she should spend on earth,
she summoned her few remaining friends to her bedside. With a voice that had in it more of heaven than
of earth, she said, " This day was to have witnessed the
realization of all my fondest anticipations. But Heaven
hath decreed it otherwise. Yet ere the last rays of this
day's sun shall gild with their fading brightness the
verdant hill-top, my spirit will be wedded to Henry in
the paradise of God." It was a sad sight to behold one
so young, so innocent, and so beautiful, thus prematurely dying of a broken heart. Yet all who witnessed
the scene felt that it was well, - that her virtues were
of too exalted a character to bloom in this dark, cold
world. In her thin, delicate hand, she held the blue
violet of May, not an unappropriate emblem of her
fading loveliness.
After directing that she should be buried beside the
grave of her Henry, she took his miniature in her hand,
and gazing upon it with an intensity that can never be
described, and as if she would recall in an instant all
his fond looks of affection, she attempted to give utterance to her emotions; but the exertion was too much.
In feeble accents she exclaimned, - a smile of satisfaction beaming upon her countenance, " I am going."
Then, pressing the miniature to her bosom, she gave one
look of melting tenderness upon her friends, her pure
spirit burst its bands, and soared to dwell forever with
her Henry in the presence of their God!





123


A BLIND MAN'S BEAU IDEAL OF A BEAUTIFUL LADY,
ON thy pale brow the glossy hair,
More dark than raven's wing,
As if it loved to linger there,
Like some enchanted thing.
The home of thought, that lofty brow,
In snowy whiteness gleams;
The throne of intellect,- we bow
To it by day in dreams.
In quiet hours thine eye is bright,
And glows with light serene;
But changing oft, in glances wild,
A brighter ray is seen.
More merry than the dancing wave,
Flashing with star-light gleam;
When sunbeams glide o'er plain and cave,
Or glance along the stream.
Thy cheek all tinted with the hue
That summer roses wear,
When gentle showers their bloom renew,
Or cool, refreshing air.
Thy lips are like the coral red,
With gleaming pearls between,
Where radiant thoughts, within thee bred,
In sunny smiles are seen.
A holy temple is thy mind,
Sacred to purity,
Where every virtue sits enshrined
In maiden modesty.





124                    THE OFFERING.
Its priest is a deep-feeling heart,
That mourns for others' woes,,
Prepared its solace to impart,
Hope's prospects to disclose.
Deep thought, that temple's incense, rise,
Offering of inward worth,
From the heart's altar to the skies,
Too pure to dwell on earth.
Its victims the dread passions are,They immolated lie, -
Whose rage consumes, with mortal care,
Deep founts of human sighs.
Blind to the charm of loveliness,
Proof against sympathy,
Unmoved hy ought of tenderness,
Dead to all purity,Lifeless avid cold his heart must be,
Who never felt he loved;
And never, while he looked on thee,
Affection's power did prove.
For thee no earthly passion humns,
No common love is thine;
For thy adorer proudly turns
From sin's unworthy shrine.
Low thoughts, that fill the earth-horn souls
He must drive far away;
And when pure feeling ceaseless rolls,
He feels he loves for aye.





125


A BEAUTIFUL VILLAGE.
OF all the places I have ever visited, none ever made
so deep an impression, or will be remembered with
more satisfaction, than the beautiful village of Geneva,
New York. It is located on the borders of Seneca Lake,
a beautiful sheet of water, some forty miles in extent.
Nothing can exceed the enchanting view from that
part of the village that overlooks the lake, from the
margin of which the ground gradually rises, until you
reach the centre of the place, or the principal street,
which is adorned on either side with the elegant residences of its opulent citizens, many of whom are retired
merchants, who have spent the most of their lives in the
city of New York, and, having acquired a fortune, have
sought repose for the rest of their days in this retired
spot.
The sloping ground that overlooks the lake is, for the
most part, adorned with flower-gardens, displaying great
taste, and contributing not a little to ornament the village. Here you will find the violet and the rose, the
pink and the dahlia, the honey-suckle and jessamine, and
a thousand more of those beautiful things that adorn the
earth, delight the eye, and gladden the heart.
It is pleasant to wander, as I have done, on a summer's day, along the winding paths of these terrace-gardens, to inhale the perfume of the flowers, and feel upon
your cheek the soft breeze that comes over the cool waters of the lake; and it is delightful for those that can
see, to stand there at evening, if it is only to view the
moonbeams, like elves and fairies, dancing and frolick11A*





126


THE OFFERING.


ing upon the quiet waters, and to reflect that there, long
ago, the Indian youth and the Indian maiden met in the
stillness of night to plight their vows of constancy and
love.
It may in truth be said, that Geneva, in picturesque
beauty, is unsurpassed by any other village of our country. The most of its inhabitants lead a quiet life. It
is, however, a place of some business.
Geneva has a college; both the medical and literary
departments enjoy a high character.
It is the residence of the Bishop of Western New
York, and several other distinguished persons, who give
tone and character to its society, which has always enjoyed reputation for its hospitality and high cultivation.
We once resided there for a short period, and we
cherishin our hearts grateful recollections of the friends
who proved themselves such by many acts of kindness.
It may be our lot to visit many parts of the world,
but we shall always carry with us the pleasant memories and the pleasing associations that cluster around
the name of Geneva.





127


THE AGE.
EVERY period in the history of the world' has something in it peculiar to itself. Every century seems to
have its own definite character. Not that it is disconnected from that which preceded it, nor that its character
is not in a measure formed from all that is gone before;
yet it has a definite character of its own, which marks its
individuality with as much certainty as the contour of
form and the peculiarity of the countenance distinguish
one man from another. We read of the age of iron, the
age of brass, the golden age, &c. Now, these terms
express the character of the different eras to which they
are applied. We also speak of the Christian era; and
when we refer to St. Augustine's day, we say it was
the age of faith. We all know what is meant by the
middle or dark ages. By what term sufficiently comprehensive shall we distinguish the age in which we
live?  We hear it called by some an age of invention;
by others, an age of benevolence. One man says it is
an age of discovery; another affirms it an age of reform. Each one endeavors to express what it appears
to him from his own peculiar point of view. The conservative sadly fears that the age is deteriorating; the
reformer declares it is an age of progress; while the
modest eclectic says it is a transition age.
In politics, philosophy, literature, and religion, the
different phases indicated by these terms are pointed to
with more or less distinctness by those who from their
several stand-points are led to view this or that aspect
within their own circumscribed sphere. In this essay,





128


THE OFFERING.


we shall confine our observations to the two great parties, whose views, upon nearly all the subjects discussed
at the present day, and which, whether settled or not,
give character to our time, are diametrically opposed to
each other:- the conservative and the radical.  We
would premise, in the outset, that our sympathies are
with neither of these parties exclusively. We cheerfully
grant that there are men who range themselves under
the banners of each, actuated by sincere motives, having pure purposes and lofty aims, and who labor assiduously for what they believe will be the most conducive
to the happiness and welfare of their race; still, we are
compelled to differ from them in regard to almost all of
those unsettled questions, upon which, with our limited
advantages, we have been able to form a definite opinion.
We dislike, on the one hand, the prejudices of that man
who can see no good but in the past. We equally dislike, on the other hand, the flippancy of him who rejects
with disdain the wisdom contained in the oracles of
other days. These two men often verify a trite adage,
that "extremes often meet."
It is not uncommon for those who, in the commencement, occupy entirely different ground in the discussion
of any of the great questions of the day, to find themselves, before they get through, in the same identical
position.  Thus the German philosophers, dreading
what they believe to be the inevitable result of Locke's
system, commence by denouncing it in toto; they went,
as a natural consequence, to the opposite extreme, and,
for fear of giving too great a prominence to the objective, confined their speculations almost entirely to the
subjective. During the last half century, the advocates
of both schools have been gradually receding from the
antagonistical positions which they at first occupied,





THE AGE.


129


and approximating slowly but surely toward a medium
position. Who that has read Locke and Kant has not
become convinced that the truth lies somewhere between them? And who can fail to see that the respective theories of both these great men have led to results
which certainly they never contemplated?  The material philosophy on the one hand, and the ultra spiritual
or transcendental on the other, leads precisely to the
same result--sensualism and infidelity. In proof of
this, we need only point to the notorious fact, that there
is but very little if any difference between French atheism and German rationalism. It is certainly something
to be said in favor of the latter, that it does not expose
its native deformity; that it wraps itself in a more
comely garb, and makes use of more consecrated terms;
-but the former is less liable to do injury, by its unblushing avowal of principles at which the clear head
and the sound heart revolts with horror.
If we examine minutely the speculations which have
employed the noblest intellects of the present day, both
in Europe and in this country, we find they are identically the same with those to which the philosophers of
former ages devoted so much time in the investigation,
and with about as much success. The questions which
Plato and Aristotle discussed with so much earnestness,
are many of them still unsettled at the present day.
After reading all the standard works upon intellectual philosophy, how little do we know of the workings of the mysterious and unfathomable mind! How
utterly incapable are we to explain the mental phenomena, and that wonderful process of thought which every
consciousness perceives, but which none are able fully
to analyze and explain! How pitiable seems the affectation of those philosophers, who profess to explain,





130


THE OFFERING.


with so much exactness, the laws of mind, and who
labor to support their own peculiar theory by denouncing all others! *
There is a refined smartness and a lurking egotism
pervading the writings of Cousin, Jouffroy, Carlyle,
Emerson, and others of the same school, quite unlike
the spirit that pervades the works of Stuart, Brown, and
other metaphysicians of the English school. It has become quite fashionable of late to denounce, in no unmeasured terms, the metaphysicians of the old school.
We have heard- a disciple of Gall and Spurzheim
demolish, in one lecture, to his own satisfaction, half
a score of the most eminent philosophers the world has
ever known. The term philosopher once had a significance; it was applied to men whose whole lives were
devoted to the study of nature and her laws; but now,
alas! it is not unfrequently applied to those pigmy
scholars, whose reading has been confined to the few
works in the English language, where German philosophy, reproduced, is put forth as something truly wonderful and original. You will hear them talk of the
subjective and objective, of the absolute and the infinite,
of the Divine impulses,--the spiritual sunshine of the
Great Unknown, &c., &c., as if their capacious minds
had succeeded in grasping all the truth in heaven and
earth, in man and in nature. If you ask them what
they mean by their unintelligible jargon, with a look of
ineffable pity and a sigh for your deplorable ignorance,
they say you are not sufficiently spiritual to comprehend
them;-they speak and write for other times;-the
men are yet to come who will truly interpret them; -
there are enough to attend to the wants of the present
* See Jouffroy's Lectures, translated by William H. Channing.





THE AGE.


131


age; -theirs is the task to enlighten coming generations.
We would by no means speak disparagingly of the
spiritual philosophy; it is unfortunate that its defence
has been intrusted to such as those indicated by the preceding remarks; but he who confounds it with modern
transcendentalism  is sadly mistaken; they are quite
distinct from each other.
There is yet another class of philosophers at the present day, of whom we wish to say something. They
call themselves Reformers, and " their name is Legion."
Some of them advocate the notions of Ann Lee; some
contend for the principles of Robert Owen; while others
defend the speculations of Charles Fourier. They differ from each other as widely as those they profess to
follow differed in intellectual and moral capacity. They
all, however, come under the generic term of Socialists,
and agree in nothing but in denouncing the present state
of society. Their philosophy (if, indeed, they can be
said to have any) seems to be based on utilitarianism
and selfishness. They maintain that the present relations existing between man and man are antagonistical.
They assert, and with great apparent sincerity, that the
present evils of society are not inherent, but grow out
of the unnatural condition in which man is placed.
Poverty they declare to be but one of the defects of a
general evil pervading all our social.institutions. It
can only be removed when there is a thorough radical
change brought about, by a complete abolition of the
present order of things, and this they propose to do in
various ways. We cannot go into detail further than
to remark, that the followers of Ann Lee, or the Shakers, have succeeded in establishing several small communities, in which all property is held in common. It





132


THE OFFERING.


must, however, be apparent to every one, that, if all
their principles should become universal, the race would
soon become extinct, and there would, of course, be no
need of social reform.
Mr. Owen is still living. He has devoted many years
to an ineffectual attempt to give to the world a practical
demonstration of what he believes to be the beneficent
result of his theory.
His philosophy is practical atheism. Man he regards
as a creature of circumstance, - a mere machine, whose
actions can possess no moral quality. It would seem
that a mere statement of these opinions would be sufficient for their complete refutation; yet they have been.
adopted and advocated by men of great intellectual
ability, in France, in England, and in the United
States; but it will be very long, we trust, before the
average of mankind can be brought to believe opinions
so dangerous in their tendency.
Fourierism, as it is called, is, we believe, at present
the most popular form of socialism among the reformers
of our own country. Several efforts have been made in
different parts of the United States to actualize the
dreams of the greatest visionary of modern times, -for
what can the speculations of Charles Fourier be called
but dreams? It is proper here to remark, that those
who claim to be preeminently socialists have publicly
disclaimed the appellation of Fourierites, though believing firmly in his scheme for the regeneration of society.
It would occupy too large a space, were we to attempt
to give anything like an analysis of that complicated
system, which, it is said, if it could be reduced to practical operation, would remove most of those social evils
which now afflict the world.
The great error of the socialists seems to be, that they





THE AGE.


133


regard man too much as a social being, as a mere constituent part of society. They seem to us to overlook
his distinctive individual personality. They say that
with certain artificial arrangements, systematized in
conformity to what they call passional attractions, all
the wants of man as a physical, intellectual, moral, social, and religious being, can be attained. It is in vain
you suggest the idea that society, as we find it, has
grown up in accordance with the wants of man, bearing upon it, of course, the impress of his imperfections;
-they will still maintain that the social evils with
which the world is afflicted are the results of a false
and unnatural organism. Their whole system seems
to be predicated upon the presumption, that happiness is,
or should be, the end and aim of life. We have read
some of their pamphlets, in which they profess to give
an exposition of their views, and we confess we could
not avoid the impression, that we were reading the appeals of an ingenious epicurean. However, we freely
acknowledge, we may have been liable to be influenced
by our preconceived opinions. It cannot, however, we
think, be denied, that most of the arguments employed
by the socialists are addressed almost exclusively to
self-interest and the love of pleasure.
Though we cannot but regard the system we have
now been considering as chimerical and fallacious, as
a whole, yet we would by no means identify ourselves
with those who indiscriminately denounce it; much less
would we impugn the motives of many of its advocates. The evils of which they complain are indeed
gigantic. The amount of suffering to which a large
portion of mankind are subjected is truly appalling, and
he who can contrive any means of diminishing it is
indeed a benefactor of his race.
12





134


THE OFFERING.


Without doubt, Charles Fourier has given to the
world many useful hints upon political economy.
Many suggestions which he has made in regard to the
relations which at present exist between labor and capital, deserve to be seriously considered by the legislator
and the philanthropist; but it is taxing human credulity
too much to ask mankind to accept his system as a
whole.
Thus we have spoken of transcendentalism and of
Fourierism. Our remarks upon both these systems
have been necessarily brief, for it is not our object to go
into a minute exposition of any particular system, but
to barely notice those prevailing ones at the present
day, the discussion of which seems to indicate the great
problem, which it is the mission of our age to solve.
We will now offer a few remarks upon that party
who stand opposed to those we have already mentioned,
but who are nevertheless exerting an important influence in deciding the character of the age; for, like the
centripetal and the centrifugal forces in nature, the
conservative and radical parties balance each other,
promoting harmony and order, where, but for their
combined influence, there would be disorder and. confusion, which is always sure to be the case when either
one of them is in the ascendant.
The stand-still party, as it is called, prides itself on
its opposition to every innovation. It fixes its eyes
upon the majestic past, and regards him as presumptuous and visionary who ventures to pry into the future.
It searches for wisdom only among the records of antiquity,-it can see nothing to admire in the movements
of the present day. It laughs at the idea of progress,
and talks only of the corruption of our times. It trem-.
bles at every new experiment; but defends or apolo




THE AGE.


135


gizes for everything that can boast of antiquity. It
has, however, this advantage over the novement party,
that it oftener affirms than denies.
The conservative of the present day is doing much to
check the excesses of that party whose only hope is in
change and revolution; -who seeks to destroy rather
than to build up; who can see but little good in whatever time has consecrated.
Viewed separately, it would perhaps be difficult to
tell which was doing most good, the conservative or the
radical. As it is, however, the one not unfrequently
counteracts the evil of the other, so that the age is benefited by their united action.
The conservative at the present day, as a philosopher, is a disciple of Locke. He scouts the idea that
any part of our knowledge is obtained by intuition.
He knows nothing but what he perceives by his senses.
He talks of the benefits conferred upon the race by the
investigation of the exact sciences and their application
to the mechanical arts. He points the dreamy transcendentalist to the railroad and the magnetic telegraph, and, with a feeling of pride, asks what German
philosophy has done that will compare with the advantages which they confer. In whatever he does, he
searches for a precedent; he thinks, and acts, and
speaks, as his fathers did before him. As a philanthropist, he sometimes labors, but always in the same manner as those who have preceded him. He is frequently
found to be a shrewd, calculating man, but generally
sincere. When assailed, as he often is unjustly, by the
radical, with the epithets of bigot, pharisee, hypocrite,
&c., he can always return the compliment by hurling
at his opponent the dreaded epithets of Jacobin, atheist,
infidel, and the like. There is usually about as much





136


THE OFFERING.


truth in one case as in the other. As no man can in
justice claim that he has been made the exclusive repository of the truth, neither can any party arrogate to
itself all that is just and right. It would be difficult to
decide which of the contending parties at the present
day is most obnoxious to the charge of dogmatism. It
is far more reasonable to believe that they both have a
mission to perform, and that it is easiest attained, by
each adhering to its own distinctive ideas.
We have thus endeavored to delineate what seem to
us to be the two great elements in the character of our
times. We have spoken of them in a general way; but
they are seen in every department of life,--in church
and state, in philosophy and in literature; there are
few that occupy neutral ground.
The churchman, the statesman, the reviewer, the editor, the pamphleteer,--all range themselves in one oi
the other of the great parties that are contending for
what they believe will best advance the happiness of
man and the glory of the age.
There is no question, at the present day, but what is
freely and openly discussed. Principles which, until
now, were thought to have been forever settled, are
keenly and critically examined, and are condemned or
extolled as they harmonize or conflict with the prevailing opinions of this or that party.
The power of combination was never rendered more
effective than at the present moment. The opinion of
the individual usually expresses the opinion of some
clique.  Independent thinkers are extremely rare.
Hence it is often said that this is not an original age.
All problems are decided by public opinion;--this is,
with us, the ultimate tribunal.
Without yielding implicit faith in all that the radical





THE AGE.                  137
claims for the present age, and equally rejecting the
dark views of the too cautious conservative, we are still
compelled to admit that it has a high and glorious mission; and that the condition of mankind, upon the
whole, is far better than at any previous period; and
that there are now active agencies in operation, that
seem to indicate a bright and an auspicious future.
12*





138


THE BLIND BRIDE.
HUMAN nature is not all depraved. We are sometimes led to contemplate an action that springs from
the pure impulses of an uncorrupted heart. Amidst
the intense selfishness of life, we are sometimes permitted to witness acts of disinterestedness, - of pure
devotion, - which seem to say that there yet burns deep
in the human heart the unquenchable fire of love. We
know that they are exceedingly rare, like angels' visits;
but they speak to us of man as he once was, and of
what he will again become.
The highest and the noblest heroism the earth has
ever known, has not been displayed on the battle-field,
or in any of those extraordinary revolutions brought
about by the terrible instrumentality of the sword.
No! if you would see that which alone is worthy of
the name of heroism, you must look for it among those
whose ambition has never been influenced by the selfish motives which have usually impelled the mass of
mankind to great exertions, - among those who have
strove to be good rather than to be great, -to bless
others rather than to aggrandize themselves. Their
names have found no place in the world's history; the
beauty of their daily life has passed all unseen, save by
the angels; yet it has blessed the world.
We have been led to these reflections, by an incident
which, although it occurred many years ago, is as fresh
to our mind as the transactions of yesterday.
We had been travelling all night, and indeed it was
not until late the next morning that we arrived at the





THE BLIND BRIDE.


139


very pleasant village of N., where we stopped to take
breakfast before proceeding on our journey.  We had
observed that there was an uliusual excitement among
the people of the village. On inquiring of the landlord
the cause, he informed us that Mary Manly, a poor
blind girl, was to be married in yonder church. He
went on, in a very rapid manner, to tell us that she was
a favorite in the village, - that everybody loved her,
-and that now the people had all come out to see her
married, and to rejoice at her good fortune. " Ah! good
fortune," replied one; "that depends very much upon
whom she is to have for a husband."   "As fine a
young fellow," rejoined the landlord, " as you ever need
to see. Harry French, a midshipman in the navy.
Everybody was astonished that, after having been gone
so long, he should return and marry poor blind Mary;
but they were playmates in their early days, and he
never forgot her."
By this time, breakfast was announced. While we
were disposing of the good things placed before us, the
driver came in to inform us that before we could proceed on our journey the stage must be repaired, and
that it would probably detain us about an hour.
We all determined to witness the marriage ceremony.
On entering the church, we found it crowded with persons of both sexes, and all ages, anxiously waiting the
hour when the ceremony should commence. At length,
the bridegroom and the bride, with their friends, entered
the church.
A choir of children, who were stationed on each side
of the main aisle, introduced the services by singing an
ode prepared for the occasion, while they held in their
hands bouquets of fresh and beautiful flowers, with





140


THE OFFERING.


which they were to deck the young bride as she passed
out.
Nothing could exceed the fine effect of their sweet
young voices, blended in the following stanzas, composed by one of their number:
With songs and flowers we welcome thee,
And bless thee on thy bridal day;
And may thy life forever be
Gladdened by love's inspiring ray.
It is a blessed thing to see
The union of two hearts complete,
So joyous, - happy, - and so free,
As those we at this altar greet.
Father in heaven, to thee we pray,
Look down upon this happy pair,
And guide them ever on their way,
Cheer by thy love each earthly care.
As soon as the little voices ceased, the venerable
clergyman fervently supplicated 'the throne of grace to
bless those whom he was about to unite; then addressing the happy pair in a few brief and impressive words,
he admonished them to live henceforth to each other
and to God.   The benediction was then pronounced,
and the congregation dispersed. The timid bride, leaning on the arm of her noble husband, went with him to
her future home.    Her pathway was literally strewed
with flowers, whose fragrance she could enjoy, although
she could not behold their beauty.
I have often wished I could see, but never more
than on that occasion. My fellow-travellers watched
the happy pair, until they could no longer be seen, and
then entering the stage, we resumed our journey.
Nothing was talked of during the day, but the blind





THE BLIND BRIDE.


141


bride. It was amusing to hear them speculate on the
probable motives of her husband in marrying her.
A gentleman who had got into the stage at N., related
the history of the married couple.
" The bride," he said, " was an orphan girl, who lost
her sight when only six years old. As she grew up,
she was beloved by all, for the sweetness of her disposition.
"Her husband was the son of a wealthy country
gentleman; he was about her own age. In early life,
they were playmates. No one ever thought that they
would be man and wife; but after finishing his education, and entering the navy, where he spent two or
three years, he gave up his commission, returned to his
native village, and, very much to the astonishment of
every one, married his early friend."
By this time, the stage had ascended ajhigh hill, and
the gentleman who was relating their history pointed
out their residence to his fellow-passengers.
"It is a beautiful place," said one. "I wish I had
such a home," said another; and all united in wishing
its inmates a long and a happy life.





142


THE BENEVOLENCE OF CHRIST.
A SHORT SERMON.
Who went about doing good. -Acts x. 38.
IT is delightful to contemplate the benevolent institutions of the present day, in which so many wise and
good men are engaged. It is gratifying to witness the
deep interest which is everywhere manifested in the
suffering and afflicted children of earth. It is one of
the most cheering signs of our times, that there is no
class of human beings, no matter how degraded, but
are brought to feel the benign influence of that comprehensive philanthropy which is inspired by the Divine
spirit of our holy religion; for when we trace back the
causes which have set in operation so many benevolent
instrumentalities at the present day, we are carried back
to Bethlehem and Calvary.
In the deep devotion of those true-hearted Christians,
who, forgetting self, sacrifice their lives for the good of
others, "to seek and to save those that were lost," we
behold the brightest manifestations of the love enkindled by the blessed example of Him who came down
from heaven, and "went about doing good."
We propose, in the present discourse, briefly to remark
upon some of those incidents in the life of the Saviour,
which so strikingly exemplify the deep and all-controlling love he felt for suffering, guilty man.
It will be expecting too much to suppose that we can
offer anything new upon a subject which has been so
often descanted upon from the sacred desk. There is,





THE BENEVOLENCE OF CHRIST.


143


however, sometimes an advantage in recurring to old
and familiar thoughts, and in dwelling upon topics
which seem to have become trite.
There is a depth in the philanthropy of Christ, from
which the sincere and earnest soul can always draw
something to sustain and cheer it in its earthly pilgrimage.  We can never reflect too often upon the daily
beauty of his life, who lived, and toiled, and died, that
we might live. We can never strive too long nor too
earnestly to imitate his blessed example, and thus to
conform our lives to his just and holy requirements.
While others seek to display their logical acuteness and
theological subtlety, in disputing about the essence and
personality of the Saviour, let us seek to draw from the
great lessons which he has taught us, our duty to God
and to one another. The predominant element in the
character of Christ,-that which shone forth on all occasions, which lives in all he did, and which was breathed
in all he uttered, -was his deep and compassionate tenderness for suffering and for sorrow.
Cold and adamantine must be that heart who can
behold him pausing at the way-side, at the cry of the
afflicted, to heal their infirmities, and assuage their
grief, without feeling grateful to God, that he has sent
his Son into the world, to bless us with his labors, and to
inspire us with his love.
All the miracles that the Saviour wrought attest how
deeply he felt for the sufferings of man, and it is, without doubt, to the influence which they have exerted on
the hearts of Christians, that so much is now being
done to ameliorate the condition of the unfortunate.
It may, in truth, be said that the philanthropic
element in Christianity is that which distinguishes it
pre6minently from every other religion. Its founder





144


THE OFFERING.


could see in the most degraded child of earth, an heir of
heaven. It was for such that he lived and labored,
that he toiled and died. It was to establish no system,
it was to promulgate no theory, that brought the Son
of God from heaven. It was the spectacle of human
wretchedness and misery, that had for ages darkened
and deformed the. beautiful earth, that cried to heaven,
and moved the compassion of Christ. Is it not lamentable that his mission to earth has been so little understood by his professed followers? How much time and
energy have been expended in the building up of sects,
rather than, legitimately and without ostentation, imitating the example of him "who went about doing
good!" If he were at this moment to appear among us,
what terrible words of condemnation would he utter, as
he witnessed our contentions for this or that theological
speculation! Would he not say to us, as he did to the
Pharisees of old, '"Woe unto you, ye blind guideshypocrites?"  Would it not be as true now as it was
eighteen hundred years ago, " He came to his own,
and they received him not?"  Do you think, if he were
to go among the " publicans and sinners," he would be
permitted to enter our fashionable churches? And if
he were to denounce the evils of the present day, as
boldly and as fearlessly as he did those that existed
when he first appeared upon the earth, would he not be
persecuted, ay, - and put to death even, by those who
profess and call themselves Christian? We have much
of Judaism, but little of the benevolence of Jesus.
There are many who " devour widows' houses," who
" build the tombs of the prophets, and garnish the
sepulchres of the righteous," and then "for a pretence
make long prayers," and cry " Lord, Lord." But few,
very few, like the meek and lowly Jesus, " go about





THE BENEVOLENCE OF CHRIST.


145


doing good," in consoling the afflicted, visiting the
prisoner in his degradation, and everywhere preaching
mercy to the guilty and forsaken. As yet, we have
only the letter, --we need more of the spirit of Christianity. There are enough who are willing to fight, and
die even, for religion. How few there are willing to
live it,-to carry it out in the every day concerns of
life! We have faith and hope, but we need more of
the divine charity of Christ. Our lives should be gospels, "epistles" of truth and goodness.
Let us consider for a moment some of the incidents in
'the life of the Saviour, that manifest his compassionate
tenderness in behalf of our suffering race.  Behold
him as he approaches Jerusalem, that city which had
given birth to so many prophets, and which had so
long shared the peculiar protection of Heaven. As he
looks upon its lofty structures and contemplates its
impending fate, he weeps; and in the deep agony of
his soul he exclaims,   0 Jerusalem, Jerusalem-how
often would I have gathered your children together as
a hen gathereth her brood under her wings; but ye
would not." Again, see him sympathizing with the
sisters Mary and Martha, as they weep for the death of
their brother. What a sublime spectacle does he present at the grave of Lazarus! Raising his meek and
loving eyes to heaven, he expresses, in a few and simple
words, his confidence in God, and then he commands
the dead to come forth. Witness him also as he meets
the funeral procession of the widow's son. How profound is his sorrow for that bereaved mother! Here
he works another miracle, not merely to display his
power, but prompted from. the deep sympathy of his
uncorrupted heart. Its purpose was accomplished when
13





146


THE OFFERING.


the fond mother once more clasped to her bosom her
son, restored to life.
It is worthy of remark, that the Saviour never sought
great occasions. The most wonderful things he ever
did were suggested by the occasion. For example:
as he was one day passing along, followed by the eager
multitude, his attention was attracted by a poor blind
man, who sat by the way-side begging. Touched by
his affliction, he commanded the man to be brought
unto him. The ignorant and cold-hearted Jews remonstrated, but to little purpose; for the comprehensive
soul of Jesus embraced the humblest of earth's children.
He restores him to sight, but charges him to tell no
man. These were incidents of his daily life. They
show us that he took no limited, no one-sided view
of man. While it was his object to purify the heart,
by revealing to man his intimate relation to God, he
never refused to mitigate physical suffering. And with
the injunction to preach the gospel, he has given the
command to feed the hungry and clothe the naked.
There is one more illustration of the Saviour's boundless love, to which we would refer. It is the closing
scene of his short, but eventful life. The cruel persecution which he endured could make no impression
upon his serene and heavenly temper. And when at
last he was condemned to die on the cross, - scoffed at
and spit upon by the deluded multitude whom he had
sought to bless,-- and when, to render his death more
ignominious, he was placed between two criminals, he
breathed that prayer which ought of itself to be enough
to regenerate the world, " Pather, forgive them--
they know not what they do."
He died; and the cross, which till then had been a
sign of reproach, became the glory of the world. It





THE BENEVOLENCE OF CHRIST.        147
has led armies to battle, and symbolized the faith of
the humble. But oh! when shall its deep significance
be written on every human heart; when shall men
everywvhere imbibe the spirit of Christ, and imitate
his blessed example, in "1going about doing good?"!~





148


NICHOLAS SANDERSON.
IT is a very interesting and instructive fact, that,
among those who in every age have been distinguished
for their scientific and literary attainments, appear the
names of men who, during their whole lives, were compelled to contend with obstacles, which, to common
minds, seem utterly impossible to be overcome. But
of all the disadvantages to which a human being can
ever be subjected in the pursuit of knowledge, the privation of one or more of the senses must be admitted as
the most appalling. For the senses are the avenues by
which the mind obtains its knowledge of the material
world; and it would seem that when one of these is
rendered useless, the mind could at most be but imperfectly developed. And yet, if history is to be credited, there have been, in almost every age, blind men,
(we mention blind men, because sight is regarded as the
most important of the senses,) whose misfortune has
only served to stimulate them to greater exertions in the
acquisition of knowledge. All that we really know of
the greatest poet the world has ever produced, is, that
he was a blind man; and the immortal author of the
Paradise Lost was subjected to the same calamity.
We might multiply instances of these, to an extent
which would astonish those who have never given any
attention to the subject.  We could show that, not
orty in poetry, but in almost every other department
of literature, in the sciences, and in the cultivation of
many of the arts, blindness really constitutes no impediment.





NICHOLAS SANDERSON.


149


We propose, however, in this article, to confine our
observations to one who would, probably, have been a
remarkable man under any circumstances; whose wonderful powers no misfortune, however great, could entirely prevent from making an impression, in whatever
avocation he might have been called to exercise them.
No one can read the life of Sanderson without being
more deeply impressed with the power of mind to subject matter to its purposes, and without feeling convinced that there is, in the mighty energies of a welldirected intellect, a force which no mere physical
misfortune can withstand. It is to be deeply regretted,
that a full and adequate biography of Sanderson has
not yet been given to the world. A mere sketch of his
life was published in the appendix to his work on Fluxions; and a short, but very interesting, account of him,
contained in a work published by the Society in England for the Dissemination of Useful Knowledge, is all
we know of one of the greatest men of the last century.
Lord Brougham, in a labored effort, has attempted to
vindicate Voltaire from the obloquy to which his untiring efforts to overthrow Christianity had consigned
him; and Carlyle, with, we think, much more commendable zeal, has endeavored to redeem the name
of Cromwell from the reproaches heaped upon it by a
corrupt aristocracy, and a degraded priesthood. And
may we not hope that some one of the great minds of
our day will yet do justice to the memory and merits
of Sanderson? All that we can do, in this paper, is to
give something like a connected statement of the facts
of his life, collected from the sources mentioned above;
and to make a few observations upon the method by
which he was enabled to substitute other senses for the
one of which he was deprived. We may, in this way,
13P





150


THE OFFERING.


testify, in our humble manner, gratitude for his example, and admiration for his success.
Nicholas Sanderson was born at the village of Thurston, in Yorkshire, England, in 1682.* " He was only
a year old when he was deprived, by small-pox, not
only of sight, but even of his eyes themselves, which
were destroyed by abscess."' It was fortunate for Sanderson that he lost his sight at this early age; since
those persons who become blind in infancy, or who
were born blind, always possess advantages over those
who have had the use of their eyes until they have arrived at maturity. Sanderson, when very young, displayed a fondness for knowledge, which, instead of
being suppressed, as in most blind persons of that day,
was encouraged by his parents, who sent him to a free
school, at Penniston, in. the neighborhood of his native
place. It was probably here, where, for the first time,
he had to contend with those who'possessed the advantages of vision, that the energy and perseverance to
which he owed his success in after life first manifested
themselves. It is not very difficult to conceive of the
method which must have been pursued by his master,
in imparting to the mind of his blind pupil the elements
of knowledge. He must have had the lesson read to
him frequently, until his memory was enabled to retain
it. It is possible that he was assisted in the study of
arithmetic, algebra, geometry, and the higher mathematics, by contrivances similar to those made use of by
Abbe Hauy, and which are now employed in the institutions for the education of the blind, in Europe, and in
* It may be interesting to the reader to know, that in just one hundred years from the birtMi of Sanderson, Abbe Hauy, prompted by
Sanderson's example, made the first efforts in Europe to educate the
blind.





NICHOLAS SANDERSON.


151


this country. For the most part, however, his instruction must have been oral. His knowledge of the languages, in which he attained great proficiency, could
only have been acquired by the assistance of an amanu
ensis. We are informed that, at the age of sixteen,
Sanderson could read, or understand when read to him,
works written in the Greek and Latin languages, with
as much ease as those written in his native tongue.
There are several Latin compositions of great merit,
written by him, still extant. But it was probably in
mathematics that he. most excelled. His successor in
the University of Cambridge asserts that Sanderson
surveyed the whole coast of Scotland. Of course, it is
meant that he performed the mathematical process, employing another person's eyes in making the necessary
observations. The faculties upon which he most depended, in acquiring his education, are those which, in
the minds of most blind persons, predominate - memory, and concentration.  These faculties are by no
means the most important of those with which God has
endowed us; but the process best calculated to develop
them is that which is best suited to invigorate all the
other mental powers. The necessity under which a
blind person labors, in acquiring a knowledge of men
and things, only renders his memory very retentive;
and if he pursues its cultivation through life, it compensates him, in a very great degree, for the want of that
sovereign organ upon which others rely, by which they
are enabled to recur to books, and take cognizance of
facts in the world around them. Abercrombie mentions
a blind man, who could repeat, verbatim, any part of
the Bible to which his attention was directed; and he
also relates many other wonderful facts, showing the
extent and capability of this faculty. If we bear in





THE OFFERING.


mind the fact, that it is by sight alone that we obtain
our knowledge of all those objects by which we are not
immediately surrounded, -that, although the principal
use of the eye is to make us acquainted with colors, yet
we actually make use of it to obtain a knowledge of
motion, form, space, &c., -we shall be able to appreciate more fully the difficulties which must have beset
the path of Sanderson. But, unattracted by surrounding objects, he could the better concentrate his naturally
energetic mind upon whatever subject he desired to investigate; and this, together with his powerful memory,
of which we have already spoken, enabled him not
merely to compete with his schoolmates, but actually to
surpass them. The father of Sanderson held a place in
the excise of his native county; his income was, therefore, not sufficient to enable him to give his son a liberal education, or to provide him with the means of
fully gratifying his love of knowledge. When he had
reached his twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth year, he was
still without a profession. His own wish was to go to
the university; but the limited circumstances of his
father rendered it impossible. It was therefore decided
that he should go to Cambridge, not as a student, but as
a teacher of mathematics and natural philosophy. Accordingly, in the year 1707, under the protection of a
friend, one of the fellows of Christ's College, he commenced his career as a lecturer; which introduced him
to the men of letters and science, among whom we
would mention Sir Isaac Newton, who gave him many
substantial proofs of his friendship. We also have to
record here, to the credit of the eccentric but unfortunate Whiston, who then held the Lucasian professorship
of mathematics in the University, that, on Sanderson
opening classes to teach the same branches of science





NICHOLAS SANDERSON.


153


upon which he had himself been in the daily habit of
reading lectures, he extended to himn every assistance
in his power. Sanderson commenced his prelections
upon Newton's Optics.
"The subject itself which Sanderson thus chose, independently of the manner in which he treated it, was
well calculated to attract notice,-few things seeming, at first sight, more extraordinary than that a man,
who had been blind almost from his birth, should be
able to explain the phenomena, and expound the doctrine, of light."  Mr. Colson, successor of Sanderson, in
his notice of him, describes at great length the method
he pursued in explaining the primary laws of light, and
the phenomena of colors, as well as the system of tangible signs by which he performed his mathematical
calculations.  And the only difference between his
method and that invented by Abbe Hauy is, that it was
much more imperfect. Sanderson's success as a lecturer continued still to increase, so that when Whiston
was expelled from his chair, in 1711, he was appointed,
through the influence of Sir Isaac Newton, to fill the
vacancy. As a necessary preliminary, the degree of
Master of Arts was conferred upon him. Sanderson
gave his whole attention to his classes; and it is to his
constant labors in his profession that we are to attribute
the fact, that, with the exception of his work on Fluxions, and a small work on Algebra, he prepared very
little for the press. In 1728, on the occasion of a visit
of George II., he was created Doctor of Laws; at which
time he pronounced a Latin oration remarkable for its
eloquence. He was married in 1728, and died in 1737,
in the fifty-seventh year of his age.
During his life, Sanderson enjoyed the acquaintance
and friendship of the most distinguished scholars of his





154


THE OFFERING.


day. To their influence, as well as to his uncommon
talents, was he indebted not a little for that proud elevation to which he attained. It is said that, on his going
to Cambridge, favors were proffered him purely on account of his misfortune. These he rejected, exclaiming
that he was a scholar, and should receive no favors
simply because he was a blind man. No man ever
labored with more assiduity than he, nor with more
success, to overcome the effects of a physical calamity.
Indeed, the extent to which he cultivated the senses of
hearing and touch seems almost marvellous.   He could
tell, for instance, on going into his room, by the sound
of his cane upon the floor, if any article of furniture had
been removed. He could distinguish the finest intonations of the human voice, and was able to determine,
with astonishing accuracy, the height and age of a person by the voice alone.*  Of course, we do not intend
to assert that he could tell to an inch the exact height,
nor to a day the exact age, of every one. What we
mean to say of Sanderson is, (what we would say of all
intelligent blind persons,) that he could judge of these
matters by the voice as well as most persons can by the
countenance.
Sanderson was no mean performer on the flute; and
there can be no doubt that, if his mind had not received
a different direction, he might have become a distinguished musician. As to the sense of touch, it may
with truth be said, that it was never so fully developed
* Blindness is often but one of the effects of a cause Which injures
one or more of the other senses. Ophthalmy, a species of inflammation, in many climates, not only produces blindness, but greatly affects
the hearing. And besides, so great a deprivation as the loss of sight
must always exercise an injurious influence, not only upon the other
senses, but upon all the phyi'cal functions





NICHOLAS SANDERSON.


155


in any other person.   He could distinguish inequalities
upon surfaces where it was impossible to discern them
by the eye.    He could detect, in a cabinet of Roman
medals, the counterfeit from the true, though the difference was so slight as to deceive the eye of the most experienced connoisseurs. It was at first thought that he
might even detect colors by the touch. But he found,
after repeated efforts, that it was impossible. I have
often been amused to hear persons, who could not be
brought to believe that a blind man could feed himself
without being helped by another, assert positively, that
there were blind persons of their acquaintance who
could tell the color of any article of their wearing apparel, by feeling it. This is preposterous.A   The slightest reflection, it seems to me, must convince any one of
its utter impossibility. Light is not tangible; of course
a blue ray, or a red ray, is not distinguishable by this
means.
There are several pleasant anecdotes told of Sanderson.  We have room for one or two only, which illustrate his readiness at repartee.  On one occasion, when
lecturing to his class, and while he was attempting a
solution of a very intricate problem, one of the persons
present, filled with admiration at the astonishing math* Dr. Howe, in the report of his journey in Europe, made to the
Trustees of the Perkins' Institution for the Blind, says, while in England, ' I visited a blind girl, who, I was told, could tell colors by the
touch. I found, as I expected, that this was not true. She could,
however, tell the color of different pieces of cloth given her, by first
laying them in the sun till they had acquired the same apparent temperature; then, by raising them to her lips, she was able to perceive
that some of the pieces conducted caloric with a greater degree of
facility than others. In this way she could distinguish the blue from
the red, and the green from the orange." [We quote this from
memory.]





156


THE OFFERING.


ematical acuteness which he displayed, exclaimed,
" Sanderson has but one imperfection; it is in his eyes.'
SAnd yours," replied the professor, "is in your tongue."
On another occasion, Sanderson was invited to spend an
evening at the house of a friend, in company with several distinguished persons of both sexes. Upon one of
the ladies leaving the room, he remarked that her teeth
must be very white. Being asked by some of the company how he knew this, he replied, " I do not think she
is a fool, and she has been laughing a whole hour."
We have already spoken of the astonishing extent to
which Sanderson cultivated his other senses. His cotemporaries mentioned many things respecting him,
which they seem to have regarded as almost miraculous, but which are exhibited by almost every blind
person, and in our day would seem too trite to be
named. For instance, the fact that he could, when in
the open air, ascertain when a cloud passed' over the
disk of the sun, is mentioned as something peculiarly
wonderful; so also is the fact, that he could tell when
he was approaching an object, if the air was particularly
clear, by its pulsations upon his face. This, however,
is nothing but what every blind person is capable of
doing. We have known those who could do more than
this. There are blind persons who, when approaching
an object, can form some idea of its character; can tell,
for instance, whether it is a stone post, a tree, a horse,
or a man; and there are those who even claim that they
can tell, on entering a room, whether there be other
persons in the room, -of course, it is meant without
hearing them speak. The principle upon which they
do this is, that a living body produces a greater impression, as you approach it, than an inert object. This
may, perhaps, cause those to smile who have never





NICHOLAS SANDERSON.


157


given the subject a thought. But as we do not mean
to be considered as asserting that it is a gift peculiar to
the blind, but that it is only in consequence of the superior culture of the sense of touch, which is occasioned by
blindness, we recommend all sceptical persons to try it.
It is a very easy thing; bandage your eyes, then let
some person lead you towards different objects, and you
will find, after repeating the experiment several times,
that each of them produces upon you a different sensation, -faint and almost indistinct at first, but, as you
repeat the experiment,, becoming more and more vivid.
Now, it is these sensations, or rather impressions, which
the blind are accustomed to observe and to turn to some
account; for the principle to which we have referred
enables them, when walking in the streets, (provided
they are walking sufficiently slow,) to ascertain if there
be any obstruction in their path. There are many
other things which would be interesting to the curious,
as illustrating the almost illimitable extent to which the
sense of touch is capable of being carried, but which we
must reserve for another occasion.
Much has been written upon the comparative value
of the different senses. I have often been asked by
those who have never felt the inconvenience caused by
the want of any one of the senses, - which was really
the most unfortunate, the blind, or the deaf and dumb.
Of course a solution of this question can never be obtained. It is a beautiful arrangement of Providence,
and one which we cannot too much admire, that each
of these classes considers its own condition preferable.
We once listened to a dialogue upon this subject; a portion of which we will give, as the best means of illustrating the views of those who are the most competent
judges. The deaf mute communicated to the blind man,
14





158


THE OFFERING.


1y writing what he had to say, upon a slate; which
being read by a third party, the blind replied in the
same manner.
D. "It must be a sad life to you, never to see the
earth, the sea, and the sky."
B. "But I can converse with those around me, and
I am delighted with the voices of those I love."
D. '"I, too, can converse, as I now do with you. I
can see the 'human face divine,' and these beautiful
flowers," -pointing to a vase by his side.
B. (Growing more excited,) "But you cannot study,
to the same extent that I can, the abstract sciences,--
intellectual and moral philosophy; you cannot while
away your hours with music, at the piano-forte."
D. "I can read the book of nature; I can look upon
yon smiling landscape."
B. "I can listen to the voice of the birds, and the
music of flowing waters, and enjoy with deep delight
the perfume of ten thousand flowers."
D. (Smiling,) "I, too, can enjoy their fragrance, and
admire their hue; and yesterday I beheld the masterpiece of Michael Angelo, instinct with life and beauty."
B. " Last night I listened to the music of Beethoven,
and the poetry of Goethe."
D. "I can read poetry in the smiling faces around
me."'
B. "Smiles do not always wreathe the face. You
can see the cheek blanched, the sunken eye, and all the
marks which time and decay make upon the form, to
sadden the heart. I hear only the voices of my friends,
whose music can never die; and, as it has been truly
said,
'I only know that they grow old,
By counting happy years gone by.' "





NICHOLAS SANDERSON.


159


The reader may, perhaps, gather from the foregoing
observations, some opinion as to which of the misfortunes is really the greatest, as well as our own views
upon the subject. But let us return once more to Sanderson. The limits we have prescribed to this article
will only allow us briefly to notice one other fact of this
great man's life, which, but for the false conclusions deduced from it, we should not have mentioned. We
refer to the fact that Sanderson was a sceptic in religion. His infidelity is, without doubt, attributable to
the fact that his whole life was devoted to the study of
the physical sciences, and that he lived in an age when
the philosophy of Locke and Bolingbroke was in the
ascendant. Yet there are those who suppose that the
blind are more liable to infidelity, because that they
cannot appreciate the argument in favor of the Deity,
his attributes, &c., drawn from the material universe.
We have not time to answer this as we ought; we will,
however, observe that there are arguments which demonstrate the existence of God, his moral government,
&c., more fully than that deduced from the material
world, and which the blind can appreciate as well as
other men. Besides, the religious nature is, in most
blind men, developed at a much earlier period than in
seeing persons. It is generally thought that the emblems of death have a tendency to develop our sympathies; that he who beholds the hearse, the pall, the
shroud, feels more keenly than he otherwise would, that
he has lost a friend. Yet how transient, how evanescent, is the impression produced by these emblems!
The sense of loneliness and wretchedness, which the
heart experiences when we are called upon to contemplate the darkest mystery of life, makes a more enduring impression than those external symbols, which are





160


THE OFFERING.


oftener used to gratify an ill-disguised pride. If Sanderson had devoted as much time to the study of Plato
and Seneca as he did to that of Pythagoras and Archimedes; if, in short, he had studied the spiritual instead of the material philosophy, he might have written
a poem instead of his work on Fluxions; and a theological essay might have taken the place of his Latin
Commentary upon Sir Isaac Newton's Principia. But
he flourished at a period when the study of the physical
sciences was thought the highest employment for the
intellect of man.  Believing all knowledge to be the
result of sensation and reflection, he devoted his whole
life to the task of lessening the disparity which existed
between him and his fellows. Nobly did he succeed!
And while we regret that want of faith in the supernatural of which some have complained, we still must
confess that he was true to the ideas of his day, and the
philosophy of the school to which circumstances had
attached him. And if it be true that every age has its
representative men, well did Sanderson represent the
eighteenth century.





161


GLIMPSES AND REMINISCENCES OF LIFE.
IN this grand phantasmagoria wherein destiny has
located us, why and for what, we cannot divine, there
is a perpetual conflict between spirit and matter; th
permanent and the transient, the abstract and the concrete, the ideal and the actual; between the w'orld
within and the world without there seems no affinity.
The facts of intuition seldom harmonize with the observations of the senses. Hence, the incongruities and
inexplicable verities, in the midst of which we wander
whither we know not. To the thoughtful mind, the
first inquiry, the question of all questions, is, What
means it?   This laughing, crying, thinking, acting,
whence is it? and for what'?
To this end do men moralize, poetize, write homilies
and histories, and do all manner of things, that they
may know their being's end and aim, and seemingly all
to no purpose; why is it that the universal solvent, the
true elixir of life, has never yet been discovered?  Why
do men grope about in the dark now, as centuries ago,
searching diligently, but never finding the mighty
secret?
To the eye of a pure spirit upon some far off star,
what a strange spectacle must the denizens of this
mundane sphere present, in their ceaseless struggles for
the hidden and unknown! Yet all worthy the admiration of angels is man, toiling and striving for the light
that shall reveal the purpose of his existence.
To the contemplative mind, there is nothing without
a meaning; no life, however humble, but has its significance.
14*





THE OFFERING.


Oh, thou conceited pedant! boast no more of thy
wisdom and philosophy! But go thou, and reverently
learn of the meanest thing of earth, for may be it shall
teach thee what thou art!
In the midst of a sublime universe, surrounded on all
sides with objects teeming with life, partaking of earth,
yet aspiring to heaven, such is man!
The record of his thoughts, his darings, his aspirations, - what a biography! His deeds are written in
terrible distinctness, as if by fate, throughout the earth.
From zone to zone, from pole to pole, in tears and in
sorrow, he has recorded the experience of the ages.
Everywhere around him    are the monuments of power
and of greatness, which his soul has conceived, and his
hand has formed.
Endowed with freedom, and yet mysteriously controlled by destiny, this strange combination of the
animal and the angel, the human and divine, this monarch of the world, is yet an ENIGMA TO HIMSELF.
We hear much of sciences and philosophies, in these
days, treating of almost every conceivable thing, from
the mechanism of an insect, to the corruscation of the
stars; but the noblest of them all is that which essays
to explain the nature of the philosopher himself. Therefore do we, by the light of our thoughts, commune for
a while with the oracle within, that EVER, in silent
solemnity, writes its deep mysteries on the dial of the
heart.
Now, in pensive strains it waileth,
Now, in radiant smiles it sports,
Now, some noble deed it haileth,
By the earnest heart put forth.
Then, it waketh from long slumbers
Recollections bright and dear,
Then, in low and plaintive numbers,
Stirs the fount of many a tear.





GLIMPSES AND REMINISCENCES OF LIFE.


163


The shrine of the heart, whose light is goodness,
truth and beauty, where we consecrate the bright fancies of our primeval days, that in after years give birth
to heroic resolutions,- THAT SHRINE is the dwellingplace of mighty energies, that may slumber in forgetfulness, or wake in glory. Solemn and momentous are
the lessons imparted through the eloquent voice of the
angel within.  Darkness and woe attend him who
heeds not her monitions; but blessed is he, who understands the interpreter of his bosom.
To each consciousness alone, speaks the divinity of
the soul, bringing us into silent sympathy with the
past immensity, and revealing to our gaze the future
expanse.
Sometimes, though but for a moment, the mystic veil
is raised, and we see, feel and hear the absolute and
the inconceivable, whose all-pervading presence is with
us ever, yet we know it not. There is something
which the inhabitants of our world do need, greater far
than educations, steam-engines, magnetic telegraphs,
and the like. Mighty influences these, no doubt! But
wouldst thou know, my brother, the secret of the
world's Genesis, and the result thereof,-why thou art
here, and for what, - wouldst thou leave thy insanities,
that make thee seem so poor, so beclouded and so dark?
- then must thy soul be baptized in a pure, celestial
faith, and the mouldering fire within be kindled to a
flame. Then only canst thou adore the absolute, the
all-controllable.
The human soul has a mighty destiny, for weal or
woe. Its vast domain is boundless; bright evanescence
of the oversoul! its highest aim to give significance to
all created things, and comprehend itself! Talk not,
oh man! of Alpine or Andes grandeur; no! rather look
within thyself, - for there is all reality.





164


THE OFFERING.


Turn we now to view the image of the soul, reflected
min each action that doth mark our daily life. What
dire confusion, what deep distress, what mournful wailings, come there from the earth because of man! Oh!
who can read, without a tear, a sigh, a groan of agony,
the blood-stained pages of the world's sad history '
Six thousand years have passed away, big with wretchedness and poor renown. An Alexander, Cmsar and
Napoleon, each in their turn, "have played fantastic
tricks before high heaven;" have shared the glory of a
day, and then have died.
Divine and noble men have lived in every age, whose
voices, eloquent and beautiful, can NEVER DIE.  The
glory of Greece has departed, and Rome has fallen, yet
preserved for all time are the classic pages of Plato,
Cicero and Seneca.
There have been those, in every nation, fired with
inspiration deep and pure, who have struggled long and
valiantly to awaken in each soul, with art divine, their
own lofty ideas of truth, goodness and beauty.
A Michael Angelo, a Titian, a Mozart, and a Shakspeare, these are voices whose eloquence sublime, the
world shall ever rank among its choicest blessings; but
worthiest of our admiration is he who, in the midst of
all vicissitudes, can live a pure and blameless life.
There have been many such. These are the world's
true heroes, whose battle-field the thoroughfare of life,
whose trophies the victories gained over selfishness and
sin.
The noblest deeds of men have never been recorded.
History is full of their vices and their crimes, but the
acts that angels love to view never meet the general
eye.
Here and there upon the earth, the apostles of truth,





GLIMPSES AND REMINISCENCES OF LIFE.


165


the philanthropists of the race, in mournful isolation,
have toiled unceasingly for the good of all; yet, in this
nineteenth century, what can be said of man in the
aggregate? Are not the millions as yet without a
practical consciousness that they are, and shall ever be,
linked to eternity? Do the multitude feel that the outward, however grand and imposing, is transient and
evanescent; that the only permanent is the undying
soul; that the only life is the life within? The melancholy answer to these queries is inscribed upon the
statute books, the dungeons and the gibbets, that
darken and deform the earth, and tell us that man is
yet a savage.
Could we occupy an elevated position that overlooks
some densely populated city, and were we for a moment
endowed with a piercing vision, that could penetrate
the mask with which men veil themselves, what monstrous depravity would meet our gaze! How mournful
would be the contrasts that would everywhere present
themselves!
Impelled by passion's terrific force, from morn till
night, from year to year, hapless mortals plod on their
weary way, oppressed and oppressing, degraded and
degrading, planning always for themselves, never for
each other.
The wealthy few, in the enjoyment of their riches and
luxuries, while the many repine in their poverty and
degradation; vice and ignorance often honored and
applauded, while merit and virtue are despised and
forgotten. The glorious sunlight of heaven, that shines
so kindly upon all, is the only equality they enjoy.
He who whispers the intimations of nature, that all
men are brethren, is the only eccentric; and he who
makes duty his highest law, the only martyr. Is not





166


THE OFFERING.


this human society?  Is not such a city a type of the
world? Yet for man there is a blessed future, a glorious
morrow is coming, when in his daily life he shall make
manifest the purpose of his being.
Christianity has a mission not yet fulfilled.  The
kingdom of heaven will one day be established upon
the earth; the discordant voices of men shall at length
harmonize with the music of the angels. For this sabbath, this jubilee of the race, who will not pray?  Yet
very sad at present is the spectacle which our world
everywhere presents. The misery endured upon the
earth for a single day is enough to chill the warmest
heart; and the story which is everywhere told of man's
injustice to his brother may indeed cause the philanthropist to despair.  But courage! let this be the
watchword of the favored few whose clarion voices
bewail the mournful depravity of the race. The midnight darkness in which we are shrouded shall be dissipated by the resplendent light of the coming day.
There be those that even now    discern the dawn.
Wouldst thou, my friend, perform thy part to hasten
on this glorious consummation, when heaven will no
longer be a dream, but a glorious reality? then first of
all regenerate thyself! that the casement wherein thou
dwellest may become a fit temple for the living God.
When we are thrown back upon ourselves, and feel
the awful grandeur of our individuality, an overwhelming sense of the all-pervading sympathy with all
that is external is merged in the contemplation of the
soul's divinity. Are we not all greater than we think?
The cure for our poor servility, is it not in a deeper
reverence for the all-divine?  Is it not true that the
united influence of our senses, and a wretched, paltry
education, are not of themselves able to deprive us of a





GLIMPSES AND REMINISCENCES OF LIFE.


167


consciousness of what we were and what we shall
become? Have we not all, in our silent moments, the
feeling of relationship, - intimate, divine, - to those
blessed beings that we recognize only in our dreams?
WV hence comes the sense of kindred with all created
things?  Why do we love to contemplate nature in all
her modes?  Because our spirit is bound to her by a
thousand mystic links.
I go forth in autumn time, that I may hear the
flowers chant their requiem and sigh farewell to summer. I see not their varied tints, that so endear them
to the eye, but inhale with gratitude their sweet fragrance, borne all lovingly within the soft and balmy
zephyr; yet more blessed to hear the music of their last
low sigh, breathed only to the ear of him whose
responsive heart confesses its deep relationship. To
him they say, we have fulfilled our destiny,-so must
thodl fulfil thine.
How eloquent is nature! Not to me is given the
power of seeing aught in earth or sky; yet am I drawn
towards her by an influence irresistible and undefinable. From the rustling leaf, the murmuring stream, -
from mountain, valley, hill and dell, -there comes a
voice of gladness, inviting all to calm repose. 0, if we
would but heed it, then would there be less of sin, and
more of truth and beauty!
The brightest thing of earth is that which awakens
the soul's highest capacity and loftiest aspiration.
What is there in this discordant world we admire most
of all to contemplate?  Is it not love? the purest, best
of all our impulses, " that which seeketh not her own,"
but another's joy. Pure, compassionate, all-controlling
love! now weeping, now smiling, and ever imparting
to those who feel thine influence a high and holy delight.





168


THE OFFERING.


Light of the inmost soul! source of all true vitality
and pleasure! highest, most universal of all the sentiments! there beats not a heart that has not felt thy
throbbings!   Thou art among men      the only true
leveller! " Thou only canst lay the shepherd's crook
beside the sceptre."
Music, deep, divinest music, is love's only fitting
language. The light of the heart gushes forth in the
voice, wakening in all things sincere responses to each
thrilling pulsation. It is thus with thee, dearest Isadora!
The tones of thy sweet voice are all so full of melting
tenderness, that every heart accords to thee its willing
homage. Thou art in unison with all created things.
The very birds might pause in air, and rest upon their
wing to hear thee sing;-as the soft tones of the lute,
borne upon the wind, fall upon the ear at eventide,
such is thy voice, oh Isadora, thou sweet enchantress!
The spell that thou dost throw on all around thee, by
each dulcet tone that thrills but to delight, shall live
when thou no more shalt glad the earth with thy
seraphic minstrelsy.  With thee is linked many a
pleasant reminiscence of other days, which I would fain
recall. Dost thou remember, my dearest Isadora, when
we did sport in childish glee along the banks of our
dear Merrimac? when, in the innocence of childish
hearts, we listened to the music of falling waters, and
talked of the angels that ever smiled upon us? Hast
thou forgotten how thou didst love to cull the flowers,
and I to listen to thy silvery laugh, as thou didst gayly
trip across the green, or like some fairy queen, did sit
within the bower that thou alone could grace? Dear
is the memory of those days! They told me thou wert
beautiful; thy cheek was with the hue of roses tinted.
Well did I know thy lip was wreathed with smiles;





GLIMPSES AND REMINISCENCES OF LIFE.


169


they said thine eyes did sparkle with the heart's deep
joy; and many spoke of placid brow and graceful
form; but these, alas! to me were all in darkness
veiled; yet loved I not thee less, for I could hear the
merry laughing tones of thy sweet voice, light of that
passion that ever brightly fired thy coy and virgin
breast. As time unnoticed winged its rapid flight, we
shared each other's joys, nor sorrow knew.
From the uncorrupted fount of thy pure heart gushed
ever the radiant light that made existence all so blessed.
Full many a change has marked my darkened lot with
direful sorrow; but thou art as thou ever wast, all
innocent and pure; thy all-enchanting presence shall
ever make existence blessed, for "a thing of beauty is a
joy forever."
There is probably no one but is conscious at times of
a desire to free himself from the restraints which custom imposes, and to give himself up unreservedly to
the guidance of his spontaneous impulses. The highest
boon of life is the enjoyment of free thought and an
unfettered intellect. Many, for want of this, are but the
repositories of the thoughts and opinions of others.
Hence, whosoever speaks for himself, caring not for
precedent, if he utters aught that is original, or is not in
conformity to prescribed rules, is regarded as a fool or
a madman. We would equally deprecate the other
extreme, to which so many are liable in our own day.
There are those who seem to think that there is no
difference between great ideas and unintelligible jargon.
It may be that we have in the preceding remarks
rendered ourselves somewhat obnoxious to this charge.
The thoughts we have expressed were suggested on
reading that unique work, the "'Sartor Resartus," to
which we are indebted for more valuable suggestions
15





170                THE OFFERING.
upon the highest of all subjects of thought, -human
life, - than to any other book we have ever read.
Carlyle possesses, in an eminent degree, the power of
elucidating and explaining those spiritual phenomena
of which all are conscious, but which have hitherto
baffled the severest scrutiny of philosophers. We would
not subscribe to all the opinions put forth by this great
man; yet we must say, for depth of thought, vigor and
beauty of style, he is rarely equalled, and seldom, if
ever, surpassed.





171


THE    REFLECTIONS         OF   A  BLIND     MAN.
AH, yes! to me the world is dark!
No light, no sunshine, greets my sight;
The fair green earth, the bright blue sky,.
To me are ever veiled in night.
I ne'er have seen the glorious sun,
Whose light alone hath power to cheer;
Nor gazed at eve upon the moon,
Whose milder beams are yet more dear.
I ne'er have seen the beauteous flowers,
That bloom for brighter eyes than mine,
Nor gazed upon the stars of heaven;
They too for me will never shine.
And I have vainly yearned to see
The form and face of one I love,
Whose low, sweet voice falls on mine ear,
Like angel music from above.
There 's nothing bright, there's nothing fair,
That unto me hath e'er been given;
I dwell alone in this dark world,
Unblessed by aught save hope of heaven.
The following lines were written by Miss S. C. Edgarton, in reply to the
preceding, with which we are happy to adorn our pages.
REPLY TO THE REFLECTIONS OF A BLIND MAN.
CALL it not dark! thy mental sense
Sees light and beauty all around;
They come to thee we know not whence,
At every touch and every sound.





THE OFFERING.


Thou hast within thy thoughtful mind
Bright glimpses of all glorious things;
Conceptions pictured and defined,
That come and go on spirit wings.
The stars-those jewels of the sky,
That make the awful night sublimeCome sweeping o'er thy mental eye,
Like visions from some brighter clime.
And colors, those mysterious charms,
That clothe the leaves and veil the flowers,
Who knows but thy rapt spirit swarms
With dreams of these as bright as ours.
Call it not dark,-this fair, rich world,
Though shrouded from thy mortal gaze,
The flag of beauty is unfurled
Within thy soul's resplendent rays.
The light of truth is in thy heart,
And love glows ever brightly there;
While these are thine, where'er thou art,
This world must still be bright and fair.





173


OBSERVATIONS ON THE EFFECTS OF BLINDNESS.
IT may seem to those who have read our article
entitled "'Blindness and the Blind," that we had
already spoken sufficiently upon the disadvantages
attendant on blindness; but the subject is one of such
deep interest, as to require at our hands a more thorough and extended notice than it has yet received; for
we maintain that those who are subjected to blindness
are best able to judge of its effects: and this remark is
equally applicable to the deprivation of any of the
senses.
In the following remarks it will inot be our object to
imitate those who have written upon blindness without
any knowledge of its practical results, and who seem to
have been more anxious to maintain a favorite hypothesis, than to arrive at the truth. The philosophers and
metaphysicians who have made the subject now under
consideration one of mere speculation, have done the
blind, as a class, great injustice, by ascribing to their
misfortune results that have only followed in some particular cases. For example: an eminent writer in an
English Encyclopmdia arrives at the conclusion that
the blind are more inclined to be sceptical, especially
upon religious subjects, because of their inability to
appreciate that common and rather unsatisfactory argument in favor of Deity drawn from the external world.
He refers to Sanderson as an illustration; but the infidelity of that great man is to be ascribed to the fact that
his whole life was devoted to the investigation of the
physical sciences. His want of sight in all probability
15*





174


THE OFFERING.


had nothing to do with his want of faith. We may
here remark that there are many arguments which
prove the existence of God, his moral government, and
so forth, which are far more convincing than the one
to which we have referred, and which the blind can
appreciate as well as other men.
A French writer, speaking of blindness and its effects
upon the moral development, says that the blind are
usually found destitute of the sentiment of gratitude, or
possess it in a very limited degree. He says, also, that
they are for the most part insensible to the sense of
shame. He cites us one instance only, in proof of this.
We also often hear it said that the sympathies of the
blind are not as strong as in other men, that they are
more selfish, and so forth. Now all these charges we
deny in toto. We think that we can prove to the satisfaction of every unbiased mind, that, so far as blindness exerts an influence upon the moral constitution, it
is beneficent. That the blind have their thoughts more
generally concentrated on themselves, we do not mean
to deny. That the element of selfishness, that so
degrades our common nature, is as active in them as in
most other men, is equally true; but it by no means
follows as a necessary consequence, what some would
have us believe, that the blind are incapable of those
elevating and exalting sentiments which, more than any
other attributes of our nature, seem to ally us to our
Creator. The fact is, that the blind usually exhibit an
uncommon degree of tenderness and sympathy for the
sufferings of others, demonstrating the truth of that
often repeated adage, that "they only can feel for
another's sufferings who have themselves suffered.7"
This is often exhibited when any number of them are
brought together, as in institutions for education; if one





OBSERVATIONS ON THE EFFECTS OF BLINDNESS.  176
of them is sick, the others will administer to his wants,
and strive by all the means in their power to alleviate
his pain and to restore him to health. If a death occur,
there is a deeper grief, a more profound sorrow felt,
than is usual among the same number of seeing persons.
The blind need not the shroud and the coffin, the
pall and the hearse, to remind them that they have
lost a friend. The voice that once gladdened their
hearts is mute; they hear no more the familiar step,
nor feel the grasp of the friendly hand; and if they
shed not a tear, it is because tears but poorly express
the silent grief of the afflicted heart.
As to the want of gratitude which it is said the blind
exhibit, we wish those who make this charge could have
had the opportunity of witnessing the almost extravagant thankfulness which the blind manifested, when they
for the first time had placed in their hands copies of
the New Testament, printed in raised characters, which
they could read with their fingers. We wish they could
have heard, as we did, the spontaneous and heartfelt
expressions of gratitude for this greatest of boons, which
had been too long withheld; and I am sure they would
not for a moment doubt but that the blind are, to say
the least, as deeply sensible of the favors they receive,
as any other class of mankind.
It may sometimes happen that a slight benefit is conferred upon a blind person, which does not excite that
deep sense of obligation which was anticipated by the
donor. It may be that, in individual cases, the blind
have sometimes exhibited the want of a proper degree
of sensibility which the beneficence of others ought
always to awaken; but it does not therefore follow that
the blind as a class are destitute of the noble sentiment
of gratitude, any more than the fact that a blind man





176


THE OFFERING.


is sometimes known to be guilty of a crime, proves that,
as a class, they are predisposed to vice. The charge
which we are considering, argues great ignorance in
those by whom it is made. They select an isolated
case, and, without taking into consideration any modifying circumstances, form their conclusions of the character of the whole class to which he belongs; thus
because Sanderson was an infidel, it is inferred that
the blind are all inclined to scepticism; by the same
method of reasoning it might be proved that they are
all mathematicians. We hazard nothing in saying that
in a majority of the blind the sentiments of benevolence,
veneration, hope, conscientiousness, &c., are much
more strongly developed than in the average of mankind, and that what are usually called the social feelings are in them much more active, we think will not
be denied.
The religious sentiment, as it is denominated, is in
most men the last in the order of development. In
blind persons, the rule is not unfrequently reversed.
It is true, to the blind man the material world furnishes
but little which is calculated to impress him with the
power and the goodness of the great Architect. He
sees not the trees, the shrubs and the flowers, with
which the earth is adorned; he cannot behold the
effects of the ever-varying seasons; and it is not therefore strange that he does not so fully appreciate the
great lessons they teach. But there is a world within,
transcending in beauty, sublimity and magnificence the
world without. The blind man turns inward his gaze,
and there reads the instructive and soldmn lessons
which the awful monitor of God is perpetually inculcating. There is, in the ever-growing intellect, in the
ever-expanding affections of the heart, and in those





VoERVATIONS ON THE EFFECTS OF BLINDNESS.   1.77
minute, delicate, and ever-varying shades of thought to
which they give rise, far more to impress the contemplative mind with the wisdom, goodness, and glory of
God, than the material world with its multiplied objects
of beauty can ever afford. There is, besides, in the
very circumstances in which the blind man is placed,
in that very dependence incidental to one in his situation, that which is calculated to awaken faith and to
inspire confidence in the Supreme Being. What is it
that enables him to thread the streets of our largest
cities, or to traverse at will a whole extent of country,
unaided and alone? You answer, perhaps, that he
relies upon the aid which his other senses afford him;
and this, to a certain extent, is true; but there is an
influence greater than that which the senses confer; it
is a belief in that unseen hand that ever guides and
protects him. It is the consciousness of the perpetual
presence of one that, " like a cloud by day and a pillar
of fire by night," guides him along his darkened pathway.
From the preceding remarks it will be seen that we
are far from agreeing with those who suppose that the
deprivation of any of the organs of the senses must of
necessity exert an unfavorable influence upon the development of the moral and religious sentiments. We are,
on the contrary, of the opinion that, so far as blindness
is concerned, the reverse is more frequently true. We
think it would not be difficult to show that the material
world exerts a positively pernicious influence upon the
intellectual and moral development of the majority of
mankind. Sight is indeed necessary for nearly all the
practical purposes of life; but that the blind enjoy
greater opportunities for the cultivation of their SPIRITUAL NATURi, in consequence of their exemption from the





178


THE OFFERING.


contaminating influence of the material objects by
which they are surrounded, cannot, I think, be denied.
It must be borne in mind, that our observations on the
effects of blindness are only applicable to the blind
generally; that there are many exceptions, we do not
deny.
It is, I think, apparent, that when any one of the organs of the senses is diseased or destroyed, its effects
must be much more considerable and deleterious upon
the INTELLECTUAL than the moral nature, and for the simple reason that the former is much more dependent on
the senses for its development than the latter.
The influence which blindness exerts in modifying
and retarding the development of the intellect is, without doubt, considerable, though by no means as great
as is sometimes represented.  The perceptive powers,
as they are denominated by the phrenologist, are those
which, in the mind of the blind man, are least active.
Individuality, for instance, or the power by which we
are able to distinguish different objects around us, is
almost entirely dependent on the eye for its cultivation.
The same is also true, though not to so great an extent,
of form, size, &c. The reflective faculties are less dependent on sight, and accordingly we find them the
most active in blind persons.   Nicholas Sanderson
and Dr. Henry Moyes, distinguished blind men of the
last century, whose attainments in the abstract sciences, and in the Newtonian philosophy, astonished the
world, must have had causality, comparison, eventuality, &c., largely developed.
The surprising extent to which some blind persons.
have cultivated memory is a matter of notoriety. This
power is by no means the most important with which
we are endowed, but that course of training best fitted





OBSERVATIONS ON THE EFFECTS OF BLINDNESS.     179
to call it forth, is that which is most eminently calculated to promote the exercise of nmost of the higher faculties. Unattracted by surrounding objects, the blind
man early cultivates the power of concentration, by
which he is enabled to fix his mind at once upon any
given subject, or to marshal all his powers for the solution of an intricate problem. It is this, together with
his astonishing memory, that enables him to overcome,
in the pursuit of knowledge, those mnighty disadvantages to which the want of sight subjects him, so as to
compete with, and sometimes even to surpass, his more
fortunate fellowvs.* In concluding this part of our subject, we would merely observe, that, for the most part,
the unfavorable effect which blindness exerts upon the
development of the mental powers, can in a great measure be overcome by energy and perseverance.
Deprivation of sight is a PHYSICAL calamity, and its
most appalling effects are, after all, essentially physical
in their nature. It is not in the hours' of study and contemplation that the blind man feels most keenly a sense
of his misfortune, but it is when he goes forth into the
world, and attempts to perform his part in the every-day
duties of life, that he is made sensible of the great disparity that must ever exist between him and the rest of
mankind. In the performance of almost all the duties
growing out of the relation he sustains to those around
him, the blind man is compelled to contend with obstacles,
many of which he can never hope to overcome. Doomed
to feel his way at every step, exposed to dangers he has
no means of avoiding, liable almost every moment of his
* A graduate of the Parisian Institution for the Education of the
Blind, came forward in a public controversy for the mathematical
prizes at Pari,,s, and, after carrying them all off, was named for the
Professor of Mathematics in the University of Anglers.





180


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existence to accidents which may render him even more
dependent, his situation is truly pitiable. Shrouded, from
the cradle to the grave, in midnight darkness; unconscious of the existence of aught in the material world but
that with which he is brought in immediate contact, and
which is within the limited range of his other senses;
never participating in the deep delight imparted by the
contemplation of all animated nature; and, for the most
part, consigned to ignorance and degradation,-to poverty, with its thousand woes;-such has been, and
such is still, to a very great extent, the fate of the blind
man. In all the avocations of life, he finds himself unable to compete with his more favored fellow-men. In
human society, where sight seems requisite to supply
every want, he is an anomaly; and then, think too of
that crushing sense of dependence to which he is subjected,-that utter incapacity to supply his physical
wants, -and then say, if you can, if there be in the wide
world one who needs more the protection of Heaven, and
the sympathy of his race, than the ill-fated blind man.
The fact that he is able to study mathematics and the
physical sciences, intellectual and moral philosophy,
&c., affords, without doubt, great alleviation to a condition which would otherwise be insupportable. There
would be but little to lament in the life of a blind man,
if there were no other effects of his misfortune than
those exhibited in the comparatively trifling influence it
exerts in modifying the development of his. intellectual
faculties and moral sentiments; for the effect produced
upon the mind by the deprivation of any of the senses
is at most but partial, controlling only some one of its
functions, often stimulating the higher faculties to
greater exertions, and thus, as it were, correcting the
evil it creates.





OBSERVATIONS ON THE EFFECTS OF BLINDNESS.  181
The evil attendant on blindness is objective, if we
may be allowed the expression. It comes from the peculiar constitution of the world without. It is the darkness in which he is shrouded; -it is the want of that
sunlight which can alone reveal to him the dangers by
which he is surrounded; -it is the destitution of a
requisite power to contend successfully against the obstacles which everywhere present themselves in this
world of change and selfishness, that constitutes the
misery of the blind man's existence.
To remove these obstacles as much as possible, -to
afford him a more equal chance in the great struggle of
life, should be the aim, as it is, without doubt, the interest, of society. Much has already been accomplished.
The blessings of a good education have been extended
to those who, a few years ago, were thought to be
placed, by their misfortune, beyond its reach. The
light of knowledge has at length illumined the home of
the blind man. The most appalling calamity to which
a human being can ever be subjected has yielded to
the untiring and indefatigable efforts of the humane and
benevolent. May we not indulge the hope that yet
more will be accomplished?
True philanthropy never tires. The ingenuity which
has devised methods of teaching the blind man to read,
will yet succeed, we trust, in discovering some way by
which, with his own exertions, and without the aid of
others, he will be able to place himself on an equality
with those around him, and contribute his share to the
various and ever-changing wants of society. Then indeed will be realized that beautifuil prophecy of sacred
writ: " I will bring the blind by a way that they know
not; I will lead them  in paths that they have not
known; I will make darkness light before them, and
16





182


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crooked things straight. These things will I do unto
them, and not forsake them."
We trust that in the few necessarily brief remarks we
have made upon the effects of blindness, we shall not
be misunderstood. We have spoken of those only that
have attracted the most general attention, and that
seem to us legitimate and unavoidable. We are aware
that there are others that have been made the subject
of animadversion by those who have investigated this
subject. The peevishness, irritability, and fretfulness
of some blind persons, is supposed to be the natural and
unavoidable results of their misfortune. We apprehend, however, that more mature reflection will be
sufficient to satisfy the most prejudiced that these unamiable traits are but the effects of that misplaced and
excessive indulgence which it is so common to bestow
on the blind, especially in early life. The same inevitable results will follow when seeing persons are subjected to the like treatment. The morbid sensibility to
the opinions of others, which the blind so often evince,
is by no means the natural consequence of their peculiar
misfortune. It is one of the characteristics of all those
who, like the blind, are doomed from early infancy to a
system calculated to impress them with a sense of their
inferiority and dependence on those around them. In
short, all those peculiarities commonly regarded as the
effects of blindness upon the moral constitution, are
mainly chargeable to a defective, or rather a total want
of a proper education, at that period of existence when
the mind is most susceptible to impressions from
without.
There is a common, and what we cannot help regarding an erroneous, idea entertained respecting the
blind, about which we would offer a remark or two.





OBSERVATIONS ON THE EFFECTS OF BLINDNESS.  183
fVe sometimes hear it said, that he who has never seen,annot possibly appreciate the loss he has sustained.
Af this assertion be true, then he has sustained no loss
whatever. We cannot but think this a cunning contrivance of those who do not wish to be considered as
wanting in sympathy for the sufferings of others. We
would do no one injustice; we have often heard this
opinion advanced by those whose kindness of heart
could not be questioned; but, at the same time, it cannot be denied that there are those who make use of it
to cover an ill-disguised heartlessness. There is scarcely a moment in a blind man's existence, in which he is
not reminded of the advantages which sight confers.
In the very act of moving from one place to another,
and in the labor required in the most common avocations of life, he is made to feel, and sometimes keenly
too, the nature of the calamity to which he is subjected;
but it will be said, admitting that he can fully estimate
the disadvantages with which he has to contend in performing all the ordinary duties of life, he is still unable
to appreciate the many pleasures derived from nature,
and which those who have sight can alone enjoy. As
we have never known those pleasures, we may be
thought poorly calculated to decide the question. We
would, however, suggest the possibility that the blind
man may, by the aid of his imagination in endeavoring
to conceive of the advantages of vision, sometimes overrate them.
He often hears those around him speak of the effect
of a sunset, of the appearance of a rainbow, or of the
beauty of a landscape. The ideas which he obtains may
not be the same as those imparted to the mind through
the medium of the eye; they probably are not; still, we
are inclined to believe, that if we had any means by





184


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which we could compare his conceptions of external nature and its varied phenomena, that they might equal,
and sometimes surpass, in vividness and grandeur, those
received through the medium of sight. There is a
very intimate and inexplicable connection between our
thoughts and the objects in the external world by which
they are excited, and which impart either pleasurable
or painful emotions. Now, may it not be (we mention
it merely as a suggestion) that the blind man, by means
of an association of ideas, the result of some laws of
mind or processes of thought not yet fully understood,
may succeed in obtaining, to say the least, some conception of form, color, beauty, and the other attributes
of matter 3 We know that there is an analogy between
the impressions made upon the mind through the different senses.
The effect of light upon the optic nerve is probably
the same as that produced by sound upon the auditory
nerve. If this be true, then is the question, Has the
blind man an idea of colors? no longer problematical.
These remarks may seem crude and imperfect, but
the subject is, after all, one of mere speculation. We
have been anxious, however, to express our views, and
we have done so. If what we have written has thrown
any light upon the effects of a deprivation to which so
many of our race are subjected, our purpose is accomplished.





185


HENRY MORTON:
OR, THE LIFE OF A BLIND MAN.
CHAPTER I.
Oh! world, how strange thy lots are given,
Life's aim how rarely understood!
THERE is something altogether unaccountable in
almost every circumstance of our lives. The events
which transpire from day to day, are, to the limited
comprehension of man, but a succession of mysteries.
So that life, no matter how active, seems but a mere
dream. How altogether unaccountable are the changes
and vicissitudes to which we are subjected, as we move
on in our prescribed paths, from the cradle to the grave;
-and how constantly we are guided by that Unseen
Hand which shapes all our destinies, " rough-hew them
as we may."
It has in all ages been the aim of the highest and
noblest philosophy, to explain the nature of man, his
complicated relations to his kind, and to his Creator,
and to solve the great problem of life; but thus far it
has only succeeded in rendering more profound the
dark labyrinths in which we are shrouded. So that
the wisest of us can only say, we know that we don't
know.
We need but behold the imposing grandeur that
everywhere presents itself in the material universe, to
be overwhelmed with the vastness and incomprehensibleness of that stupendous design, of which we are
but a part. The great lesson of life, however, can
16*





186


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never be thoroughly learned, until we are able to see
the significance of every event, however trivial in itself.
It would naturally be supposed that there could not
be much in the life of a blind man to give interest to a
story, or to point a moral, and this would be true, if our
life was all outward in its manifestations; but as it happens that in the present state of existence what we do
is but an impeifect expression of what we think and
feel, and that our actions (no matter how broad the
theatre in which they display themselves) can, at best,
but very imperfectly express the thoughts that originated them; therefore, if we would learn the great idea
which every one is commissioned to express, - if we
would read the great message written by the finger of
God in the pulsations of every human heart, we must
cast inwardly our gaze, and forgetting all else, devote
our energies to the deciphering of those mystic hieroglyphics, which can alone reveal the purpose of our
being.
It was my good fortune, many years ago, to become
acquainted with one who, like myself, had from early
infancy been deprived of the inestimable blessing of
sight. As there was but little in the outward world
which could interest us, the time we spent in each
other's society was occupied in a mutual interchange
of thought and feeling; -in communicating to each
other our experience, and in the enjoyment of those
higher pleasures that flow from the exercise of the intellect and the moral sentiments. We unbosomed ourselves to each other without that reserve which too
often marks the intercourse of those who are bound
together only by the common ties of sympathy and
interest.
Now that the grave has closed over my friend, and his





HENRY MORTON.


187


pure spirit has gone to that world of which when here
he could only dream, I may be permitted to relate some
of the incidents of his earthly pilgrimage, and express
as best I may, through the imperfect medium of language, the experience of a noble mind trained in the
severe school of adversity.
CHAPTER      II.
Light to thy path, bright creature! I would charm
Thy being, if I could, that it should be
Even as now thou dreamest, and flow on,
Thus innocent and beautiful, to heaven.
WILLIs.
IT was midnight, but in one of the apartments of the
mansion of Mrs. Morton a light was still burning, and
one of earth's fairest angels, prompted by affection that
never slumbers, was watching with deep solicitude an
infant boy. To have seen that mother's face, naturally
beautiful when adorned in its accustomed smiles, but
now made more deeply interesting by the expression of
intense anxiety it wore, it would not have been difficult
to divine the sorrow that like a dark cloud lay heavily
upon her heart. A few hours before it had been communicated to her that, after careful examination by an
eminent oculist, it was decided that her child would
never more return her fond glance, or look as he was
wont upon his mother's face. In short, that the disease
with which he had been afflicted had deprived him
forever of the use of his eyes, and that though he might
again recover his health, it would be only to grope his
way through the world in darkness. There, in silent
agony, stood the mother by the bedside of her 'child,
with her arms folded upon her bosom, her eyes bathed





188


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in tears, and fixed, with an intensity of grief that words
can but poorly express, upon the lovely form of her
infant boy, as he lay wrapped in sleep, all unconscious
of the misfortune which had determined his destiny,
and which had shrouded with sorrow the heart of his
fond mother. Long and earnestly did that afflicted
mother pray to God that the spirit of her child might be
taken back to heaven ere it should be corrupted by the
noxious atmosphere of earth, or compelled to feel the
evils incidental to a calamity that no love, however
devoted, could alleviate. Possessing that far-reaching
sight which is the peculiar gift of pure hearts, she had
surveyed the dark and troubled pathway which her
child must traverse, if he should be permitted to live;
and she could but pray that the angels who guarded
his pillow might bear his spirit to the bosom of his
Father in heaven. But his destiny upon earth was
appointed. There was in the distant future an experience which he alone could meet; for the rich pearls
that lie concealed in his heart must needs be burnished
and brightened by sorrow.
Morning came! but to the mansion of Mr. Morton it
brought no joy. The rays of the sunlight but made
more visible to its hapless inmates the terrible visitation
which to them   seemed worse than death; but the
human heart soon familiarizes itself with sorrow, and
when sanctified by religion, it can look beyond the dark
cloud, to the serene and beautiful sky beyond.
Day after day Mrs. Morton looked upon her boy, and
observed the healthful glow returning to his cheek; she
was delighted to find that he had lost none of that
sprightliness and vivacity peculiar to his age, and with
that fond affection which a mother alone can feel, she
strove by all the means in her power to prevent him





HENRY MORTON.


189


from becoming saddened by a consciousness of the
deprivation to which he was subjected.
A few words seem necessary, to make the reader
better acquainted with those of whom we shall speak,
and with whom the history of our hero is identified.
Mr. Morton, at the time our story commences, was a
distinguished lawyer; he had for several years been
settled in the large town of P--, where he had
acquired an extensive practice.  Three years previously, he had connected himself in marriage to a
wealthy and influential family, and, in the language of
the world, bid fair to do well. The only event which
occurred to mar his happiness for the first five years of
his married life, was that to which we have already
referred. Mr. Morton was what is usually denominated
a matter-of-fact man. He looked upon every event of
life with the eye of a philosopher. When, therefore,
his only child, not yet two years old, was attacked with
an inveterate and a malignant disease that deprived
him of sight, he regarded it as one of those unavoidable
occurrences for which there was no remedy but submission. Still, it was a great disappointment to the
father, for he saw, as he thought, his son thus cut off
forever from the sphere of activity and usefulness, and
consigned to a life of ignorance and of wretchedness;
but accustomed as he was to contemplate misery as it
presents itself in all its thousand forms in the world at
large, and with which the duties of his profession
brought him into daily contact, it did not make so deep
an impression upon him, as on the more tender and
susceptible mind of Mrs. Morton.
There is something in the quiet beauty of a child's
face that is irresistibly attractive, for it reveals to the
eye the workings of an uncorrupted soul. It has often





THE OFFERING.


seemed to me that if I could be permitted to look for a
moment into the face of my own sweet child, and see
the beauty that beams from those innocent eyes, and
the smile that plays upon her tremulous lips, - tremulous with the heart's deep joy, -I could consent, without
a murmur, to have the world, if it were possible, veiled
in double darkness for the rest of my existence. It is,
I suppose, a fact, that the countenance owes much of its
beauty to the expression of the eyes; but when they
have become darkened by misfortune, affection can still
read in the lineaments of the face, and in the brow's
expansion, the workings of a soul struggling to manifest
itself.
Thus did Mrs. Morton contemplate the features of
her child, to read there the manifestations of his growing mind. And if she involuntarily sighed as she
looked on "cthose orbs by dim suffusion veiled," she
was rejoiced to find, both by his looks and his actions,
that he might be enabled in after life to rise superior to
the difficulties with which the path of the blind is beset.
CHAPTER III.
"The day was bright and beautiful,
The boys to play were gone,
Save one, who sat beside the door
Dejected and alone.
"And as the tone of merry sport
Came faintly to his ear,
He sighed! and from his swollen lids,
He brushed the falling tear."
WE pass over the early childhood of Henry Morton,
with the remark that for the first eight years of his life
he basked in the sunshine of parental affection. All





HENRY MORTON.


191


that a parent's love, heightened by his misfortune,
could do, was done to promote his happiness. The
intuitive love of knowledge which he early manifested
was carefully fostered. Much pains were taken to gratify
his curiosity, and to explain to him the nature of those
things with which he was brought into daily contact
by means of his other senses.
When only eight years of age, Henry lost his father,
who died in consequence of a severe attack of typhus
fever. After this event, Mrs. Morton, compelled by her
limited resources, went with her only son to reside
with her brother, and she determined to devote herself
to the education of her boy.
This excellent woman possessed not only the deep
affection which characterizes her sex, but a vigorous
intellect, and a sound judgment. She saw that there
was a peculiar necessity that her son should receive a
thorough education to fit him for usefulness to himself
and others. No one was better qualified to discharge
this duty than his mother.
The vicissitudes of human life baffle all calculation;
we plan, only to see our plans thwarted;-the reality
of manhood never equals the dream of youth, and it
may be safely said that no one ever realizes all that he
hopes for. How different is to-day from yesterday!
How different will to-morrow be from to-day! What
eloquent sermons the accidents of life are perpetually
preaching, as we are borne on in the irresistible current
from the cradle to the grave! How poor and puny
seem our greatest efforts, how utterly inadequate our
loftiest aspirations! All men leave the world before their
work is finished; yet 'tis beautiful to live! and to
experience in embryo what we shall one day enjoy in
complete fruition.





192


THE OFFERING.


There is a sweet fragrance in a well-spent day, that.
blesses whole generations; thrice happy he who can
live and die like the flowers! and carry with him to
heaven a consciousness that he has loved, and has been
beloved. So lived, so died Mrs. Morton. For about
three years after her husband's death, she devoted herself with assiduity to the object which lay nearest her
heart, the education of Henry; and the progress he
made was, considering his circumstances, truly remarkable; but the great lesson which she taught him, as he
afterwards remarked to me, was to live a pure life, -
to love everything, and despise nothing which God had
made. Oh how blessed is that mother who can imprint
such a beautiful truth on the heart of her son, and leave
behind her such an inestimable legacy!
Poor Henry! he did not long enjoy the kindly instructions of his mother. It was on the anniversary of his
eleventh birthday that she called him to her bedside
and told him she must soon die. A few days previous, the carriage which was conveying her to the
house of a friend was thrown over, and she so severely
injured that recovery was impossible. She lingered a
few days, and piously devoted that time to preparing
the mind of her son for the great loss he was about to
sustain. It was evening. The physician had declared
it utterly impossible for her to survive until morning.
Henry sat at her bedside, pressing her hand in his, and
listening intently to the few words she was able to
utter. The injury which she had received by the accident referred to was mostly internal, and it was, therefore, with great difficulty that she was able to speak.
What she did utter was of heaven, and the angels, and
of the time when she should again be united to her
husband and her child, never more to be parted. At





HENRY iORTON.


193


length the awful moment came when this pure and
gifted being was to take her flight to her home in the
skies; and while giving utterance to a brief prayer, in
which she invoked the blessing of God on her child,
she expired. The angels rejoice when such a spirit returns to heaven, but human hearts weep, for great is
the loss.
There were none in the wide world that felt this loss
so deeply as did the poor blind orphan boy, as he stood by
the open coffin with his hand upon that brow which he
had so often kissed, but which was now as cold as marble, conveying to his young heart the first chilling sensation which that darkest mystery of life always produces
when first contemplated. When his father died, he felt
that there was still one who could assuage his grief, and
who would still guide his footsteps by the light of her
love; but now she too was taken from him, and there
were none left to guide him in his darkness; he needed
not to behold the shroud, the pall, and the hearse, to
remind him of the loss he had sustained. The voice
which had been to him as the sunlight of existence
was silent forever;--its sweet pensive tones would now
only gladden his dreams.
The funeral solemnities were over. The last sad
rites had been performed, and Henry Morton was alone
in his wretchedness. There was nothing to assuage the
grief of his heart, but the deep eloquence of silence. For
weeks after the death of his mother, he might be seen
walking alone almost constantly at the place where was
entombed the object of his heart's best affections. He
brought no flowers, but he watered her grave with the
tears that flowed from eyes that seemed given only to
weep.
Months passed away, and the heart of Henry Morton
17





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gradually recovered its wonted cheerfulness. Suffering
had rendered his temper more serene, and imparted a
deeper beauty to his daily life. To those who beheld
him, as he sat for hours together pensively musing upon
the vicissitudes of life, he appeared to be in a perpetual
dream; for though very young, yet he had been accustomed to employ those hours which had been given by
others to the sports of childhood, in analyzing his own
thoughts. It was to this habit that he attributed his
fondness, in after life, for speculative philosophy. His
mother, at her death, consigned him to the care of his
uncle, with whom they resided. Mr. William Marshall
was a merchant, who, having acquired a fair fortune,
had retired from business. He had purchased an elegant residence in the vicinity of P-. It was situated on an eminence that overlooked the town, affording
a fine view of the Hudson, stretching far in the distance,
and bearing, on its quiet bosom, its many floating palaces. Here Mr. Marshall hoped to pass the remaining
years of his life in the enjoyment of that elegant leisure
which his wealth enabled him to sustain. He was a
man of respectable literary talents and some taste. He
had purchased a large library, and devoted his hours
of retirement to those intellectual pursuits which his
devotion to business in the former part of his life had
compelled him to neglect.
When his sister became a widow, he invited her to
make his house her future home. And at her death he
promised to provide for her unfortunate son; how far he
was enabled to fulfil this promise, the sequel will show.
Deprived of the companionship of the only being who
could know his wants, and whose sympathies were
alone adequate to supply them, Henry Morton spent
nearly two years after his mother's death, in a state of





HENRY MORTON.


195


comparative inactivity. Occasionally he found a friend
who would read to him a pleasant story, or the biography of some great man; but for the most part his time
was spent sitting by the door-side, or beneath some
shady tree that protected him from the heat of that sun
whose light he could not see, wondering at the strange
fatality which prevented him from sharing the plays and
sports which rendered other children of his age so happy
and joyous. As he thus mused alone, he wept. At
length there came glad news to cheer the heart of our
hero. What that news was, we will relate in another
chapter.
CHAPTER IV.
"We have a lamp within,
That knowledge fain would light,
And pure religion's hand would touch
With beams forever bright.
"Say, shall it rise and share
Such radiance full and free?
And will ye keep the Saviour's charge,
And cause the blind to see?"
ABOUT the year 1832, there were institutions established for the education of the blind in Boston, New
York, and soon after in Philadelphia.
Mr. Marshall had a friend who had formerly been a
partner with him in business, who was then residing
in the latter city. Through his influence, Henry Morton was received as a pupil in the institution that had
been established there. It was arranged by Mr. Marshall
that Henry should board in the family with his friend,
and should attend at the institution daily to receive instruction. He possessed an ardent love of knowledge,
which, coupled with great energy of character, soon ob




196


THE OFFERING.


tained for him high consideration among his fellowpupils, and his amiable disposition won for him their
esteem and love. He studied with diligence and assiduity; and during the three years he remained at the
institution, he enjoyed the esteem and friendship of its
illustrious benefactor, Professor Freelander. And upon
his leaving that establishment, he received a marked
proof of that gentleman's regard.
It was the intention of young Morton to enter college,
and for this purpose he again returned to his native
town; but, to his great disappointment, he found that his
uncle, on whose assistance he depended, had lost nearly
all his property. Mr. Marshall, like many other wealthy
gentlemen of that day, became deeply involved in the
land speculations, which, together with the failure of a
bank in which he was extensively concerned, deprived
him of nearly all iis hard-earned wealth, and compelled
him to dispose of his elegant mansion to meet his liabilities, and to establish his family in a situation which
would enable him to live within his limited resources.
He therefore informed his nephew that he must henceforth be the arbiter of his own fortune. Thus unexpectedly was Henry, at the age of sixteen, with nothing
to depend on but a clear head and a sound heart, thrown
upon a world where the chances were nearly all against
him. Determined not to relinquish the idea of obtaining a liberal education, he wrote to several wealthy
persons whose acquaintance he had made during a
residence in Philadelphia; but they declined, delicately,
of course, to afford him any assistance. Professor Freelander, though confined by a fit of sickness, from which
he never recovered, wrote to him an encouraging letter,
advising him to collect together the different articles he
had written while at school, and publish them in book





HENRY MORTON.


197


form, the avails of which would enable him to prosecute
his plans. Availing himself of this suggestion, he at
once proceeded to Philadelphia to carry it into effect.
He possessed a lively imagination, and if he could have
seen, he would have excelled as a descriptive poet. As
it was, he wrote several fine pieces, which, if the descriptions of external imagery were not always perfect,
certainly proved that even in the mind of the blind
man there was a keen perception of the beautiful, whichonly needed forms in which it might express itself. His
prose composition was characterized with a simplicity
and elegance truly astonishing to those not accustomed
to consider the rapidity with which a blind man may
acquire knowledge on all those subjects of thought that
do not require to be illustrated by images drawn from
the external world. After considerable difficulty, young
Morton succeeded in preparing his manuscript for the
press. He found he had materials enough for a small
volume of about two hundred and fifty pages, which he
entitled "Flowers and Tears."
He presented his manuscript successively to six different publishing-houses before he could find one who
would undertake its publication. At length, however,
he succeeded in finding a publisher, who agreed to issue
the work at his own risk, provided he should be allowed
half the receipts for the first edition, and a third part of
the profits for every other edition. And this, he assured
the author, was extremely liberal. But he consented
to it in consideration of his blindness. To support himself until he should realize something from his books, our
hero endeavored to obtain a situation as organist in one
of the churches.
While at the institution he had made great attainments as a musician, and was a good performer on the
17*




THE OFFERING.


organ and pianoforte. It was his intention, after he
should have finished his collegiate course, to devote
himself entirely to the cultivation of music. It would,
however, be a long time before he could realize enough
from his book to pay his expenses, and he thought if he
could obtain a situation as organist, he could in this
way gain a livelihood. Accordingly, he applied to several of the churches where he thought his services might
be needed, but in every instance he was disappointed.
From one he received a reply, that they could not understand how a blind man could possibly perform on
the organ; from another, that he was too young; and
from a third, that he was not a member of that church;
and from all, the emphatic No! He next endeavored to
obtain pupils to instruct on the pianoforte, and for this
purpose inserted in the papers his advertisement, which,
as it did not state the fact that he was blind, obtained
for him several applications. To secure some of them,
who found it difficult to conceive how he could instruct
them to finger the instrument, he found it necessary to
reduce the price of tuition about one half of the sum
usually paid to others, whose only advantage was that
they had eyes. Let no one assert that we exaggerate;
we are only endeavoring to portray the vicissitudes to
which many a blind man is daily subjected.
CHAPTER V.
"The man that's resolute and just,
Firm to his principles and trust,
Nor hopes nor fears can bind."
OF the success of Henry Morton as a music teacher,
we will only say, that he was scarcely able to defray
his expenses. There were those who, without possess




HENRY MORTON.


199


ing half his ability, succeeded in their ad captandum
appeals to the prejudices of the people, to persuade them
that it was utterly impossible for a blind man to teach.
The day at length arrived when the book was ready
for distribution, and the heart of the poor blind author,
too keenly sensitive to the opinions of others, trembled
as he thought of the reception it would be likely to meet
with from those literary cut-throats called critics.
To the great joy of our author, his little volume was
favorably received by nearly all the reviewers. They
spoke of it as highly commendable as the first effort of
a young author, and commended it to all those who
would patronize unpretending merit and true genius.
Unfortunately, the work made its appearance in January, 1836. At that time, any political treatise, or a Life
of General Jackson, was much more likely to find purchasers, as the whole country was agitated by the pending national election. The consequence was that there
were but few who cared to read a work so unpretending
as "'Flowers and Tears." It, therefore, remained for
months on the shelf of the bookseller unsold. Disappointed and despairing of ever being able to accomplish
his object of obtaining a collegiate education, Morton,
had he possessed a less ardent mind, would have sunk
under the difficulties with which, at this time, he had
to contend; but being fortunately endowed with a large
share of that faculty which phrenologists denominate
firmness, he was determined that if he could not obtain
a finished education, he would at least support himself
by his own exertions; he accordingly resolved that he
would travel through the United States, and endeavor
to dispose of his book. A few weeks only were spent
in the city of Philadelphia in going from house to house,





200


THE OFFERING.


and in offering with diffidence his book to all those to
whom he could obtain access.
There were few who looked on his sunken eyes, that
did not purchase, and he soon had the satisfaction of
disposing of between two and three hundred copies.
He next visited the great metropolis of the western
world, New York city. And there, day after day, he
might be seen, with a boy to guide him, going from
house to house, now disposing of a book, and now
receiving a cold denial. Sometimes, a purchaser, turning over the leaves, would remark that this or that
piece was beautiful, and then the countenance of the
blind author would beam with satisfaction. Others
there were who had the heartlessness to remark, that',
though they purchased the book, they decidedly disapproved of the method he had chosen to gain a livelihood, and hinted that there had been places established
for such persons, at the expense of the state.
These, it is true, were exceptions. The instinctive
sympathy of the human heart, which the misery
everywhere to be seen in a large city cannot entirely
blunt, usually obtained for Henry a favorable reception
wherever he presented himself.  Sometimes he was
politely invited to enter the house and rest, and then the
gentle voices of those who were prepossessed in his
favor by his unpretending manners, as well as by the
sympathy awakened by his misfortunes, would speak
encouraging words. None but those who have been
placed in his situation, can form any adequate conception of the effect which a kind word often has upon
the heart of the unfortunate. It was in this way that
he contrived to dispose, in a few months, of the greater
portion of the first edition of his work, the profits of





HENRY IMORTON.


201


which were nearly all engrossed by the liberal publisher.
Another edition was soon issued from the press, on
more advantageous terms than was at first proposed.
He disposed of this in the same manner. In this way,
he contrived, not only to maintain himself, but to obtain
means to employ an amanuensis both to read and to
write for him; and he actually contrived, while travelling in different parts of the country, to attend to his
intellectual pursuits, as well as to note in his journal
the varied incidents of his precarious life. And it
woulld be interesting, were we permitted to give his
observations upon men and things, to mark with what
nice discrimination he was enabled to distinguish the
characters of men by their address and by the tones of
their voices. And it is probable that his conceptions
were usually as correct as if he had been permitted to
behold the human countenance.
It was his custom, on visiting a new place, to examine
all the objects of general interest. He could form, for
instance, a pretty fair idea of the architecture of a
building, by an examination of its different parts with
his hands; and when this was impossible, by availing
himself of the description of others. Thus he was
enabled to obtain quite as correct an idea of different
objects in the material world, as many a seeing person
who is satisfied with stupidly gazing upon them. In
this way did our hero spend his life, until he had
reached his twentieth year. He was in the habit of
making an annual visit to his native town; for in all
the vicissitudes to which he had been subjected, he still
retained in his heart the memory of those early days,
when, blessed by a mother's love, he dreamed of naught
bnt sunshine and gladness.





202


THE OFFERING,


CHAPTER VI.
Hast thou one heart that loves thee
In this dark world of care,
Whose gentle smiles approve thee? -
Yield not to dark despair.
HAVING spoken in the preceding chapters of some of
the external circumstances in the life of Henry Morton,
it is now necessary to consider their effect in modifying
and changing the views and impressions of childhood.
It is a sufficient proof that the state of society in
which we live is lamentably imperfect, and the education we receive is altogether inadequate to accomplish
its high purpose, that the pure faith of our childhood,
which seems to connect us with nature and with God,
is clouded and dissipated at the very moment when we
most need its influence. We hear much of the power
of experience in developing the mighty energies of the
human soul. We are told that man must pass through
the fiery ordeal of life, to fit him for heaven. Much is
said of manly heroic virtue, brought into exercise by
terrible temptations; but for our own part, we had
much rather have retained the innocence of our childhood through life, than to be marred and scarred with
the withering, blighting influence of sin. And may we
not indulge the hope, that the day will come, when he
who shall carry the simple trust and beautiful confidence of an innocent heart with him into the busy
world, shall not be regarded with derision and contempt. We are too apt to regard life only in its
external aspect, to consider the actions, rather than the
thoughts, as constituting by far the most important part
of a man's history; yet many a one, whose simple story
would not be thought sufficiently interesting to be





HENRY MORTON.


203


written by the veriest scribbler, and whose entire earthly
existence has been passed in the limited circle of a small
town, may yet be conscious of an inward life, far more
rich and varied with thought, than he whose range of
observation may have encompassed the entire globe.
He whom we look upon in the street with an averted
eye, whom the rich and proud despise, and no one cares
for,--the poor mendicant,--may yet cherish within
the hidden recesses of his soul the germs of a purer
love and a higher faith, than he who, with all those
advantages which wealth and education confer, lives
but the votary of pleasure and the victim of passion.
The only real, the only actual, the only permanent,
is the immaterial, the ideal. Matter is continually
changing; but a great thought once uttered, can never
die. The objective is only worthy of our attention in
so far as it is a manifestation of the subjective.
It is now time to return to the blind adventurer. We
have frequently spoken of him as a hero, but not in the
sense in which that term is usually employed; but
because he carried with him for a period of twenty
years the blessed consciousness of the divine within;
because on entering manhood his heart still retained in
all its primitive loveliness that purity and innocence
which had been so carefully fostered at the dawn of his
being. Perhaps he was indebted to his greatest apparent misfortune for that remarkable preservation from
ihe contaminating influence of the world.
He felt, at this period of his existence, a yearning for
the sympathy of a kindred soul, for one whose aspirations, mingling with his, should ascend together to the
Infinite.  It was the pleadings of the gentle angel
within him, and her pleadings could not be resisted.
Long and patiently had she struggled, and now, if her





204


THE OFFERING.


pleadings were resisted, the darkness within would be
even more profound than the darkness without. A
mysterious hand, though ever unseen, marks with
unerring certainty the destiny of men. Blessed is he
who, conscious of this truth, yields at once to its
guidance.
It often happens that much of what is called good
luck in life, is but the result of an apparently trivial
event; at least so thought Henry Morton, as he sat one
evening in his room alone, reflecting on the events of
the day. That day had been to him the most important
of all the days of his life. It is quite certain he must
have had some presentiment of it, judging from the
manner in which he soliloquized: " Can it be that the
souls of the good, after returning to heaven, again
reappear on the earth, to inhabit another body, and to,live over another existence? She seemed so like my
mother! The same rich, sweet tones that lulled me to
sleep in my infancy. Oh! how I wish I could see her
face; then could I in truth say, my happiness is complete. What could have made her so kind to me?
There was such a deep tenderness in her voice as she
read; it seemed like the warbling of the birds, or the
soft melodious strains of an LEolian harp. Could it
have been mere sympathy that prompted these acts of
kindness?  Was it the wondrous pity of woman's
heart, called forth by my misfortunes?"
As he spoke these last words, his countenance assumed
an expression of deep sadness, for a dark cloud passed
over the disc of his soul; but it was momentary. The
sunlight within soon dissipated the gloom, and made
his countenance yet more radiant with joy, and he
repeated with emphasis, "No! no! It is love!"
During the time in which our hero was occupied in





HENRY MORTON.


205


disposing of his books, in different parts of the country,
he had formed an acquaintance with many persons,
who, attracted by his peculiar condition, had manifested
for him some degree of interest. Such acquaintances
were of course transient. In his deep and permanent
friendship, there were few that shared. Though possessing remarkable conversational powers, and endowed
with the rare gift of expressing his thoughts with ease
and elegance, yet he was usually retiring in his habits
of life, preferring the communion of his own thoughts
to that vague and unsatisfactory social intercourse, that
one of our poets has described as "a babbling summer
stream."
It was to one of those common occurrences of life,
that he was indebted for the acquaintance and for the
ultimately lasting regard of one of those few men, whom
once to know is never to forget.  We say common
occurrences of life; but to the clear eye of an unclouded
mind, there is nothing common, nothing but that has a
deep significance.
Late one day, as Henry Morton was returning from
the public library, he was accosted by a poor beggar,
who solicited alms, and related the usual story of misery
and want. In the effort to take from his pocket some
loose change, he dropped one of his books. A gentleman who happened to be passing, took the book from
the ground and placed it in the hand of the owner. In
thie act of doing so, he perceived that he was blind.
Prompted by mingled feelings of pity and curiosity, he
addressed him. As they were both going in the same
direction, a very pleasant conversation ensued, which
resulted in a promise, on the part of our adventurer,
that he would call the next day at the house of the gentleman.
18





206


THE OFFERING.


The next day, agreeably to promise, he called on his
new acquaintance, and was introduced to his family.
CHAPTER VII.
"Hail, holy love! fullest when
Most thou givest."
COL. WILLIAMS, for this was the name of the gentleman spoken of in the preceding chapter, was a kindhearted, generous man, who was actively engaged in
all the philanthropic movements of the day, and he had
been particularly interested in the efforts which had
been made to establish an institution for the education
of the blind in his native city. He possessed a large
fortune, which he inherited from his father, and deservedly enjoying the confidence of his fellow-citizens, he
had received from them marked proofs of their regard.
And at the time he was introduced to the reader, he
represented them in the Congress of the United States.
In Henry Morton he at once took a deep and lively interest.
After listening to his simple story, discovering his
many rare talents, and commiserating his lonely situation, he determined to render him some assistance. He
introduced him to his large circle of friends, and employed him, to instruct his only daughter in music.
It may well be supposed that, beginning for the first
time to occupy something like a social position in the
world, the views and feelings of Henry Morton must
undergo a considerable modification, and to some extent
they certainly did. But he preserved to the last an uncontaminated heart.  He adhered with fidelity and
truthfulness to " the dream of his youth;" and never,





HENRY MORTON.


207


amid the new relations of life to which he had been introduced by Col. Williams, did he for a moment forget
the beautiful lesson which had been taught him by his
mother, - "Love everything, and despise nothing which
God hath made."   He became a constant visitor at the
house of his generous friend, and in the society of Mrs.
Williams and his fair pupil many a blithesome hour
sped all unconsciously away.
Clara Williams was perhaps the only being on earth
fully capable of appreciating our hero; possessing a
delicate and sensitive nature, she could admire those
peculiarities in him, which others regarded as childish
and weak; his unembarrassed manner, his freedom
from all affectation, his playfulness and good-humor,
could alone be fully understood by one who, like himself, had preserved in her bosom a love for the simple
and the truthful. By the light of their intuitions, they
perceived that their idiosyncrasy was the same; as they
became acquainted with each other, their spirits seemed
to blend, until it might be almost said that they were
one being, possessing one consciousness.
The power of perceiving spiritual affinities is a gift
which Heaven has conferred upon pure hearts alone.
The fire of passion, it is true, is often mistaken for the
light of the spirit, and the demon that curses, for the
angel that blesses; but never until the heaven within
has become darkened and clouded by sin. As Henry
returned home from his frequent visits at the house of
Col. Williams, he often gave utterance to his feelings in
soliloquies, to one of which we have already listened;
for he had found there the only being that could reflect
his soul, and read his every thought. Music was the
only language that could adequately express their bliss.
Unmingled was their enjoyment with aught of sensu




208


THE OFFERING.


ality. They loved, but it was not with that consuming
passion enkindled by the high-wrought pages of romance. It was the pure sentiment that inspired them
at their birth, and which they had preserved to adorn
their life. Yes, they loved! As angels love, they
sought no secluded bower where they might reveal it to
each other. It shone forth in their daily life, filling their
homes with peace.
At length it began to be whispered about in the circle
of Col. Williams' acquaintance that his daughter was
about to become the bride of his blind protege. It produced for a time what is called a sensation. Many
wondered that the colonel should give his daughter to
one who could never behold her beauty. But the day
came, the rite was solemnized, and those that Heaven
had united from the beginning, were man and wife.
Over such a union the angels held jubilee in heaven.
Cheered by each other's voices, and blessed by each
other's love, the hours of their existence glided away
calm and peaceful as the birds. The colonel and his
lady were the delighted spectators of their innocent
lives. They participated with them in all their recreations. Part of the day was usually spent in reading the
works of Plato, for they delighted to converse on the
topics suggested by that work, in which Plato describes
the last hours of his illustrious master, and the conversation which he held with his afflicted disciples.
Henry would frequently repeat passages from Jean
Paul, and tell Clara how often his loneliness had been
cheered by the beautiful thoughts they suggested. She,
on her part, would read to him portions from the Gospel
of St. John, whose blessed words first awakened in her
soul the consciousness of a higher life. Thus would
they converse of philosophy and religion, lifting their





HENRY MORTON.


209


souls from earth to heaven, for the circle of their existence here would soon be completed, was whispered to
them by the angels in their dreams.
CHAPTER VIII.
And then I think of those who in their youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side;
In the cold, moist earth we laid them when the forest cast their leaf,
And we wept that those so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that they, like those young friends of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
BRYANT.
To most persons the idea of death seems to shroud
the soul in gloom, and hence the grief that is often experienced when those we have loved are taken from our
midst.   But if we regarded death as we should, -as in
fact but the beginning of a higher life,-we should rejoice
when any of our friends enter upon it, and garlands of
flowers would take the place of the shroud and the pall.
This is the view inculcated by our holy religion, that
the portal of the grave is the entrance to the spirit world.
The tears we shed over the death-bed of the loved ones
should testify our joy that their work is done, -that
their earthly mission is completed, and that they are
now to return to the bosom of their Father in heaven.
Two years of happiness, such as seldom falls to the lot
of mortals, had passed away, when a change came; not
to mar, but to render more complete, the union that existed between Henry and Clara. It is possible that the
wildest fancy may become a living reality. There is
nothing that we can really conceive of but is susceptible of actualization.  The reason why the average of
mankind are unable to discern the future, is because
their imagination becomes corrupted by their gross con18S





210


THE OFFERING.


ceptions of material things. To the pure spirits of the
gifted beings whose life we are now contemplating, the
veil that hides the future from common eyes seemed at
times to be removed. There were moments when they
were permitted to gaze on the splendor of the celestial
world, and to read the bright scroll, whereon is written,
with seraph fingers, the destiny of the race.
They now began to feel conscious that their part of
the great problem of earthly existence was well nigh
solved, and that the time was fast approaching when
the messengers of God would conduct them to their
home beyond the stars. One day, as Clara sat reading
to Henry in Milton's "Paradise Lost," two beautiful
doves flew in at the open window near to where they
were sitting, and after remaining there a moment, they
flew out again, and disappeared. "Oh! Henry,' said
Clara, " how forcibly do these beautiful doves remind
me of my dream!"  Henry requested her to relate it,
and she commenced as follows:
"Yesterday, when father was reading to you and
mother, I went into the library, that I might examine
more attentively than I had been able to do before, the
beautiful painting which has been presented to father.
It is the representation of a mother and her two children. The one is a boy, and the other a girl; the former has a sword by his side, and the latter a bunch of
flowers in her hand. The face of the mother beams
with pride and satisfaction as she looks upon them;
altogether, it is one of the finest specimens of art I have
ever seen. I seated myself on the sofa before it, and
examined each figure attentively for some minutes,
when, being fatigued with my morning walk, I fell
into a profound sleep. Music, such as I had never
heard before, broke on my ear. It seemed as if the an




HENRY MORTON.


211


gels were -celebrating the return of one of earth's prodigals; when suddenly there appeared before me two
beings of angelic mien; one of them, a little in advance
of the other, held in her hand two beautiful doves,
which she placed in my lap, saying, ' The circle of thy
existence is well nigh completed.' And then the other
angel repeated these words of Christ: ' In my Father's
house are many mansions.'  Then as suddenly they
disappeared, taking with them the doves. The music
ceased, and I awoke."
In one short week from the time when Clara Williams related this dream, her friends were assembled
around her bed, for she was about to die. There
beamed from her countenance an unearthly glory, as
she said, addressing Henry, "I know that thou wilt
soon follow me." Then looking tenderly upon all, she
said, " The messenger will soon be here, and I must
go."  At this instant, through the open window, which
had been raised to admit the balmy air, laden with the
perfume of the flowers, two beautiful doves flew in
upon the casement, cooed once, and then flew away.
A visible change came over the face of Clara; a faint
farewell trembled on her lips, and then her spirit took
its flight to its home on high. They laid her in the
grave, and placed upon her bosom  an undeveloped
flower, whose spirit had gone with the young mother
to the paradise of God.
For a short time after the event which we have just
described, Henry moved around amid the scenes which
had been consecrated by the presence of his Clara. He
became day after day more abstracted. At length he
complained of illness; no physician knew the nature of
his disease, no medicine could restore him to health.
H - laid down as if to sleep. It was the sleep of death.





212               THE OFFERING.
On the side of a gently-sloping hill, beneath the
shade of an overhanging willow, are two graves,.
marked by a white stone, with two beantiful doves
exquisitely chiselled on its face, beneath which are the
names of Hen-ry and Clara.





213


A NIGHT IN THE RAILROAD CARS.
I FOUND myself, at the close of one fine summer day,
comfortably seated in the cars which were to take
sundry other persons with myself, from Albany to
Rochester.
I have said the day was fine, and so remarked nearly
all my fellow-travellers, as they seated themselves and
opened the windows to enjoy the fresh breeze that blew
from the river.
I always endeavor to take my place in the car, if I
can, before the other passengers, that I may amuse
myself by making observations, not with my eyes, but
with my ears; for it is in those hurried moments that
always occur when the cars are about to leave, that
many persons think themselves unobserved, and are,
therefore, likely to say and do things which in a measure reveal their true character.  Thus, as I sat, I
could hear in one direction a gentle voice bidding farewell to kind friends, and in another the stentorian
tones of a rough adventurer, giving directions concerning his baggage.
Now a fashionable young gentleman stepped gracefully in, taking his seat with as much studied politeness
as if he was in a drawing-room; he was soon followed
by a timorous old lady, leading two children by the
hand, and inquiring of every one, when the cars would
go. It was amusing to see the efforts that each passenger made to become acquainted with his neighbor,
without transgressing the rules of propriety. "Can you
tell what time we shall reach Utica?." said one. " Do





214


THE OFFERING.


you know the time of day " asked another. "Wiri
you have this seat by the window 3" said a third,
addressing a lady.
A gentleman seated immediately in front of me
happened to turn round, and perceiving that I was
blind, addressed me: "Can you not see at all, sir 3"
On receiving my reply, he sighed, and said, " It is a
great misfortune."  By this time, the old lady, who
happened to be sitting near us, reached her head over
very nearly in the gentleman's face, and in a voice that
reminded me very much of a gristmill, exclaimed,
"You don't say he is blind?"  ' He says so, marm,"
was the cool reply. "Will you be kind enough to ask
him if his name is Goodwin 3"  On being informed
that it was not, she said I looked very much like a
blind man in her neighborhood, and commenced to give
us some account of his history, but was interrupted by
the voice of the conductor, - " All aboard! all aboard!"
The paper boys ran in all directions, the bell rung, and
we were off.
Seated immediately behind me, were two men who
seemed to be very well acquainted with each other,
engaged in conversation on bank stock, the currency,
and kindred subjects; they were evidently very well
satisfied with each other, and as I did not care to hear
their conversation, I took my seat beside the gentleman
in front of me; with him upon one side, and the old
lady on the other, I supposed I should be able to while
away the evening in a pleasant tete-a-tete. I was first,
however, compelled to answer sundry interrogatories,
which, if they had all been answered in the spirit in
which they were asked, would have made my companions pretty well acquainted with my personal history;
but by evasion and indirect answers, I succeeded in sat




A NIGHT IN THE RAILROAD CARS.


215


isfying them. Turning to the gentleman, I attempted to
engage him in general conversation. We had made a few
general remarks upon the western country and its prospects, when I felt the old lady's hand upon my shoulder, and her terrible voice in my ear. "Did you say,
sir, that you was a married man?" On being answered
affirmatively, she actually arose from her seat in surprise, exclaiming, loud enough to be heard all over the
car, " Well, I declare! "  Then putting her lips as close
to my ear as possible, she said in as soft tones as she
was capable of using, " Have you any babies?"  On
replying "I have one child," she seemed to be entirely
overcome with astonishment. "Dear me! well, we
really learn something every day!  Is it a boy or a
girl "
By this time she had succeeded in drawing the attention of two men who were seated some distance from
her, who, prompted by curiosity, came toward her.
Fearing that I was getting too great a notoriety, I persuaded the gentleman by my side to take a seat with
me inr another part of the car; and there we could distinctly hear the old lady relating to those around her
every particular which she had succeeded in extracting
from me. She had not a single tooth in her head,
which made her voice sound very singularly; beside
this, her forms of expression were certainly very peculiar; so that, in relating the few facts which she had
been able to gather, she made them appear ridiculous
in the extreme. At length some other person engaged
in conversation with her, and I soon found she was as
willing to relate her own history as she was anxious to
inquire into the history of others; but as I did not feel
particularly interested, I resumed the conversation with
my companion on the western country.





216


THE OFFERING.


He was a very intelligent man; he gave me many
important statistics illustrating the growth of the
western country, and related many amusing anecdotes
of western men and manners. At length, for a few
minutes, conversation seemed by common consent to
cease. Just at that moment the cars stopped, and in
an instant the old lady was on her feet, exclaiming, at
the very top of her voice, " Are we off of the track? are
we off of the track?"  The conductor opened the door,
and called for the passengers for Fort Plain. The old
lady awoke her two children, and moved rapidly
towards the door. As the conductor was handing her
from the cars, I heard her say, " I really wish I knew
more about that blind man."
In a few moments we resumed our journey. We
had taken on. board several passengers, so that every
seat in the car was now occupied. Some of the new
comers were a turbulent set of fellows, who amused
themselves in singing songs and in talking upon political
affairs. Believing it to be utterly impossible to be able
to get any sleep, my western friend and myself listened
for some time to the amusing conversation of those
around us. The necessity which every one was under
for speaking aloud, enabled us to gratify our curiosity.
The human heart always yearns for sympathy, and
men will frequently unbosom themselves to each other,
without the slightest reserve, to enjoy only the momentary satisfaction of a friendly interchange of thought
and feeling. There are, we know, a few who seem to
be wrapped up in themselves. They always travel
incognito; but they lose much, very much, by this
exclusive selfishness. But our companions happened to
be for the most part open-hearted, and rather loquacious.
They related to each other incidents of their lives which





A NIGHT IN THE RAILROAD CARS.


217


were calculated to make the time pass away pleasantly.
My companion remarked to me that there was a man
seated not far from us who had a very striking countenance. " Suppose " said I, 1" we cultivate his acquaintance."  "Agreed!" he replied, and we moved towards
him, when the following dialogue ensued: 1"I think,
sir, I must have seen you before," said my western
friend. "It is quite possible you have," was the cool
reply of the stranger,; "but I am sure this gentleman
never did," turning towards me. "Perhaps," said I,
(not liking this allusion very well,) "if I could, I
should not wish to." A few good-natured remarks on
both sides soon set us all right, and we entered upon a
very pleasant conversation.
The stranger informed us that his name was Tolman,
and wished to know ours. I then, for the first time,
learned the name of my western friend; it was a familiar one,-Mr. P., a member of Congress from one of
the Western States.
Mr. Tolman related to us, in the most familiar manner, and without the slightest hesitation, the most
prominent events of his life. "I was," said he, "born
in the city of New York. My parents were poor; I
maintained myself, however, when very young, by
acting in the capacity of newsboy. I had but little
education; I learned to read and write at the common
schools, which are," said he with emphasis, " an ornament to our country. When I grew up to manhood, I
was employed to collect news for the daily papers. At
length," said he, with an expression of proud satisfaction altogether indescribable, and in a tone of voice
which indicated that he was not deficient in self-esteem,
" I received a substantial proof of the confidence: of my
fellow-citizens, by the appointment of constable,: which
19





218


THE OFFERING.


office I have held for the last nine years."  1 I suppose," said I, "you are now in pursuit of some refugee
from justice."  " Yes," said he, " I have a little official
business in this direction." The conductor now came
along for our tickets; he remarked to the constable that
he managed that affair finely. " Yes," said he; "but
the old woman has given us a great deal of trouble."
"What," said I, "can it be that you have arrested that
old lady who was with us in the cars a short time
ago?"   " Yes!" said he, "yes!" but I could get nothing more from him on the subject.
The cars again stopped, and I was compelled reluctantly to part with my western friend. The rest of my
journey passed with but little conversation. About
twelve o'clock the next day, we reached Rochester. A
friend read to me the following, from  the evening
papers, a few hours after my arrival:
"Constable Tolman, of New York city, succeeded in
arresting Mrs. Loring, who was concerned in the great
forgery case. She will be tried at the next session of
the court, which will be holden in the city of New
York, in October next. When arrested, she had with
her her two grandchildren, and was on a visit to her
friends at Fort Plain."
The reading of this only excited a passing observation at the time; but when, after a lapse of a short
period, I returned to New York city, being invited by a
friend to go with him to the court-house, to hear an
unusually interesting trial, which was then going on,
I found, to my surprise, that the person to be tried was
the old lady whom I had met in the cars. When we
entered, the indictment had just been read, and the





A NIGHT IN THE RAILROAD CARS.      219
clerk was putting his usual question to the prisoner,
" IGuilty, or not guilty?~"  Again that horrible voice
sounded in my ears.
I heard it but once more. It was on visiting the
prison at Sing-Sing.





220


LINES
WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM, REFERRING TO THE RECENT
DEATH OF HER SISTER.
OH! they that ne'er have seen can weep
When the young and beautiful depart;
The tears they shed may give relief,
And soothe awhile the aching heart.
For oh! to sympathy 'tis given
To cheer our sad and dreary life,
And make this dark world fair as heaven,
Where all is beautiful and bright.
I shed, fair girl, a tear for thee, -
The bitter tear of deep regret;
For he who ne'er may hope to see
Has oft o'er suffering beauty wept.
I weep for thee, for they are gone,
Who once made glad thy happy home,
To join the bright celestial throng
Of those that dwell around the throne.
But oft in dreams they'll come to bless,
And minister, dear girl, to thee,
When thou in sleep shalt calmly rest,
Or bend, in holy prayer, the knee.
And soon thou too with them shalt dwel.
In the bright and better land afar,
Whose beauty tongue can never tell,--
Whose joy no grief can ever mar.





2221


OUR GOVERNMENT.
THERE has recently been manifested in certain quarters a kind of dislike to the name by which our country
is distinguished. It is said that the United States of
America is not sufficiently expressive, and that there
are besides other portions of the American continent
bound together in a confederation similar to our own;
and it has therefore been thought that some name was required which should at once distinguish our country from
all others. Distinguished statesmen have been written
to on the subject, and learned societies have given their
opinion; some have recommended the name of Washington as the most appropriate; others have proposed
Hesperian, Alleghany, &c.; but the people, who decide
everything in this country, have refused to re-baptize
their native land, and she will probably always be distinguished by the time-honored name of United States
of North America.
There are, it seems to us, questions vastly more important than that to which we have referred, and about
which so much has been said and written, and to so
little purpose. There will never probably be any serious difficulty in understanding what portion of the
world is meant to be designated by the name that has
always distinguished our country; but the questions
transcending in importance all others are, Will she
accomplish all those great objects to which she has
pledged herself? Will the experiment, on which she
has entered under such favorable auspices, be successful, or a miserable failure? Will she realize the fond19*





222


THE OFFERING.


est hopes of the patriot and philanthropist, or disappoint
them forever? In fine, will she have a glorious or an
ignoble destiny?  These are solemn and momentous
questions, upon which we purpose to make a few remarks.
Beyond all doubt, one of the most brilliant events of
the eighteenth century was the American revolution.
That a few isolated colonies, without possessing any
adequate resources, should commence and carry on a
war with the most powerful country of the civilized
world, relying only on the valor of its citizens, and the
justice of its cause; and that they should finally succeed in achieving their independence, was certainly
well calculated to astonish mankind. For centuries previously, the divine right of kings had been everywhere
acknowledged; and it was supposed that democratic
ideas, which at different times had proved themselves so
troublesome to the despots of Europe, were effectually
crushed. The breaking out of the American revolution, and the startling principles put forth in the Declaration of Independence, were regarded by the tyrants of
the old world with astonishment and consternation;
while, on the other hand, it tended to revive and animate the friends of liberty, who previously had so
bravely but unsuccessfully struggled to maintain their
rights against the encroachments of tyranny and usurpation in the old world.
Viewed simply in relation to its causes and effects, its
means and results, the war which obtained for us a
separate existence among the nations of the earth forms
one of the most important events, and is, without doubt,
the most remarkable achievement, of modern times.
The progress of nations in civilization, and the development of principles on which it depends, is usually





OUR GOVERNMVIENT.


2 3


extremely slow; often liable to be retarded by retrograde movements, the result of causes which no wisdom
can foresee, and no sagacity can prevent. This is the
more striking in nations at the commencement of their
existence, though it is more or less apparent at every
stage of their advancement. This was the case with
Egypt, and most of the eastern nations; and the remark holds good when applied to most of the countries
of modern Europe. There have, however, been some
very remarkable exceptions.
The progress of ancient Greece in civilization was
wonderfully rapid, though subjected to great vicissitudes; such, for example, as the invasion of the Persians, intestine wars, &c.; but her decline in civilization
was almost as rapid as her advancement.
Rome, too, made rapid strides from the time it was
settled to the second Punic war; it had a glorious career from that period to the reign of Augustus, when it
began to decline. But most other nations have had a
slower development. They have been longer in attaining that degree of civilization of which they were capable; and they have generally succeeded in maintaining
it for a greater length of time than did Greece or Rome.
Our own country, however, furnishes the only instance
of modern times, -,whose brilliant, rapid, and successful
career even transcends that of Greece. It must not,
however, be forgotten, that precocity in nations is
equally as injurious in its tendency as in individuals.
The different elements of the body politic require to be
gradually developed and invigorated, as the nation
passes from infancy to maturity, something in the same
manner as the different parts of our corporeal organization are invigorated and strengthened in passing from
childhood to manhood. It is very common for us to





22I4


THE OFFERING.


boast of our attainments in civilization and refinement,
and there is certainly much in the brilliant career of
our country thus far to make us proud. It may be
safely said, that no nation ever did so much, in so short
a period, to develop its resources, and to promote the
happiness and welfare of its citizens; still, it must be
acknowledged that there is much in our boasted progress that is superficial.
An eminent French writer has justly remarked, that
there are two ways by which we must measure the civilization to which a nation has attained. First, by its
effects upon the intellectual and moral development of
the individual man; and, secondly, by the influence it
has exerted upon the social condition of all its members.
Now, if we apply these principles to the subject under
consideration,- if we ask ourselves what has the United
States done for man in his individual capacity, and for
the social advancement of the race? we shall not have
quite so much reason for self-gratulation as some superficial observers would be inclined to suppose.
The effect of the revolution on the American mind
tended, undoubtedly, at first, greatly to increase its activity, and to inspire the individual with exalted and
even extravagant ideas of personal liberty. It was well
for us and the world that those who were engaged in
that ever-memorable struggle, and who, to some extent,
controlled the destinies of the nation for some years
after it had ceased, were, for the most part, men of pure
and lofty principles, actuated not so much by the low
ambition of filling a conspicuous station, as by the truly
noble desire of promoting the welfare of their country,
and the happiness of their race.
We owe to the patriotism, moderation, and farreaching sagacity of Washington, and his compeers, a





OUR GOVERNMENT.


2205


debt of gratitude which we can never repay; for at the
most critical hour of our national existence, at a time
when it was doubtful whether we had not freed ourselves from the despotism of England only to be subjected to the more revolting despotism of anarchy, or
again to become the subjects of some foreign tyrant;
at that darkest, that most critical hour, when all that
had been achieved was likely to be lost, they, the illustrious fathers of the republic, stood firm and unmoved;
and all that we now possess, all the social and political
blessings we enjoy, we owe to their valor, their wisdom, and their unyielding integrity.
In considering, as we propose to do, some of the institutions which were the result of the American Revolution,
affecting the social and political condition and destiny
of our country, we shall endeavor to keep constantly
before us the fact to which we have referred; namely,
that all the social privileges we enjoy, that flow from a
well ordered government, that the political institutions
which preeminently distinguish our country from all
others, were secured by the untiring and indefatigable
labors of those great and good men by whom they
were formed and set in successful operation, and who
stamped upon the works of their genius, to some extent
at least, their own transcendent characters.
The government of the United States, in many of its
essential features, is original; and at its commencement
i, was regarded as an anomaly. Its founders, paying a
decent respect to the opinions and usages of former
times, still felt called upon, by the peculiarities of the
country and the wants of the people, to depart from
some of the established maxims of legislation, and to
form institutions which should secute the blessings,
while at the same time they avoided the evils, to which





226


THE OFFERING.


almost every other system of government had been subjected; and it may be safely said, that never were fallible men more successful. It has now been in operation
more than half a century, subjected to vicissitudes
which could not have been foreseen, and has always
proved itself adequate to all the purposes for which it
was designed. There are those, however, who think
that they can see principles at work in our glorious
institutions, which will eventually prove their destruction. That, like everything formed by man, they are
destined to undergo great changes, there cannot be a
doubt; and that they contain elements that in some
degree impair their beauty, and retard their healthy
and beneficent action, may also be admitted; but it is
not, we think, too much to say, that thus far, notwithstanding the unexampled growth and expansion of the
resources of the country, and the unparalleled increase
of population, no country has ever been more wisely
governed, and no people ever enjoyed for the same
length of time so large an amount of national liberty,
as the inhabitants of these United States.
The principles of our government are so generally
understood as to render it unnecessary to go into minute
details. We may sometimes have occasion to refer to
the operation of its different parts, and we shall act on
the supposition that their nature is well understood.
The world has never had an opportunity, before the
existence of our government, of observing the workings
of free institutions, nor of testing to so full an extent the
efficacy of democratic principles; for in Greece, Rome,
and in the republics and free states which have existed
at different periods, the democratic principle had always
to contend, to a greater or less extent, with aristocracy,
monarchy, theocracy, &c.; and it is worthy of remark,





OUR GOVERNMENT.


227


that the democratic element has almost always been
obliged to yield to one or the other of its antagonists,
or to their combined influence. And not the least interesting portion of history, is that which records the
earnest but too often ineffectual struggles of free principles for ascendancy.
At the formation of the American constitution, there
were no other opposing ideas of government with which
it had to contend. The long and sanguinary war
which preceded that event had completely annihilated
all attachment to monarchy min the minds of the American people. The only difficulty which was experienced was of quite an opposite nature. They had
become so thoroughly imbued with the most extravagant notions of liberty, that it was for a long time
doubtful whether they would consent to that confederation which the constitution proposed, and which seemed
so necessary to secure to ALL the permanent enjoyment
of their rights.
If we would seek for the fact which more than any
other explains the astonishing progress we have made
in the cultivation of the arts and sciences, and above all
in education, and in ameliorating the condition of the
masses, we shall, I think, find that it consists in the vast
superiority of a federal representative government over
every other form that has ever existed. Its influence
upon society is much more striking than upon the individual man. It can, I think, be safely assumed that the
masses in this country are better provided for, that is to
say, the millions are better fed and clad, than the
inhabitants of any other country in the civilized world.
The government, without crippling the energies of
the people by exorbitant taxation, possesses abundant
resources to render itself effective at home, and respected





228


THE OFFERING.


abroad; and by pursuing a wise policy, - by protecting
alike agriculture, manufactures and commerce, -by
extending to each department of industry its fostering
care, without crippling any with burdensome enactments, -it has succeeded in securing to all an unexampled degree of prosperity. All that government can
effect for the social well-being of the people is well
nigh accomplished. It is, without doubt, able to effect
more, by refraining to interfere with the various departments of industry, by allowing the people full scope to
develop their energies, than it could in any other way.
The great difficulty with France, England, and the
other European countries, is, that they are too much
governed.
There are many who are disappointed with the
operations of our institutions. It is complained that
they have not accomplished the complete social regeneration of the people. It is, perhaps, enough to say that
the American government has done more to promote
the welfare and prosperity of the millions that enjoy its
protection than any other government could have done.
It must ever be remembered that there are evils in
society that no legislation can remove, - that can only
be thoroughly eradicated by the education of each individual member. Nine tenths of the degradation that
exists in this world is the result of ignorance; till this
be removed, it is vain to talk of any other means of
social regeneration.
In this country, the education of the people is left
almost exclusively to the different states, and hence the
striking difference that exists, and upon which foreigners
have so often remarked, between the Eastern and the
Middle, the Southern and the Western States. Massachusetts, New York and Pennsylvania, have done more





OUR GOVERNMENT.


Ga9


for the cause of education than any of the other states
of the Union. There is now, however, beginning to be
manifested in every part of the United States a deer
interest in this important subject. The free school system of New England is beginning to be copied by
many of the Western and Southern States. We hope
vastly more from the free school system than from any
other scheme for the improvement and advancement of
society.
There is one peculiarity of our institutions which
seems well calculated to exert a beneficent influence.
We refer to the fact that every citizen is eligible to any
office in the national or state government. It cannot be
denied but that this is a powerful stimulant, and greatly
tends to encourage the pursuit of knowledge among the
mass of the people.   It has been objected to free
governments, (and it is said that the objection is peculiarly applicable to ours,) that, although they exert a
favorable influence upon the multitude, they do not
favor intellectual and moral cultivation in the individual. It is affirmed that instances of great intellectual
attainments and rare moral worth are less frequent
under democratic governments than under monarchical
forms. Comparisons are instituted which are thought
to be in favor of the latter. That our distinguished
public men for the last half century will compare well
with those of England and France for the same period,
will not, I think, be denied; and that we have done
our part in the investigation of the physical sciences
and their application to the mechanic arts, must also be
conceded.
In literature, we have as yet done but little; in fact,
we may be said to have no national literature. The
American mind, however, has not shown any want of
20





230


THE OFFERING.


depth and activity, and it is beginning to exhibit signs
of originality.  We have those among us who are
beginning to lay the foundations of an American literature that will one day be as rich and varied as that of
any other country.
Our distinguished men early enter public life; politics is more inviting than Parnassus. One of our greatest
poets is the editor of a political newspaper.
We have our universities and other institutions of
learning, which abundantly prove that there is nothing
in the nature of a republican government inimical to
the pursuit of letters. It must also be remembered that
we, as a nation, are yet in our infancy. Who can tell
what we shall be when all our resources shall be fairly
developed?  Who knows but in literature and the fine
arts we shall yet surpass the ancient Greeks, as we
have most modern nations, in conferring great social
blessings and political privileges upon all?
We have thus briefly and imperfectly spoken of some
of the effects of our government upon the social condition of the people, and the intellectual and moral development of the individual. Much more might indeed be said,
but we have already devoted more space to this part of
our subject than we at first intended.
To every American, the question must sometimes
present itself, What is to be the fate of our institutions?
Are they to exist for centuries, conferring incalculable
blessings upon millions yet to come, or is our country to
share the fate of all previous republics? Is rational
liberty to be surperseded by anarchy, and that in turn
by despotism?  Certainly strange symptoms have manifested themselves for the last few years in the body
politic. The enthusiasm enkindled by the fathers of the
republic seems to have died away, and men now specu




OUR GOVERNMENT.


231


late upon the bond that connects these states together in
one common sisterhood as they do upon the ordinary
events of every-day life. The constitution has been
frequently violated, and yet it produces little or no impression upon the public mind, or, at most, excites but a
feeble remonstrance.
We have inherited from our fathers the great boon of
civil and religious liberty, and we are bound to transmit
it unimpaired to posterity. It would be well for the
revolutionists of our day to remember, that it is much
easier to destroy a government already existing than it
is to form a new one. That there are evils which have
developed themselves in our institutions, no one can
deny; but the POOREST expedient we have ever yet seen
for eradicating them, is that of destroying the institutions themselves.
He who burnt the temple of Diana at Ephesus, that
he might have his name transmitted to posterity, has
acquired at most but an unenviable notoriety; and, in
like manner, that man, or party, who labor unceasingly to weaken the attachment of the American people
to the union of the states, which is their sole political
salvation, will merit the contempt of all coming time,
although it is professed to be done in the sacred name
of philanthropy. By the way, we like to see, in the
C overflowing cup of philanthropy, a drop or two of
patriotism."
There are those of the present day, who, in quite a
different way from that to which we have referred, are
laboring to accomplish the same result, though perhaps
they deceive themselves with the belief that they are
not. It is quite common now to talk of our destiny as
a nation; of the obligations we are under to extend our
institutions over the whole continent, regardless of ter




232,


THE OFFERING.


ritorial boundaries: and the rights of nations. The infamous war in which we are now engaged is the practical carrying out of this atrocious principle; what the
English have, done in India, and the French in Algiers,
we are doing in Mexico. We hope that the people of
these United States will soon recover their wonted good
sense, and correct the abuses of government that have
for the last few years disgraced the republic. We
ought indeed to extend our free institutions, but not by
despoiling weaker nations of their territory, and thus
imitating the example of the worst of tyrants. No! we
ought rather to pursue the humane and magnanimous
policy that characterized the administrations of Washington, Adams, and Jefferson. It ought to be our aim
to exhibit to the world a model republic, whose government seeks for nothing so much as the happiness and
welfare of its citizens, and to live in peace with all the
world. Then would other nations imitate our exam--
ple, and copy our institutions.  As for territory, we
have enough of it already. The public lands have
always been a bone of contention between the states.
Thet disposition which a portion of the people of this
country have recently manifested to annex foreign territory to this Union, under the pretence of enlarging the
area of freedom, proceeds from that insane ambition
which has proved so fatal to other republics. It was
this that destroyed Rome. That republic, in extending
its dominion, weakened itself by every new acquisition,
until at length the northern barbarians trampled its
eagles in the dust. If we pursue the same course, the
same! inevitable result will follow. We may extend our
'territory to the Isthmus of Darien, but then the republic
must die;, then we shall have a Caesar to lead our armies, and even; a Brutus, cannot save the country.





OUR GOVERNMENT.


233


However, we are far from   anticipating such a result.
The American people are too intelligent not to heed the
lessons of experience. They may sometimes be guilty
of excesses, or rather those may to whom they delegate
their power for a season; but the time will come when
they will administer the corrective to the abuses of
which we have been speaking.
We are her natural friends, and ought not therefore to
assume a hostile attitude towards Mexico; for, in the
language of one of our most eminent statesmen, "Our
fate is strangely linked with hers."
There are many other thoughts which suggest themselves, but we must draw this article to a close. We
like not to dwell upon the evils that beset our free institutions, much less to contemplate the calamity that
threatens their overthrow. America has a glorious
mission to fulfil,-not by arms, not by conquest,-but
by furnishing to the world, for centuries to come, the
spectacle of a great republic, whose citizens live in the
peaceful enjoyment of their natural and inalienable
rights, and whose first law is ETERNAL JUSTICE.
20*





234


CHARITY.
"Now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is
charity."
OF all the virtues that adorn the character, none is
more needed among men than the one inculcated in
these divine words of St. Paul.
If we look around us, we shall find, in the condition
of our fellow-men, and in the relations which we sustain to each other, circumstances that constantly call
for the exercise of charity. Suffering, that forms so
large a part of our present existence, to which so many
are subjected, and from which none are entirely exempt, requires the constant exercise of good-will and
charity among men.
The great truth of the universal brotherhood of the
race, announced by the Saviour of the world, is not yet
fully appreciated; it is not, therefore, strange, that- the
great duty it enforces should not yet be sufficiently understood. It was charity which imparted so deep a
beauty, such a bright refulgence, to his life, whom we
all reverence as the perfect pattern of humanity, and it
is this which has shone forth most conspicuously in the
lives of all good men. We reverence its manifestations
in Fenelon, Howard, Wilberforce, and Channing. We
have somewhere read that when Shelley listened to the
great cathedral organ in Holland, he sighed, because
FAITH, and NOT CHARITY, was made the substance of universal religion.
Nothing tends so much as charity to expand the
heart, and free it from those narrow prejudices which





CHARITY.


235.


are always its opposite. The darkest page of history
is that on which is recorded the mournful, effects of bigotry and intolerance.
Physical destitution and suffering, though existing to
an appalling extent in the world, is not so much to be
lamented as the want of that charity, the exercise of
which would tend to annihilate it. Even in its most
common forms, charity is as yet but imperfectlyunderstood and poorly practised. Nothing is more likely to
be counterfeited among men than this virtue; but the
frequency of the counterfeit only serves to prove the excellency of the reality. What is it that imparts to humble
life its dearest attractions? Is it not its sweet, unostentatious charities, made more admirable because they seek
not the world's applause? How many darkened minds
have been sustained by its blessed light! How many
desponding souls have been revived and nerved to renewed exertions by its life-giving power! How many
wretched, degraded human beings have been reclaimed
by its persuasive eloquence!
It is not the great events of life that are most worthy
of our admiration; it is those daily nameless acts, that
flow from the deep compassion of the heart, and form
the silken cord that binds us. to each other.
The most grateful incense that earth can offer heaven
is the benefactions of the humble, that gush forth from
a heart distilling joy and gladness along the pathway
of the friendless and the needy, as the murmuring rill
on the hill-side refreshes the weary traveller. He is
most favored who knows, by sweet experience, " that it
is more blessed to give than to receive."
There are some duties which, from their very nature,
are limited, being obligatory only on individuals, or particular classes; but the requirements of benevolence are





236


THE OFFERING.


universal. Everywhere is man, to some extent, dependent on his fellow-man. No one, however favored, can
free himself entirely from those complicated ties that
bind him to society and to his kind. Nor can he rightfuly refrain from the observance of those duties which
are their legitimate results, and follow each other as
certainly as effects follow causes. It is common to say
that the rich should be benevolent to the poor; that "he
who hath should give to him who hath not;" but there
is a sense in which all may be said to be poor. The
Creator, for the wisest purposes, has subjected all his
creatures to a state of mutual dependence. There is no
arrangement of life that so strikingly manifests his wisdom and goodness.
The uncertainty in which the future is enshrouded,
the utter impossibility of any man's seeing what are the
vicissitudes to which he may be subjected, is eminently
calculated to impress upon the mind a deep sense of
dependence and relationship. It is upon this fact of our
constitution that society is mainly based.
There is, in the breast of man, a consciousness of
sympathetic affinity, or an attraction of aggregation,
which prompts him to seek for happiness in the society
of his fellow-men. It is this which prevents him from
becoming a purely selfish being. There is an intimate
and beautiful connection between our social and our
moral and religious nature; to some extent, at least, the
dei- lopment of the latter is dependent on the cultivation of the former. Nothing is so unfavorable to virtue
and piety as stoicism and asceticism. Those who have
manifested most conspicuously in their lives lo re to
God and all mankind, who have earned the appellation
of philanthropist, and gained for themselves immortal
renown, have not been recluses, but, on the contrary,





CHAiRITY.


237


have mingled much in society; the busy world, with
its turmoil and strife, was the chosen theatre of their
labors. Say what you will of the selfishness of mankind, there is nothing which so readily wins their applause as disinterested benevolence. No one is held by
the multitude in such high veneration as he who, by
his disinterested devotion, has proved himself the friend
and benefactor of his race.
There is nothing so irresistibly attractive, nothing
that appeals so directly to our best and noblest feelings,
as unpretending goodness, unostentatious charity; and
the world will one day learn that it is the most effective
agent that can ever be employed to. bring back to virtue
the fallen and degraded.
Charity, to be effective, must be spontaneous. The
welfare of others must be its aim and its end. It consists not so much in the performance of an act of kindness, as in the motive by which it was prompted, and
the manner in which it is bestowed. It has become
quite fashionable, in these days, to do good through the
medium of corporations and committees. Benevolent.
societies, as they are called, have been multiplied to. an
almost indefinite extent. It seems to us that all the
blessings which flow from the exercise of charity, that
benefit both the giver and the recipient, are lost when
any of these agencies are employed.
Charitable corporations can, at most, confer but a
DOUBTFUL good; they not unfrequently furnish to the
selfish and the heartless facilities for the gratification of
their pride, and thus to oppress those whom they were
designed to bless. It often happens that societies for
aiding the poor are composed of those who know nothing of the effects of poverty, and who never confer a,
trifling good without exacting in return more, than its





238


THE OFFERING.


equivalent in a degrading servility; and, while they
render temporary physical relief, not unfrequently outrage that delicate sensitiveness more commonly found
among the virtuous poor than the rich.
It is thought to be contrary to sound principles of
political economy to encourage alms-giving.     The
wealthy, without doubt, in most cases, meaning well,
prefer to employ agents to search out the poor and the
suffering, to afford them relief, and thus to free themselves from all further responsibility. No one can have
observed the operation of this system, especially in our
larger cities, without having become convinced of its
utter inadequacy. It really tends to increase the evil it
was. designed to mitigate. Besides, there is a distinction among the poor which ought never to be overlooked. The benevolent societies of which we have
spoken act too often upon the presumption that poverty
and crime are necessary concomitants. Their benefactions are almost always bestowed in a manner which
seems to reflect upon the virtue and purity of those who
are the objects of their bounty. There are many in
every community condemned to indigent circumstances
by causes altogether beyond their control. They never
solicit aid of others so long as they can obtain a bare
subsistence by their own exertions; and often, very
often, they drag out a miserable existence, and even DIEr,
for the want of the common necessaries of life, rather
than subject themselves to the humiliation to which our
organized charitable associations would subject them.
Now this is wrong, all wrong. If there be any class
of human beings entitled to the sympathy and compassion of their more fortunate fellow-men, it is those who,
in the midst of want and privation, are yet able to
maintain a life of unsullied purity and virtue; for it is





CHARITY.


239


from them that the world has received its noblest benefactors.
There is no necessity for all that complicated MACHINERY by which the wealthy, in many instances,
convey relief to the poor. Charity, to be effective, to
benefit both the giver and the receiver, must be direct
and personal. The obligation under which God has
placed every man, to do good according to his ability,
cannot be shifted off upon an irresponsible corporation.
Nor can the excuses, which are sometimes made, avail
anything. Every man, who has the means of doing
good, can always find an opportunity. The wealthy
are surely not so engrossed in their pursuits that they
cannot find an hour or a day to perform those duties,
which should testify alike their sympathy for the unfortunate, and their gratitude to the Giver of all good.
If this were done, if the rich would oftener visit the
abodes of poverty themselves, and, with their own
hands, bestow that relief which the necessities of the
poor require, and which is now too often intrusted to
the bungling management of a pseudo-benevolent society, they would mitigate one evil, without creating
another of greater magnitude, and the expressions of
gratitude that would then tremble on the lip, and beam
from the eye, would impart a deeper joy and higher
satisfaction than wealth can ever give.
The remarks we have made apply strictly to those
societies whose sole object is to improve the PHYSICAL
condition of the poor. We do not mean to include those
associations, or institutions, that have a higher purpose,
-that of educating the ignorant and degraded; yet
there can be no doubt that even these are liable to
abuse. There is a tendency in all large establishments
of this kind,-perhaps it is unavoidable,--to overlook the





240


THE OFFERING.


primary object for which they were created.    The
individual is forgotten in the anxiety to benefit the
class, and often both are overlooked in the earnest
efforts to build up a magnificent institution to transmit
to posterity the names of its wealthy patrons. It seems
to be an invariable result, we might almost say an
inevitable law, that men, when associated for any
common object, forget that they have individual responsibilities, from which no combination, however popular,
can relieve them. It is a trite, and, to a lamentable
extent, a true adage, that "CORPORATIONs have no
souls."
I have often been surprised to observe with what
readiness many persons, when called upon to perform a
duty in their individual capacity, and which required
more disinterestedness than they really possessed, would
evade the obligation by referring it to this or that benevolent society, to which they belonged. They may in this
way sometimes deceive their fellow-man, but they cannot
elude the scrutiny of that All-seeing Eye to whom the
secrets of all hearts are known, and who has declared
that our duty is to "visit the fatherless and the widows
in their afflictions, and to keep ourselves unspotted
from the world."
We have thus far spoken of charity in its most common significations, and in a limited sense of the term;
charity, which consists in merely doing good one to
another, and which the circumstances in which we are
placed, and the relations which we sustain to those
around us, would seem to enforce; but the words we
have placed at the head of this article refer to something higher, a loftier virtue, a more benign charity.
There is nothing which mankind has manifested so
much, in every age, as the spirit of intolerance. It has





CHARITY.


241


darkened and defiled religion, corrupted the best and
noblest of men, and embittered every department of life.
It is against this spirit, in all its manifestations, that
Christianity hurls its most terrible denunciations. It is
the cultivation of its opposite it everywhere enjoins.
It declares that love is the basis of all our relations to
each other and to the race, and that God himself is love.
Bigotry and intolerance have done more to degrade
man, and to darken the earth with the most revolting
crimes, than the combined influence of all other causes.
They have devised every conceivable species of torture.
The rack, the flames, the gibbet, have all been made to
minister to their insatiate and uncontrollable tyranny.
What a mournful record of its dark and bloody deeds
does the history of the world contain! The great and
the good, the innocent and the pure, have been its victims. Under one form or another, in every age, it has
established its terrible dominion over the intellect and
consciences of men. It has perpetrated its atrocities
sometimes in the name of religion, but often associating
itself with the most unblushing infidelity; for the one
it has established the inquisition, and for the other the
guillotine. Everywhere, under all circumstances, it has
been man's most unrelenting foe. Opposed to it, but
with altogether different means, Christianity is striving
to establish upon the earth the dominion of peace and
love, and to diffuse into the hearts of men the spirit of
that charity " that beareth all things, believeth all
things, hopeth all things, endureth all things."
It is common to speak of bigotry as existing in other
times; but if we look more closely, we shall find it as
active now as ever, though in a somewhat modified
form. It has its origin in selfishness and ignorance,
and it therefore cannot be annihilated until man shall
21





242               THE OFFERING.
everywhere become enlightened and imbued with the
spirit of that divine charity which we have seen is
inculcated by our holy religion.
There are many bright and glorious examples of the
influence of charity upon the heart and life; they form
the green spots, the beautiful oases, of this world's
history; they remind us of what man once was, and of
what he may become; the record of their actions, gathering increased refulgence, shall endure forever; but for
bigotry and intolerance there is no immortality. The
time we trust is coming when their bloody footprints
will be obliterated from the earth, and the angel of love
will take up its abode in every heart. Then shall "Ithe
waste places of the earth be glad, and the wilderness
and the solitary places shall bloom and blossom as the
rose."1





243


THE BLIND PEDLER.
AT the close of a cold winter's day in the year 1840,
an old man might have been seen slowly wending his
way along the turnpike road, a few miles from the old
town of Newburyport. His manly figure was slightly
bent, but it was impossible for the observer to discern
whether it was by age, or in consequence of two trunks
which were fastened upon each end of a leather strap,
which was thrown over his shoulders so as to bring
them upon either side. In one hand he carried a staff,
and it was easy to perceive, from the manner in which
he made use of it, that it formed the only means by
which he was enabled to feel his way along with any
degree of certainty; for at a glance you could have told
he was a blind man.
Although it was snowing fast, yet he made no effort
to increase his pace.  Occasionally, a half audible
expression would escape his lips, as if his mind was
engrossed with some all-absorbing subject of contemplation; or it may have been he was mentally congratulating himself that he was so near the place where he
was sure he could find refreshment and repose, after
the fatigues of the day. But once only did he seem to
notice the storm. Stopping for a moment, he placed
his trunks upon the ground, buttoned his great-coat up
to his chin, and then in the same quiet manner walked
on. Occasionally he would extend his staff to recognize some familiar object which had served him in
former days as a landmark. As he did so, a smile of
satisfaction would light up his countenance, and an





244


THE OFFERING.


expression of joy would fall from his lips, for he knew
that they would guide him right; they had never
deceived him.
Many a reminiscence of other days did these familiar
objects awaken in the mind of the blind old man.
Here was the rock upon which he had sat and whiled
away many an hour in his childhood. A little further
on is the tree with which is associated some terrible
memories, for as he strikes it with his cane, he seems to
shudder; but slowly he moves on, swinging his staff to
the right and the left, pensively musing upon the associations connected with each object with which it is
brought in contact. The storm increases as he nears
the town, but it moves him not. Perhaps there is some
strange affinity between the old man's thoughts and
the troubled elements. It may be that his spirit is
brooding over the wrongs that he has received from the
heartless world, - of the injustice of those who should
have blessed him; but it is impossible to divine his
reflections, as, with downcast head, he cautiously
gropes his way along, till at length reaching the entrance
of the town, he pauses, - and setting his trunks upon
the ground, he feels around with his cane as if in search
of some object; at length he exclaims, "It is gone!
All is new and strange! Twenty years ago, upon the
spot where I now stand, was the house in which I was
born; but improvements have swept it away, as fate
has nearly all its wretched inmates; but it is late, and
I must be moving on. I wonder if they will recollect
me;" and quickening his pace, he soon reached the
centre of the town. Stopping in front of a large oldfashioned edifice, he began, as he was wont, to make
an examination of the premises with his cane, this
being his only means of ascertamining his precise where




THE BLIND PEDLER.


246


abouts.  Satisfied at length that he was right, he
ascended the steps; but before we admit him, we will
enter ourselves and describe its inmates.
At the same hour in which we first introduced our
hero to the reader, the occupants of the mansion to
which we have conducted him were quietly seated in
their parlor before a comfortable fire, in the enjoyment
of a domestic tete-a-tete, each one inwardly thanking
fortune that the inclemency of the weather would save
them from the annoyance of visitors. It was a cheerful
sight which this happy group presented, as, seated
around a centre-table, they listened to each other's conversation, laughed at some playful remark, or occasionally enlivened the scene with a pleasant song.
Mr. Talmadge, the father of the family, or, as he
was commonly called, Captain Talmadge, was by profession a shipmaster. He had made several very successful voyages, and a few days before the commencement of our story, he had returned from a long voyage
to the East Indies. In person, he was a little above
the ordinary size. His face was a true index to his
heart. The flashes of his large dark eyes denoted the
undaunted energy of his soul, and his high expanded
brow indicated an active and a vigorous intellect. He
had moved much in good society, so that he united with
the frankness of a sailor the accomplished manners of
a gentleman. We need only add that he was a kind
father and a generous friend. He purchased, for the
sake of his wife, a residence in the neighborhood of her
former home. There were two places on earth where
one might be sure to find him,--in the bosom of his
family, or on the quarter deck of his noble ship.
He had early connected himself in marriage with a
highly respectable, though not very wealthy, family of
21*





246


THE OFFERING.


his native town. He loved Julia French, as he himself
expressed it, " for her beauty, intelligence and virtue;,"
and he would have made her his wife, if she had been
the poorest girl in the land. Amply did she repay his
love with a life of beautiful devotion.
Twenty years of their married life had passed away,
and they were the happy parents of three devoted children. The oldest had wisely chosen the profession of
his father; and at this time, he had just commenced
his career as a mariner,, having been one voyage as a
second officer in his father's ship. ' The two youngest
were girls, one sixteen and the other fourteen years of
age. These were the persons that composed the happy
group that on that stormy night assembled around the
domestic fireside, to enjoy that interchange of thought
and feeling which constitutes one of the chief attractions of home.
The two girls entertained their brother and their
parents with their first attempts at drawing; among
their sketches was the likeness of a little blind boy,
whom they had lately met at school; and whose misfortune at once awakened their sympathies. Their interest in him was heightened because their mother had
told them that they once had a relative who was blind.
"Here," said Julia, the youngest sister, to her mother,
holding up the sketch, "is the face of the poor sightless
boy." "'You told us, mother," said the other sister,
"that you would sometime tell us about our uncle
who was deprived of his sight."  "Ellen," replied the
mother, (for this was the name of the eldest daughter,)
"I ought to have fulfilled my promise before; but I
never think of my poor brother without recalling to
mind the memory of many things which I would were
buried in oblivion: still, as I have excited your curiosity.





THE BLIND PEDLER.


274


it is right that I should gratify it; if you feel disposed
to listen to me, I will do so now."  The children
thanked their mother, and she proceeded:
"' My oldest brother was some ten years older than
myself. He was always remarkably fond of his studies;
his eyes being weak, prevented him from gratifying his
love of knowledge to a very great extent. When about
sixteen years old, he was obliged, in consequence of
the weakness of his eyes, to leave school. To mother,
who had but one fault, that of being TOO fond of her
children, this was a great disappointment; and as day
by day his eyes grew worse, fearing that blindness
would ensue, she tried every remedy which affection
could prompt or ingenuity suggest.
"It happened that about this time a travelling doctor
came along, who professed to have great skill in the
treatment of the eye.   Mother procured of him   a
powder, and contrary to the wishes of all the family,
applied it to his eyes. I shall never forget that night!:
As soon as the powder was blown into his eye, he complained of intense pain, and in a few hours his sight
was entirely destroyed.
"I cannot describe to you the effect it had upon my
mother. It unfitted her for all the duties of life; the
thought that she had been instrumental in accomplishing that which she would have made any sacrifice to
prevent, was overwhelming. Her misery was deepened
by the reflection that she had applied the nostrum contrary to the earnest protestations of all the family. It
was in vain that we attempted to console her. It preyed
upon her until it completely destroyed the tone of her
mind. For months she was confined to, her chamber;
the terrible idea had taken possession of her mind, that
what she had done could only be atoned for with her life,





THE OFFERING.


and with her own hands she made several ineffectual
attempts to terminate her existence, which at last she
succeeded in accomplishing. One Sabbath morning,
while the family were preparing for church, she left the
house unobserved, and had probably been absent an
hour before her escape was discovered. Search wag
made in every part of the neighborhood. At length
some one found her body suspended from a large tree,
just outside of the town, and upon a road which at that
time was not much frequented.
"I cannot describe to you the effect produced by this
afflictive and terrible event. My mother was beloved,
not only by the circle of her own relatives, but by many
others to whom she had been a~ kind and generous
friend, and to whom her death was a sad bereavement.
As for poor James, he had not only to mourn the want
of sight, but the loss of her whose sympathy was alone
adequate to alleviate his misfortune. As he advanced
in life, we did all we could, by reading aloud, to cheer
his dark and lonely hours. You have heard me speak
of Amelia Burton; she was about the age of James,
was a constant visitor in our family, and for hours at a
time she would read, sing, and converse with him; and
an attachment, which was the growth of years, and
which, I am sure, was sincere on his part, grew out of
this friendship.
" When, at length, James had passed his minority,
father established him in business. He kept a sort of
miscellaneous store, which business, by the help of an
assistant who could see, he was enabled to carry on.
He could himself sell books, and various other articles,
and in this way was competent to maintain himself.
His intimacy with Amelia still continued. Her father,
however, fearing it would result in marriage, instructed





THE BLIND PEDLER


249


her to receive no more of his attentions. James solicited her hand in a formal manner, and was promptly
rejected. In a year afterward, Amelia Burton became
the wife of a merchant's clerk, and removed to Salem,
his place of business. He proved to be a dissipated
man and a gambler. He died in a few years, leaving Amelia with a family of children to support by her
own exertions. What she would have done, no one
could tell, but for the timely assistance of a mysterious
friend, who, at regular intervals, remitted to her money,
with which, together with her own earnings, she was
enabled to support and educate her children.
" As soon as Amelia was married, James sold out his
store, packed two trunks with goods, and, swinging them
to his back, decided to spend the rest of his days as a
pedler. We laughed at the absurd idea of a blind man
following this avocation, and endeavored to dissuade
him from his purpose by dwelling upon the numerous
difficulties with which he would have to contend  but
we could not move him; and one morning, bidding us all
good-bye, saying that he was going to seek his fortune,
and that it would be many years before we should see
him again, he left us. We hoped that he would repent of
his undertaking, and return in a few weeks; but month
after month, and even year after year, passed away,
and he came not. Occasionally we heard from him.
Some of our friends once met with him in the city of New
York, and the last time we heard of him he was pursuing his business in Canada. He at first had a little boy
to lead him about, but after a while he travelled alone.
Where he now is, or whether he yet lives, I cannot tell."
At this instant the family were startled by a loud
knock at the door.
"'Who is that, at this; late hour?" said Capt Tal




250


THE OFFERING,


madge. " Fred, my boy, I expect some disaster has
happened to our ship, and we may have to go aboard
to-night."
Taking a light, he hastened at once to the door. On
opening it, he could just discover an old man standing
before him, covered with snow, when his light was extinguished.
"Is this," said the stranger, " the residence of Capt.
Talmadge?." making a slight movement, as if he would
like to be permitted to enter.
" It is," replied the captain; " and if you will walk
in, we will become better acquainted. Where do you
hail from, this stormy night, my friend?"
S"I have walked," replied the visitor, "all the way
from Salem since morning. I hope now, however, that
I have found a comfortable harbor."
His appearance was well calculated to excite a deep
interest. He was dressed in a thick overcoat, which
was well fitted to protect him from the inclemency of
the weather. He wore upon his head a hat, which was
drawn over his face so as nearly to conceal his features.
As soon as he was admitted, he carefully placed in one
corner of the hall his two trunks, in a manner which
seemed to say that he was glad to be relieved of the
burden. Though somewhat surprised that a stranger
should, at that late hour, claim his hospitality, Capt.
Talmadge welcomed the new-comer, and, with great
kindness of manner, invited him into the parlor. On
entering, the old man lifted his hat from his head, and
revealed a countenance well calculated to excite pity
and respect. He appeared to be about sixty years old.
In the lineaments of his face there was seen more of the
impress of care and sorrow than of time. His lips were
slightly compressed, and his brow was knit, as if in the





THE BLIND PEDLER.


251


effort to restrain the struggling emotions of his heart.
There was in his whole manner that which seemed to
say that he knew more than he cared to tell; and this
mysterious air, which, in a younger person, would have
excited suspicion, was such as to obtain for him a deep
interest, and sincere regard. Mrs. Talmadge and her
daughters looked long and earnestly at the stranger, for
his eyes were covered with a pair of green goggles,
which at once attracted their attention. They had also
noticed an embarrassed and somewhat awkward manner with which he had seated himself in the chair
which had been placed for him by the fire. Julia whispered to her mother that she thought the stranger was
blind. Impelled by a sudden presentiment, Mrs. Talmadge walked up to him-looked him for a moment
full in the face--and then exclaimed,  "Can it be possible! It is my brother James!"
The whole family was electrified, and the expressive
countenance of the old man was lighted up with joy
and satisfaction. " I did not know," he said, "that you
would recognize me; twenty years have wrought such
sad changes. I had supposed I was quite forgotten."
" Forgotten!" exclaimed Mrs Talmadge; "I we were
talking about you this very evening.  Just as you
knocked at the door, I was saying to the girls that I
could not tell whether you yet lived, it is so long since
we have heard from you."
We pass over the many inquiries which the brother
and sister put to each other, and which embraced a period of more than thirty years, and relating to those
who now lived only in memory. It was late that night
before the family retired. The girls exacted from their
uncle a promise that he would relate to them the varied
incidents of his precarious life.





2052


THE OFFERING.


The next evening, at an earlier hour than usual, the
family of Capt. Talmadge assembled in their parlor.
Anxious expectation was written on every countenance.
The few facts which they had gleaned from their uncle
during the day, together with that which Mrs. Talmadge had related the evening previous, had invested
him with a kind of romance; they therefore anticipated
the recital of the rest of his story with a degree of pleasure and delight, in which all equally participated.
As soon as they were seated, the blind pedler commenced relating his adventures, by observing that he
was glad that his sister had spared him the painful necessity of detailing the events connected with his early
days.
"When a young man, I had conceived the idea that,
though deprived of sight, I might, nevertheless, obtain
a competency by my own exertions, and, at the same
time, learn much of the world. I accordingly determined to travel in different parts of our country, with a
hope of obtaining a fortune, and a more intimate knowledge of men and things.  Accordingly, with trunks
well packed with such articles as I thought would find
a ready sale, and with a few dollars in my pocket, I
commenced my journey. It was not without regret
that I bade adieu to my home, not knowing when I
should again revisit it; nor was it without a sigh and
a tear that I parted with those whose sympathy had
cheered and gladdened my boyhood, and, whose voices
had thus far been as the sunlight of my existence. One,
who might have detained me by the magic tones of her
gentle voice, in obedience to the will of her proud
father, had spurned all I had to offer,--the affections
of a heart uncorrupted by the world;--and I left my
home, and the associations of youth, with a sad but res




THE BLIND PEDLER.


253


olute determination never to return until I should have
obtained that which, in the present age, is so eagerly
sought for by all, and with which I could alone make
the world forget that I was blind. Yet I should do injustice to myself, if I did not tell you that there were
other than selfish motives that influenced my decision.
" I have already remarked, that I hoped to obtain by
travelling a more intimate knowledge of the world, and
I would add, that I expected to find, in the varied and
changeful life I had chosen, a solace for the grief which
the memory of the past must awaken, and which would
ever be associated with home. I obtained a small boy
as a guide, and made my debut as a pedler in a neighboring town. My success, for the first few days, was
much greater than I anticipated. Almost every one I
met made a purchase, and in a few weeks I succeeded
in disposing of nearly all my goods, which enabled me
to purchase a much larger stock, and to continue my
business. In this way, I visited the principal places in
New England. Prompted by sympathy for my misfortune, but more frequently by that curiosity which forms
the chief characteristic of vulgar minds, many with
whom I was brought in daily contact sought to pry
into my personal history, and often, to effect the sale of
a small article, I was compelled to answer many painful questions, that recalled many things which I would
fain have forgotten; and sometimes, too, I was obliged
to listen to the contemptuous sneer, or the affected expressions of pity, from those who could only see in my
misfortune a subject for heartless speculation. Yet, not
unfrequently did I meet with those who manifested by
many a kindly act that they sincerely commiserated
my situation. In New England, as well as in many
other parts of the country which I have visited, I have
22





254


THE OFFERING.


had the good fortune to meet with those who were capable of appreciating my earnest efforts to do something
for myself. Yet for the most part I have found but little
true sympathy or permanent friendship; but perhaps I
have received all I had a right to expect. My life, for
the last twenty years, has been more uniform than
would at first be supposed. It might nearly all be included in a description of a single day.
" Going from door to door, and from village to village,
exposed to the heat of summer and to the cold of winter, - then to return to my lodgings at night, alone to
reflect upon the strange destiny to which I was consigned; --this has constituted almost my only employment. There have, however, been a few passages in my
existence, which have served to change the monotony of
every-day life. A few years after I left home, I heard
of Amelia Burton, of the death of her wretched husband,
and of her destitute situation; and from that time I set
apart a portion of my limited income, which I managed to
send to her in such a manner as to prevent her knowing
from whom it came; and, in moments of my deepest
despondency, the reflection that I was contributing to
the happiness of another's existence never failed to
cheer and gladden my heart. I have often had occasion, while travelling from place to place, to observe and
analyze the characters of those to whom my situation
and my somewhat peculiar life introduced me; and I
have not unfrequently been amused with the opportunities which they have afforded me of noticing their
foibles and mistakes. Many seeing persons seem to
suppose that a blind man can know but a little of that
which is going on around him; accordingly, when he
is present, they do not judge it necessary to make use
of those disguises which serve to veil their true thoughts





THE BLIND PEDLER.


255


and feelings from the rest of the world. Many of those
with whom I have occasionally sojourned have related
to me, without the slightest reserve, not only the incidents of their lives and the facts of their experience, but
have laid open, without hesitation, their most secret
thoughts, little dreaming that they were furnishing
materials which would enable even a poor blind pedler
to philosophize on this strange life of ours. Sometimes
I have listened to the story of one whose existence had
been a continued scene of unmingled joy and delight,
but more frequently to the sad recital of those who had
learned nearly all their lessons of life from the stern
school of sorrow and adversity. Many would naturally
think that there were but few inducements for a blind
man to travel; and it would be TRUE, if his observation
was confined to the material universe; but there is that
which is even more instructive than the face of nature,
- the mysterious life of the earth's GREATEST ENIGMA,--
MAN, which he too may contemplate. It is, without
doubt, a pleasant thing for the delighted eye to drink in
at one view the enchanting beauty of a varied and
picturesque landscape, or to survey the myriad forms
of nature and art that adorn the earth; but there is a
higher enjoyment, a more enduring satisfaction, in
studying the workings of the human heart, and in contemplating their effects in the great drama of life.
"I remember, in my childhood, that I loved to look
upon the vaulted sky, and to view the myriad stars
with which it was studded, whose mystic light seemed
to bathe the slumbering earth with celestial beauty;
but experience has revealed to me A HEAVEN WITHIN,
made resplendent with the light of ever-varying thoughts,
that through all creative action stamp their indelible
impress upon the earth, imparting to the humblest life
a deep significance and a never-fading glory.





256


THE OFFERING.


"Often, after the fatigues of the day, have I been
refreshed with dreams in which I have seen familiar
objects as in my earlier days, ere the light of these eyes
was quenched forever. Indeed, since I became blind,
my life seems all like one long dream. Sometimes I
sigh for that coming morrow which shall change my
midnight darkness to an unclouded and eternal day.
" There yet remains but one more incident in my
past life which I need rehearse. I say nothing now of
the dangers to which, from time to time, I have been
exposed, or of the many accidents which I have barely
escaped. It has been with me as it is probably with
every other human.being.  The pleasures and the
enjoyments of life have always preponderated over its
sufferings and its sorrows. I have become attached to
the avocation of pedler, and shall pursue it so long as
kind Heaven shall vouchsafe to me health and strength;
and when at last my earthly pilgrimage shall have
been ended, I hope to leave the world cheered by the
blessed consciousness that I have not lived altogether in
vain.
LIn a few days I shall leave you again. My object
in visiting you now was not merely to enjoy the gratification of listening to your voices, and of mingling
awhile in your society, but to crave your protection for
one who really needs the assistance and sympathy of a
friend. I will explain more particularly my meaning.
"1 A little more than a year ago, while peddling in a
small town in the western part of New York state, I
was informed that there was in the alms-house a little
blind boy. I found, on calling there, that his mother,
-his only remaining parent, -was then dangerously
sick, and not expected to survive but a few hours&
I had an interview with her for a few moments, when





THE BLIND PEDLER.


257


I communicated to her the fact that there were institutions established for the education of the blind, where
her son might be instructed in some useful employment,
by which he could maintain himself in after life. She
earnestly besought me to take him there. I promised
her that I would do all that I could for him. In a day
or two, the mother died, and I obtained permission of
the officers of the town to take the boy with me. I
contrived to send him on in advance of myself, enjoining secrecy upon those in whose care I had intrusted
him. You already have his likeness; to-morrow, if
you will, you shall have the original. He is too young
yet to enter the Institution for the Blind; until he does
so, he needs a protector. He is to be called by my
name, and I shall do for him all in my power."
We need not say that the family of Captain Talmadge were deeply interested in the account which
their relative had given them of his life; nor need we
add that they entered at once into his benevolent
schemes for the welfare of his protege.
The next day saw the little blind boy comfortably
established in the home which had thus been so kindly
provided for him.
On the day after, the pedler, with well packed trunks
and staff in hand, set out upon his journey, - whither,
no one knew. He was last seen walking on the turnpike road, at a brisker pace than when first we made his
acquaintance. A noonday sun shone down upon his
head, but he saw not its light; yet he felt the genial
warmth of a sunshine within; for he carried in his
heart the blessed consciousness that while seeking his
own good, he was not unmindful of the happiness of
others.
22*





258


REMARKS ON EDUCATION.
IF there be a subject the importance of which can
never be over-estimated, it is education. In this comprehensive word is contained the great purpose of our
being. We were created and endowed with physical,
intellectual and moral capacities, and the great business
of life should be to develop and expand them; and this
is what is commonly understood by self-culture. There
is no subject more worthy of our consideration than
this; and yet, perhaps, there is nothing that has been so
much neglected by the majority of mankind. We
have, in this fact, an explanation of many of those evils
that afflict human society. The inequality that everywhere exists among men, and which we have at the
present day no adequate means of removing, is not, as
some suppose, the effect of the peculiar organization of
society, but is to be ascribed mainly to the ignorance in
which the multitude are shrouded. The only legitimate power, that which confers substantial and enduring blessings, is derived from nothing so much as a
good education; all other is necessarily evanescent.
Much of the well-meant philanthropy of our day, which
is expended upon what we cannot help regarding
chimerical schemes for the regeneration of society,
might be more profitably employed upon some feasible
plan for obtaining a more comprehensive system of
unmversal education.
We often hear it said, that the existence and perpetuity of our institutions depends upon nothing so
much as the intelligence and virtue-of the people; and





REMARKS ON EDUCATION.


259


yet, until within the last few years, very little has been
done to promote the cause of education. As our population increases, however, the necessity of disseminating knowledge among all classes of our citizens is
beginning to be felt, and this has already led to the
adoption of that admirable free school system by many
of the other states, which has conferred such incalculable blessings on New England, and more especially
upon the State of Massachusetts.
There is no subject so worthy of the most profound
attention of the legislator, as the manner best calculated
to extend to every member of the body politic the
unspeakable advantages which a good education can
alone confer, and more especially in our own country,
where every individual, no matter what his situation
be in life, is permitted to exercise an equal control over
the elective franchise.
If statistics are to be relied upon, our presidential
elections have sometimes been decided by the votes of
men who could neither read nor write.*
One of the most cheering signs of the times, however,
is the attention which this subject is beginning to
receive; and we cannot but hope that some method
will yet be devised for educating that very large portion
of population which springs from foreign emigration.
There are two things which our government ought
to do to promote the security of our institutions and
the welfare of society. First, it should withhold from
foreigners who emigrate to our shores the right to participate in our elections, until they have resided here
long enough to become acquainted with, and attached
to, the principles of republicanism. And, secondly, it
* See Horace Mann's Oration before the citizens of Boston.





260


THE OFFERING.


should make some provision by which their children
should receive an education that would fit them in after
life fully to appreciate the privileges and discharge the
duties of Americans.
The obligations of government to establish some
uniform system of education, that should extend the
blessings of instruction to every one of its citizens, is
beginning to be more generally felt by many of the
states of this confederacy, and we yet hope to see the
receipts of the public lands appropriated for this purpose. Still, all that government can do for this noble
object must necessarily be general and partial.
Education, for the most part, must depend upon the
individual; for it consists not merely in the cultivation
of the intellect, but also in the development of those
higher sentiments which were designed to control the
mental powers, and which, to a greater or less extent,
differ in their manifestations, in almost every human
being. For, although there are general laws of mind,
yet there are no two persons whose mental and moral
development exactly correspond. Education, to be perfect, must, therefore, be essentially individual in its
character; every one, to a certain extent, must be his
own instructor. To observe the peculiarities of our
constitution, -to develop all our powers in such a way
as to afford each an opportunity to manifest itself
within its own definite sphere of activity, -to subject the
appetites and the passions to the authority of the intellect, and the intellect in its turn to the control and
guidance of conscience,--this is the great object for
which we were created, and it should ever constitute the
end and aim of life.
The responsibility it imposes cannot be shifted off
upon the state; it is made obligatory upon each indi




REMARKS ON EDUCATION.


261


vidual soul, and he who neglects to meet its requirements must pay the terrible penalty of ignorance and
degradation.
Education, then, in its widest signification, in its
broadest, most comprehensive sense, requires the cultivation of our whole nature,--the right employment of
all our powers; and it should be made the great, the
sole, business of life.
The universe teems with myriads of objects designed
to awaken and delight the intellect, the affections, and
the imagination. Everything in nature's vast laboratory seems fitted for this one.great end, - to develop
and exercise the faculties of man. From the pebble
upon'the sea-shore, the mind ascends to the contemplation of a world. There is nothing which our senses
perceive in earth or sky, -nothing around us or above
us, but seems fitted to develop some one or more of our
mental powers. Every material object around us has
some lesson to impart. Nature is the great teacher of
us all.
There is, besides, in the mechanism of the human
body, in the beautiful adaptation of each part to the
whole, in the office assigned to each of its functions, and
in the astonishing regularity with which the animal
economy is preserved throughout, that which is eminently calculated to tax the most discriminating powers
of thought, and to excite the most profound investigation. But that which is most worthy of our attention,
and which furnishes a subject of thought and study
transcending in grandeur and extent the material world,
is the human soul, with its inexhaustible faculties and
lofty aspirations. "The proper study of mankind is
man." All that is valuable in the universe in the midst
of which we are placed, is that which tends to excite in





2062


THE OFFERING.


us the consciousness of the immeasurable superiority of
mind over matter; of soul over mere form and space.
The first is transient, changing, evanescent. The soul
is fixed, immutable, eternal.
Education, then, consists, as we conceive it, not in
that which can be acquired in a few hours spent in
school for a small portion of our lives, -not in the mere
development of the intellect, whose activity is mainly
dependent upon the objects of sensation, but, on the contrary, education, when properly pursued, means something more. It requires the cultivation of our whole
nature, as physical, intellectual, and moral beings. HE
WHO NEGLECTS ANY PART OF THIS IS NOT AN EDUCATED MAN.
How often do we see those distinguished for their scientific or literary attainments, for their knowledge of
human and sacred lore, display in their lives the most
unpardonable ignorance of the most common physical
laws! How many of our young men commence the
study of the languages before they have become acquainted with a single principle of physiology! Witness the pale-faced, narrow chest graduates of our
universities. Perhaps they can read Virgil and Plato;
but would it not have been better if they had first given
some little attention to some of the laws of health? Physical education has been, especially in this country, shamefully neglected. It is, however, becoming to be more
generally understood, that the development of mind, in
the present state of existence, depends very much upon
the condition of the body. If the latter be neglected,
the former must certainly suffer. We hope the time is
comning when he who inherits and preserves a sound
body will be held in as much repute as he now is who
not unfrequently destroys it, or renders it nearly useless, while pretending to cultivate the mind. The





REMARKS ON EDUCATION.


263


sickly, emaciated sophomore, --compelled to leave the
classic halls before his course of study is half completed,
by the appearance of dyspepsia, consumption, or some
other disease, which is to be attributed more to his own
stupidity than any other cause,--to the neglect of
proper exercise in the open air, &c.--he has studied
Homer and Virgil, and can solve any problem in Euclid!
He expects you to say, Poor fellow! his mind is greater
than his body. Poh, nonsense! with all his learning,
he is a consummate ignoramus! He has preferred the
study of metaphysics, but neglected the study of the
commonest principles of physiology; and now he must
pay the penalty. With a little common sense, he might
have been a happy man, and an ornament to society.
As it is, he will sink into an early and premature
grave!
In this country, moral education, as such, has been
quite as much neglected as physical education. It has
even become now to be thought that great intellectual
and moral attainments are incompatible with each
other. Hence, we hear it said of our great men, so
called, that we ought not to judge them by that common standard with which we measure the merits of
men in humble life. Conscience seems to have become
almost an obsolete idea with many of those, who, by
their superior intellectual culture, have acquired an ascendancy in the political world. Policy, not right, is
with them the highest law. In practice, if not in theHry, the end is almost always made to justify the means.
It would seem that, in this country, we have not only
divorced church and state, but morality and government. It has become quite common, of late, to say that
those precepts of our holy religion which inculcate a
strict adherence to right, and an inveterate abhorrence





264


THE OFFERING.


of wrong, are applicable only to the individual, -can be
carried out only in common life.  The distinguished
statesman,--he who, for the time being, controls the
destiny of a nation,-is exonerated from all obligation
but that imposed by a degrading expediency. It is a
shameful fact, that many of the greatest offences against
the laws of the land, and the usages of society, are
committed by those distinguished from their fellows
for nothing, perhaps, but superior intellectual culture
and moral obliquity, and who are sometimes only
enabled to escape justice by the enormity of their
crimes.
In our institutions of learning, there is not, and there
never has been, sufficient attention paid to moral education.  Our young men, indeed, are sometimes instructed in ethics; but it is simply as a science, or an
amusing subject of mere speculation. The maxims of
an unbending morality are usually frittered away by
some accommodating qualification. Perhaps we have
said enough when we inform the reader that Paley's
Moral Philosophy is used in many of our institutions
as a textbook.
We would by no means depreciate intellectual culture, nor underrate the advantages it confers. What
we do maintain is, that there should be more attention
paid to the cultivation of our moral nature, and that
the observance of the principles of a sound morality
should be enforced by our schools and colleges, with at
least as much sincerity and firmness as they would insist upon the observance of the principles of criticism
and the laws of taste.  When this is done, we may
look with reason for a diminution of those evils
which at present afflict society, and we may then expect to see, what is not always witnessed now, the





REMARKS ON EDUCATION.


265


legislator obeying the laws which he himself has
made. Then will the fallacy of that pernicious maxim
be exposed, that knowledge and evil are inseparable,--that he who would be happy must remain in
ignorance.
Thus we have spoken of education, -of the universality of its character, and of the deplorable manner in
which physical and moral culture have been neglected.
To many this may seem a trite subject, yet, nevertheless, it has not received the attention it deserves. What
the world most needs is educated men. We mean
" real" educated men. No more of those whose genius
has been cramped and warped by the fettered and unnatural system at present pursued in many of our institutions of learning. We need no more of those whose
intellectual development is to their moral development
as a hundred to zero. We need men whose lives will
be examples for other generations, -a perfect man.
This expression is yet confined to Sacred Writ. The
world has never yet had a living illustration. As we
have already observed, those who have cultivated their
minds have neglected their physical constitution and
their moral education. A healthy body and a well-balanced mind,-who has ever seen them in the same
individual? And yet, surely, there is nothing in this
union incompatible. If, instead of our present limited,
we but took a more universal view of the purpose and
extent of education; if, instead of occupying a few
months, or, at most, a few years, we were to make it
the great, the sole business of life,-the object transcending in importance all others,-then would there be
more perfect men upon the earth, and less pigmies and
dwarfs. Then would there be but one power acknowledged, -one distinction known, -that which talent and
23





266               THE OFFERING.
merit ought alone to confer. We repeat, that what we
most need is a thorough system of universal education,
- sufficiently universal, sufficiently ihorough, to comprehend every human being, and to enable all to accomplish the great purpose of life.





267


AN ADDRESS UPON THE EDUCATION OF THE BLIND.*
DEPRIVED of all those essential privileges which assist
my more fortunate fellow-men in addressing a public
audience, there hardly remains a necessity to advert to
those imperfections which must seem apparent in the
discharge of a duty to which I am, as yet, but little accustomed.
The system of educating the blind has been eminently
successful in imparting to the mind the most valuable
rudiments of human knowledge. But the thousand objects of observation that daily occur in life, and which
have so great a share in establishing and augmenting a
man's information, are beyond our reach. And we are
therefore compelled to exhibit, in our intercourse with
those around us, a more limited knowledge of the general views of society, and a greater attachment to first
principles. Under these restraints, I have no ambition
to come before you for any other purpose than to perform a duty I owe to those who are as unfortunate as
myself. It has always been my object, whenever I
have addressed a public audience, to impart information
on the subject of educating the blind, - their ability to
support themselves, and their claims to public favor,
rather than excite sympathy, or gratify any feeling of
personal interest. And I shall endeavor to do so upon
the present occasion. The object of my remarks this
evening will be to establish this fact, viz.: that the blind
* This article contains the substance of one of the first extemporaneous addresses delivered by the author. It is inserted here, because
it contains facts not given in previous articles upon this subject.





268


THE OFFERING.


have ability to prosecute with success many of those
pursuits and professions which have generally been regarded only practicable to those in the full enjoyment
of all the organs of sense, and that the mere want of
sight in no way impairs the vigor and exercise of the
intellect.. How far I shall succeed in doing this, remains
for you to decide.
It may, we think, be assumed, that, of all the calamities to which a human being can ever be subjected,
blindness is one of the most appalling. We suppose this
to be the opinion of the majority of mankind. Whatever
may be said of the comparative value of the senses, and
of the power which the blind possess to overcome the
effects of their misfortune, and notwithstanding there
have been many deprived of sight distinguished in the
scientific, literary, and in the religious world, yet we
think there is no one who would not part with any, or
even all his senses, rather than be bereft of that sovereign organ upon which the mind is wont to be chiefly
dependent for most of its knowledge of the external
world. It is impossible for those with eyes to form an
adequate idea of the terrible darkness in which the
blind man is shrouded, of the absence of that light that
can alone reveal the myriads of beautiful objects that
seem made to adorn the earth and to gladden the heart.
It is hot like the temporary darkness of evening, for that
is in a measure dissipated by the mild reflections of the
moon. It is the terrible midnight darkness that knows
no morn. It would be natural to suppose, on first reflection, that the condition to which the blind man is
subjected would exert an unfavorable influence upon
his mind and heart, for the condition of our feelings and
the character of our thoughts depend very much upon
the nature of the influence exerted upon us by the ma




EDUCATION OF THE BLIND.


269


terial objects around us. But we apprehend it will be
found that there are in our nature principles, which,
perhaps, misfortune can only awaken, that can, in a
very great degree, compensate us for the effect of the
deprivation of any of the senses. And this is made
strikingly manifest in the uncommon exuberance of
spirits and remarkable cheerfulness which the blind
usually exhibit, and which is quite unlike the effect we
should naturally expect from such a calamity. One of
the most wonderful arrangements of nature is, that
when any part of the human body or faculty of the human mind becomes diseased or destroyed, its office is
in a measure supplied by some one of our physical or
mental powers, whose activity has become, in consequence, greatly increased. Thus, in deaf persons, sight
becomes very acute. We know, too, that when one
arm is amputated, the other becomes much stronger.
In like manner, the sense of touch in the blind acquires
a keenness and susceptibility which are rarely exhibited
in other persons. We would, by no means be understood to assert that this system of compensation is complete and universal; far from it;--there is no power
or faculty with which we are endowed, but that has a
definite purpose which it can perform better than any
other. What we would say, is merely that which no
one can fail to observe, - that the deprivation of any
one of our senses tends greatly to enlarge the sphere
and usefulness of all the others.  There are many
instances on record of those who have been deprived
early in life of the use of one of their arms, who have
succeeded, by long practice, in making the other perform
the duties of both. It is related of a distinguished
French artist, that, upon his right hand becoming disabled and finally rendered entirely useless by disease,
23*





270


THE OFFERING.


he was enabled to use the pencil and the brush with equal
facility. There is also an authentic account of a man,
who, on being deprived by an accident of both of his
arms, was enabled to write by making his toes supply
the place of his fingers. It is in this way that the blind
man is enabled, to so great an extent, to supply the
place of sight by the sense of touch and hearing. The
extent to which he is enabled to do this, is astonishing
to those who have never witnessed the readiness with
which he reads with his fingers, and walks unaided
from place to place. No one can visit the schools
which have been established in this country for the
blind and the deaf and dumb, without becoming convinced that we should never know the full extent of the
faculties with which God has endowed us, if we were
not sometimes permitted to witness the effect produced
by the deprivation of one or more of them. But, as we
have already remarked, the loss of any one of our
senses must be regarded as a positive evil, because
its place cannot be entirely supplied by the exercise of
any or all of the others. For example, we make use
of the eye to do many things which can just as well be
done by the sense of touch. Color is probably the only
attribute or quality of matter which cannot be perceived
by the other senses as well as by sight. Most men
judge of form, distance, &c., by the eye, probably with
greater readiness than they could do with any of the
other senses. But it does not therefore follow that the
blind man may not, with, of course, a greater amount
of exertion, obtain these ideas through the medium of
touch. The only pursuits of life from which he is in
fact debarred by his misfortune, are painting, and, perhaps, the study of anatomy.
We shall by-and-by have occasion to consider more





EDUCATION OF THE BLIND.


871


im  detail the effects of blindness, and the manner in
which it is in a measure overcome by those ingenious
contrivances by which the philanthropists of our day
have been so successful in mitigating the condition of
those who were generally supposed to be beyond the
reach of ameliorating influences.    We propose, however, first, to offer a few remarks on the condition of the
blind as a class in past ages. Language is inadequate
to describe the wretchedness, ignorance and degradation to which the ill-fated blind man has, until within a
comparatively recent period, been subjected. In the
earlier ages, among the nations of antiquity, he seems
to have been regarded MERELY as the burden of society.
It was thought that he must, from necessity, grow up
in physical, intellectual, ay! and in moral darkness.
The poet and the philanthropist wept over him, and in
sad strains bewailed his fate.
Ah! think, if June's delicious rays
The eye of sorrow can illume,
Or wild December's beamless days
Can fling o'er all a transient gloom;
Ah! think, if skies obscure or bright
Can thus depress or cheer the mind;
Ah! think, mid clouds of utter night
What mournful moments wait the blind.
When, to the breezy upland led,
At noon, or blushing eve, or morn,
He hears the red-breast o'er his head,
While round him breathes the scented thorn.
But, oh! instead of nature's face,
Hills, dales and woods, and streams combined, -
Instead of forms, and tints, and grace,
Night's blackest mantle shrouds the blind.





272


THE OFFERING.


If rosy youth, bereft of sight,
Midst countless thousands pines unblest,
As the gay flower withdrawn from light
Bows to the earth, where all must rest;
Ah! think, when life's declining hours
To chilling penury consigned,
And pain has palsied all his powers,
Ah! think what woes await the blind.*
When we consider the extent to which the blind are
now educated, it seems surprising that the simple
method by which they are instructed should not have
suggested itself to the minds of men at an earlier
period. And our astonishment is increased when we
take into consideration the fact that there have been, in
almost every age, those who, unaided with sight and
unassisted by society, have succeeded in overcoming
what would seem     almost insurmountable obstacles, in
the acquisition of knowledge, and have acquired, in
scientific and literary pursuits, a celebrity which those
who have eyes might well envy.But it must be remembered that it was not until
recently that society was made conscious that it had in
its bosom so many of its ill-fated children. It was not
until a late date that it was discovered that, by an
immutable and inscrutable law, a certain proportion of
our race, in every generation, are deprived of the inestimable blessing of sight. If it had been known in
former years, that there were probably more than half a
million of blind persons upon the earth, and that in
some countries their proportion was from one in every
* These lines, were written by Rushton, who, we believe, was himself blind.
tSee article entitled "Blindness and the Blind," and article entitled
SNicholas Saunderson."





EDUCATION OF THE BLIND.


273


five hundred to one in every eight hundred inhabitants,
we doubt not that much more would have been done to
improve and elevate their condition. For to suppose
that there would not, would be an impeaci ment of the
charity, justice and wisdom   of society. If there be
any class of human beings entitled to the sympathy
and commiseration of their more fortunate fellowmen, it is the blind. For what can be a greater
calamity than that which dooms its victim to perpetual
darkness?  What greater misfortune than to be placed
upon this beautiful earth without ever being permitted
to behold it?  Such is the lot of the blind man. His
life is as dark and as dreary as the silent tomb at midnight.
"To others, with the year, seasons return.
But not to him returns
Day, or the sweet approach of eve or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds,
Or human face divine;
But clouds instead, and ever during
Dark surrounds him.
From the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and from the book of
Knowledge fair, presented with
A universal blank of nature's
Works, to him expunged and 'rased."
It was probably the extraordinary attainments of
those eminent blind men who obtained an education
without the special aid of society, that first suggested to
Abbe Hauy and others, the idea that a system might be
devised of instructing the blind, by substituting the
sense of touch for that of which they were deprived.
It would take too much time to detail here the many
experiments which finally resulted in the accomplishment of this object. To teach the blind to read, it was





THE OFFERING.


necessary to make use of characters which they could
distinguish with their fingers. This was at first attained
by cutting out letters upon wood, or stamping them
upon metal. At length, however, a plan was devised
of printing them upon paper. You have probably all
had an opportunity of examining books prepared in
this way, and of witnessing the readiness which a blind
person is enabled to read with his fingers.
[For a minute description of the modus operandi of
instructing the blind, we refer the reader to the article
entitled "Blindness and the Blind."]
The system of teaching the blind may be expressed
in-a few words. It is accomplished by the substitution
of the touch for sight, or the fingers for the eye.
If any one of you wish to show a child in the dark
the difference between a right angle and a triangle, a
square or a circle, you would either have to mark it
upon his hand, or cut it out upon wood, or in some
way contrive to give him a tangible illustration. Now,
what you would be compelled to do for a seeing child
in the dark, is precisely what the teacher of the blind
has to do for his pupil in the light. He is compelled, in
every case, to reach the mind through the avenues of
touch and hearing. To teach the blind in reading,
writing, arithmetic, &c., is comparatively easy. But to
give them a thorough education is one of the most difficult, as it is certainly one of the most noble, objects that
has ever engaged the attention of the humane and
benevolent.
I shall occupy the rest of the hour in giving you some
account of the institutions which have of late been
established in this country for the education of the blind.
The exact number of the blind in this country is not
known. Their number, however, cannot fall short of





EDUCATION OF THE BLIND.


275


ten thousand.   The efforts which have been made to
benefit so large a portion of our fellow-citizens must, I
am sure, be regarded by you all with deep interest.
For, besides the claim which this subject possesses upon
our sympathies, there is another view     which is far
more likely to influence the larger portion of mankind.
It is for the interest of society that all its members
should be educated. It is in this way alone that it
can prevent so many of its unfortunate members from
hanging upon it like a dead weight. Educate the blind,
and you no longer have them thronging the streets
soliciting alms, - as is the case in most of the large cities
of Europe, and to some extent even in our own country.
Nothing was done for the blind of the United States,
until the year 1829, when an institution was incorporated by the Legislature of Massachusetts, - (ever
foremost in the cause of education and philanthropy,)which went into operation at Boston, three years afterwards.   The idea of such an establishment seems first
to have been conceived by Dr. John D. Fisher, M. D.
This gentleman, during his residence at Paris, was
accustomed frequently to visit the institution for the
blind in that city; and he conceived the idea of having
a similar establishment in his own country. Accordingly, upon his return home, he, in conjunction with
several other benevolent persons, succeeded in obtaining
an act of incorporation for the institution to which we
have just referred.t
* In many of the European cities, a large number of blind persons
are seen at all times at the corners of the streets asking charity of
passers by. It was this spectacle, which M. Hauy so often witnessed
ia Paris, that awakened his sympathies in their behalf.
t See address of the Trustees of the New England Institution for the
Education of the Blind. Published Boston, 1832





,276


THE OFFERING.


The deep interest awakened in behalf of the blind,
by the establishment of an institution at Boston, and
similar ones in New York and Philadelphia, was highly
honorable to the American people.  "The wealthy
contributed of their abundance, and the poor withheld
not their mite." The generous vied with each other
to see who should do most for such a noble enterprise. The blind were sought out from the highways
and byways of the land, and for the first time were
taught that they too might become useful and happy.
In Boston, the truly honorable Thomas H. Perkins
came forward and offered his elegant mansion as a
home for the blind, on condition that a permanent fund
of fifty thousand dollars could be raised among his fellow-citizens.  This was accomplished in the short
space of a week; fifteen thousand dollars of this sum
was actually raised by the ladies of Boston, always first
in every good cause. The legislatures of many of the
states have made annual appropriations to educate the
poor blind.  Books in raised characters have been
printed for their use, and other apparatus devised, to
give them a knowledge of mathematics, geography,
astronomy, &c.; and many a wretched, sightless being,
who dreamed of nothing but darkness, ignorance and
imbecility, is now permitted to enjoy all the advantages
of a good education.
The institutions for the blind have steadily increased,
and there are now seven or eight of them in different
parts of the country; and we hope there will soon be one
in every state of the Union. For the smaller the institution, the more likely is the good of the individual to be
sought. Large establishments are too apt to forget the
simple purpose for which they were at first created.
We make this remark, not as more applicable to the





EDUCATION OF THE BLIND.


277


institutions for the blind, than to those for the amelioration of any other class. We never can be too jealous
in this country of large, overgrown establishments, no
matter what was the object for which they were originally established. They will be always found guilty
of great abuses. We, therefore, think it vastly better
that every state should attend to the education of its
own blind.
The fact has now been established beyond a doubt,
that the blind man can receive as good an education as
a seeing person with the same mental endowments.
The graduates of the institutions of which we have
been speaking, will be found to possess as thorough an
education, to say the least, as is imparted in our seminaries and academies for those that have eyes. Besides
this, the blind are instructed in various kinds of handicraft work. They manufacture mats, mattresses, baskets, hearth-rugs, chairs, shoes, brushes, and various
other small articles. They can work as well, but not
as fast, as seeing persons. There are, connected with
most of the institutions, stores, where the articles just
enumerated, are sold at the market price. It must be
remembered that the blind cannot make use, to any
great extent, of steam and machinery, edge tools, &c.
Consequently, they cannot compete with seeing persons.
In England and Scotland, where the wages of labor are
much lower than in this country, the blind man enjoys
a greater advantage.  The fifty cents which he is
enabled to earn by fifteen hours' labor, will obtain more
of the necessaries of life in Edinburgh than in Boston
or New York. There is, perhaps, no employment in
life, none of the avocations of society, where the blind
man can figure to as much advantage as he who is
aided with sight.
24





278


THE OFFERING.


Music is the favorite employment of the blind. Its
pursuit probably affords them a higher degree of
enjoyment than that of any other to which they might
give their attention. "In the concord of sweet sounds,"
he derives a pleasure akin to that which they feel
whose blessed privilege it is to look upon the evervaried face of nature. Yet even here sight confers an
advantage. It was thought at first that the blind would
be generally employed as organists in our churches,
and as teachers of music; but the result has not equalled
their hopes, nor their claims. We know of but few
blind persons who have been able to obtain constant
employment as musicians. And, as we have already
remarked, there are, in almost every situation of life,
difficulties in obtaining a livelihood which can only be
fully overcome with the aid of' sight. How a blind
man can best obtain a support for himself and his family, is still problematical. We cannot, however, doubt
that some method will yet be found out, some way discovered, of at length placing him on an equality with
those around him.
We have thus endeavored to give you some account
of the blind, and of the efforts which have been made
in this country to give them an education. There are
many things which we have necessarily been compelled
to omit.. We have stated those facts which we supposed
would be most interesting. The time which courtesy
and custom have assigned for an address of this nature
has nearly expired. I will only add, in conclusion, that
if, in the desultory remarks I have made, I have succeeded in awaking a deeper interest in behalf of the
blind, my object has been accomplished; then I have
not spoken and you have not listened in vain.





279


THE MAN OF HIS TIME.
THE peculiarities of men, that constitute, in the
aggregate, their character, can always be traced to their
physical, intellectual, or moral constitution. The wise
or foolish things that we do in common life, and which
collectively form a large portion of each one's history,
are, for the most part, the results of some physical conformation, or the possession of some mental endowment, or, more frequently still, for the want of some.
Now, this principle holds good when I apply it to myself, or to all with whom I have ever been acquainted.
Of all the eccentric geniuses I have ever met with,--and
they have been many, -there is not one whose peculiar
oddity I cannot trace to some idiosyncrasy more or less
manifest. I say, not one;- there was, however, one
individual I became acquainted with, some years ago,
whose peculiarity of character could hardly be accounted for during his life. Almost his entire earthly pilgrimage was employed in trying to demolish whatever he
happened not to have a hand in constructing. Indeed,
it was his pride that his life was an entire negation.
The spirit that animated him was always the spirit of
the present. His neck was so stiff that he never could
look behind nor above him. Sometimes he would
amuse himself in laboring to demolish human society as
a whole. At others, he would endeavor to dispose of it
in detail. There were two ways in which he settled
the rightfulness of anything:-lst. Did he have no hand
in its formation? 2d. Did it exist before he was born?
If both of these were answered in the affirmative, it





280


THE OFFERING.


was wrong. He had such an aversion to the past, or
whatever could boast of antiquity, he would never look
at the moon after it was a fortnight old. Yet did my
friend possess many traits that made him attractive.
He deeply sympathized with suffering and misery,
wherever it existed. Indeed, it was a favorite expression with him that his heart beat with. the mighty heart
of humanity. His distinguishing characteristic was, as
we have attempted to describe it, an aversion to whatever existed anterior to himself  There seemed to be in
the past a demon that was ever pursuing him. The
only time he was ever known to laugh outright, was
after he had listened to a religious fanatic, who predicted the speedy destruction of the world. It was a
greater change than my friend had ever contemplated
before. The- idea of at length being revenged upon the
established order of things, afforded him a moment of
deep delight, such as he had never experienced before.,I What," said he, emphatically, as soon as he could recover himself from the effect which the extraordinary
prediction had exerted, I"then this world, which they
say has existed for six thousand years, is to be revolutionized,--turned up-side down,--it will be a grand
spectacle. And in the conflict of elements shall at
length be realized that glorious equality which I always
knew could be attained."  I do not think he ever entirely relinquished the idea of this mighty, this stupendous revolution, as he was accustomed to characterize it, though he lived to see the day go by which the
prophet had fixed for its occurrence.
My eccentric friend not only had an aversion to
things that had an existence prior to his own, but to
names. He therefore fixed upon a cognomen by which
he was distinguished. He obstinately refused to an




THE MAN OF HIS TIME.


281


swer to any other. He rejected with disdain his baptismal name, because it had been that of his uncle, who
died before he was born. The name which he selected
for himself was Noggs. There was one difficulty with
which Mr. Noggs had to contend through life. He
found it impossible to pursue an occupation which was
not followed by some other person, or which had not
been before he was born. He finally, however, fixed
upon one which there are certainly but few who would
like to follow.' He imposed upon himself the task of
persuading every one to whom he could obtain access,
that everything before his day was wrong,--all wrong.
And, strange to say, he succeeded in finding disciples.
In his lectures and in his writings, in his conversations,
and in every way in which he could act upon another,
Mr. Noggs sought to persuade men that the only remedy for all their ills was in change. He had in the wide
world, notwithstanding his opposition to all things as
they are, but one whom he thought was his enemy, -
and that was a distinguished medical gentleman, who,
on one occasion, had pronounced him insane. We have
not described the personal appearance of our friend.
And we have only time now to say,--that he was very
thin and spare; for his diet was strictly vegetable.
His opposition to animal food arose from the fact that
it was generally used. His cadaverous features were
never lit up excepting when in conversation on his
favorite subject, --revolution. His equanimity of temper was never disturbed, excepting when some one suggested that he might be laboring under a mental hallucination. It was only on such. occasions, -when filled
with indignation, that he would refer to distinguished
men, --such as Peter the Great, Napoleon, Washington,
&c. And then it was only to prove the incontestable
24*





282


THE OFFERING.


fact, that all great men, like him, in their day, were
called insane, -because they had endeavored to change
the world, and revolutionize mankind. At length, after
spending two thirds of the time allotted to man upon
the earth, in the fruitless attempt to produce a general
confusion in the affairs of men for the sake of a variety,
Mr. Noggs died. His friends, who had observed his
eccentricities without being able to account for them,
had now determined to gratify their curiosity. A post
mortem examination was accordingly decided upon.
Several medical gentlemen were present on the occasion. The head of poor Noggs was first submitted to
the knife; for some had shrewdly suspected that all
the mischief lay there. For several minutes all looked
on in anxious expectation.  At length the operator
paused for a moment to inquire of the gentlemen present what it was that they particularly expected to find.
" We wish to ascertain," said one of their number,
gravely, " what it was that made the subject so averse,
during his whole life, to everything he found in the
world."  "Ah!" replied the operator, dropping his
knife, "we need, then, go no further. It is my opinion,
it was the want of a large quantity of brains in this
part of the head, which, you see, is not here," pointing
to the place with the end of his knife. After each one
of the company had examined for themselves, they
finally came to the following unanimous opinion, which
was carefully written down for future use, and was deposited in the archives of the Massachusetts Medical
Society. The following is an extract from this invaluuable document:
" The undersigned, being the personal friends of Mr.
Noggs, late deceased, assisted by several medical gentlemen, have made a post mortem examination, and





THE MAN OF HIS TIME.            283
believe that they have at length arrived at the cause of
the singular conduct which distinguished this remarkable personage when living. They are of the unanimous
opinion that his opposition to society, and to things in
general, is mainly attributable to his want of brains.
And as we believe that many of his disciples are still
living, we feel called upon to express the result of our
observation, so that the world may extend towards
them, who are undoubtedly laboring under the same
calamity as that which afflicted their illustrious master,
all the lenity and kindness to which persons with defective brains are entitled."





284


THE INFIDEL AND THE BLIND MAN.
A DISTINGUISHED infidel, who had acquired quite a
notoriety in New England, for his opposition to Christianity, found himself one day in the railroad car, in
company with several clergymen. He immediately attempted to engage them in a controversy. And after
retailing all that he had obtained from Voltaire, Hume,
Gibbon, and others, without being able to accomplish
his purpose, he happened to discover that there was a
blind man present, and thus addressed him:- "Do
you, sir, believe in a God, who has made this beautiful
earth, and the sun to shine upon it, and who has
adorned the heavens with myriads of stars, and yet,
without any cause on your part, has deprived you forever of the power of beholding them?"
The man without eyes replied as follows:-"I am
surprised, my dear sir, that you should ask me such a
question. I believe in the existence of God as firmly as
in my own. And I could doubt the one as easily as
the other. There is one thing that strikes me as being
very peculiar in what you have said. When you reason of God, you do not seem to be governed by the
same principles as when reasoning about men, and the
common affairs of every-day life." The infidel denied
the inference, and the blind man proceeded:-" When
we shall have reached our place of destination, the sun,
of which you have so eloquently spoken, will have
withdrawn his light, and the earth will be enveloped in
comparative darkness.  Suppose, on reaching your
home, and on entering your room, you find a lighted





THE INFIDEL AND TH.E BLIND MAN.     285
lamp upon the table, -what will be your conclusion? 3"
"Why," said the infidel, affecting to sneer at his
companion, I"II shall conclude that my mother or my
sister placed it there."
" IWell, then," replied the blind man, C when yo 'u
look up into the heavens and see those innumerable
lights of which you have- spoken, why do you not come
to the same conclusion, viz., that some intelligent being
placed 'them there?3"
The sceptic declared that his companion was "1a
blind Christian, and that he would have nothing more
to do with him."*
The conversation narrated above actually took place,
and there are probably many who were present that
will remember the circumstance.
*It will be observed that the argument made use of here is Butler's,
with this difference: a lamp being substituted for a watch.





286


A SKETCH.
"I AM lonely, very lonely!" ejaculated a proud and
beautiful girl, as she paced her apartment, which had
been adorned with all that a fastidious and luxurious
taste could suggest. A heart, whose affections had
been frittered away upon fashionable trifles, yearned
for sympathy and companionship. And she, the only
daughter of a princely merchant, coveted that which
the poor and the humble never want. She walked to
the window, and gazed out upon the heavens. The
stars looked coldly down upon her, and she felt, for the
first time, a deep want which wealth could not satisfy.
Poor Laura Marshall! The almost spoiled favorite of
fortune! At that hour she would have relinquished all
the enjoyments with which she had been surrounded
from her infancy, could she have obtained that for
which she sighed,-the sympathy of one who could
remove from her heart that sense of loneliness and
wretchedness, that seemed to eclipse, for a moment, the
remembrance of all her former joys. As she looked
around her, and reflected how many had been employed to administer to her gratification, how many
had labored to contribute to her happiness, and of the
little return which she had made for all this, it is not
surprising that she was sad. For, in spite of her opulence, she felt a sense of dependence which even wealth
cannot remove. Of the differences which everywhere
exist in human society, she knew nothing. The rich
and the poor were the names of classes, the first of
of which she had been taught to court, and the other to





A SKETCH.


287


despise. Of the nature of that tie which binds together
all the members of the human family, she knew nothing.
Such was Laura Marshall, when, for the first time,
had been awakened in her soul a consciousness of that
to which mere wealth alone cannot administer. As she
was vainly endeavoring to overcome her feelings, and
to change the current of her thoughts, she inadvertently
placed her hand upon a book which was lying beside
her. She opened it eagerly. It was the Life of Cowper. She read on with avidity, until she had finished
that passage of his life, where, being oppressed with
melancholy, he attempted to commit suicide, but was
prevented from doing so by a poor child, who solicited
alms of Cowper, and, by that means, made him acquainted with a sphere in life in which he might be
useful, and where he might know the luxury of doing
good. This showed him that his life was still valuable, and that there was yet a path in which he might
find true happiness. As Laura Marshall read this, her
countenance brightened.  I, too, will try it," she said,
replacing the book. Henceforth she who, until then,
had only served to grace the fashionable circle, or to
ornament the drawing-room with her pretty face, might
be seen searching for happiness among the haunts of
the poor and the needy; and, like Cowper, she found it.
Activity had taken the place of refined sloth. The
doing of good had superseded idleness. She did not
appreciate less the pleasures which wealth confers, but
she had discovered a deeper joy in sharing it with
others. In fine, Laura Marshall had found the true
secret of happiness, and the doing of good to others
so occupied her leisure moments, that she never again
felt the sensation of loneliness.





288


THE TWO ASPECTS.
MAN has sometimes been compared to a kingdom,
There exists an intimate and beautiful analogy between the powers of the individual mind, the duties
they were designed to perform, and the co6rdinate powers of the government of the body politic. The resemblance is even more striking, when we compare man to
a republic. The feelings and the passions, where originate most of the acts of life, correspond with the popular branch of the government, or the house of representatives.  The intellect, to which all the acts of the
passions are referred for its sanction, is the senate of
this little republic. If the passions and the intellect
agree upon any course of conduct, the matter is then
referred to the will, or the executive, who may either
ratify or veto it. Conscience, veneration, and benevolence, constitute the judiciary; and it is their business
to decide upon the legality or illegality of whatever is
done by any or all of the other departments. This august tribunal decides whether our acts are in conformity
with that universal law written by the finger of God,
alike upon every object of the material world, and upon
the tablets of the human heart. Now, we not unfrequently witness this same struggle going on in this
miniature republic, between its different functionaries,
that is every day seen, upon a larger scale, between the
different departments of the state, -the same striving
for ascendancy;;-the same desire of each member or
constituent parf to transcend the limits of its activity,
and usurp the rights and privileges of the other.





THE TWO ASPECTS.


289


There is yet another particular in which man may
be considered as a type of the state. In human society
there has ever been two prominent elements, that in
every age of the world, and under almost every form
of government, have contended with each other. They
have had as many names applied to them as they have
assumed different aspects. Sometimes they are called
might and right,--at others, principle and power. In
one age or nation, monarchy and democracy, -in another, liberty and slavery. Now these different names
but indicate the same principleS,--ever active, ever
striving to overcome each other. And the phenomena
to which they give rise in society have their counterpart
only in the never-ceasing struggles that mark the development and progress of every human soul. Every
man must, I think, be conscious of a perpetual conflict
going on within him between right and wrong, good
and bad, pleasure and pain, beauty and deformity, or
by whatever names we may choose to distinguish the
antagonistic principles that seem to mark the path of
our destiny. They may be called the essential elements
of nature. They seem to be essential to all life and activity. And some have supposed that without one we
could not appreciate the other. We recognize them in
the material world by the terms light and darkness. In
music, they are called harmony and discord.
Such are the two constituent principles, that, under
the names of good and evil, or, when personified,
angel and devil, together or in turn, exercise an indisputable sway over human life. These mighty agencies! who can define them?--yet who that has not felt
their power? Who, at every moment of his existence,
is not made aware of the strivings of each for the complete dominion of his soul?  What human being has
25





290


THE OFFERING.


ever been able, even with the aid of philosophy and
religion, to cultivate one and entirely suppress the
other? We are sometimes permitted to behold rare examples of individuals, in whom virtue is ever the dominant element. But oftener, alas! do we see those in
whom is presented a fearful contrast, - in whose souls
victory is as often declared in favor of vice as of virtue.
The experience of the majority of mankind, -what is
it, but the fierce struggle of the passions with the intellect, and the intellect with the conscience; of the desire
of power with the sense of justice; of selfishness with
disinterested love? It is this terrible conflict that marks
our earthly existence,- that causes us now to smile,
and now to weep, - that gives us over at one time to
the dominion of angelic happiness, and at another to
the control of terrible despair. In the life within, there
is little uniformity, - all is unrest. The influence of
the antagonistic principles of which we are speaking, is
everywhere seen. You may behold their manifestation
among the busy crowd in the great thoroughfare of life.
You can see them display themselves within the limits
of your own neighborhood, in the precincts of your own
home.. They early stamp their impress upon the lineaments of the countenance; so, from the features of the
little child, you may often read the future man. Thus, in
the Corsica boy, was seen the future emperor of the world.
Thus was it predicted of the youth of Mount Vernon, that
he should one day be the saviour of his country.
It is mortifying to reflect, that man has not yet been
able to explain the precise nature and character of those
mighty agents that control his life, and, to a certain extent, determine his destiny. How poor and unsatisfactory the answers which philosophy returns to these
questions: What is virtue?, What is evil?   Whence





THE TWO ASPECTS.


291


did they emanate, and to what do they tend? Is one
finally to supplant the other, or are we forever to be
under the dominion of both? Until these problems are
solved, human nature will continue to be an enigma.
Is it not deplorable, that, of all our sciences, the science
of life should be least understood? The refined philosophy of our day exalts man as a creature of heaven.
The darker speculations of other times degrade him
with devils. One school contends for the purity of human nature, and the other for its total depravity. For
our own part, we sympathize with neither of these
views. When we look abroad upon the earth,--when
we study the history of man and society, though sometimes delighted by his splendid attainments, we are
often overwhelmed with his gigantic vices. One thing
is pleasant to observe, that his good genius never entirely forsakes him. In the most degraded human
being that dwells upon the earth, there is a divine
spark, which divine love may fan into a flame. The
principle of beauty never entirely dies. Like the flower
withdrawn from the dew and the light, it may wither
and fade; but the smile of heaven can again revive it,
and impart to it new vigor, and cause it to open its
petals, and gladden life with its fragrance. The awful
voice of God within is never entirely silenced. In the
most abject and degraded, it still whispers of a better
land and a higher life. The omnipotent power of truth
can convert the whisperings of conscience to thunder
tones. When aroused in the bosom, where it has long
remained dormant, the fiend of the passions shrinks in
terror before its rebuke.
What is man?   How various and unsatisfactory are
tie replies to this question, after the experience and investigation of six thousand years! From one point of





THE OFFERING.


view he is made to appear, veiled in the beautiful
subtleties of poetry and mysticism, an angel of light;
and, from the other, robbed of that dignity which of
right belongs to him, viewed only as a being of appetites and passions, he is represented as a demon incarnate. We see evidences of these contradictory opinions
of human nature in the condition of society, and, especially, in the want of unity among men in politics,
philosophy, and religion, and in that intense selfishness
that marks so much of the intercourse of men and nations, and that stamps its character alike upon our social
life and our political relations. We shall, by and by, learn
to regard man as he really is, - a strange compound of
good and evil, of earth and heaven, of the human and
divine, -a being imperfect in his development, yet capable of endless progress; endowed with appetites and
passions, in common with the brutes, and yet made capable of a love that owns its affinity to angels. With
intellect to discover and intelligence to apply the laws
of the material world, and to make them administer to
his happiness, yet unable to explain the principle of
vitality, by which he is himself sustained, - endowed
with an independent will, he seems to decide for himself in whatever he does. Yet, always influenced by a
mysterious power, he feels and knows, but cannot comprehend. Strange combination of apparent incongruities! Such is man. Such is human nature. Yes! he
who is monarch of the earth, is yet an enigma to himself.





293


M USIC.
"The man that hath not music in his soul,
And is not moved by the concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils."
THERE is but one universal language, one idiom, by
which we can express those feelings, sentiments, and
ideas common to all. This language, this idiom, is
music. It pervades all nature. And it is this which
seems to connect us, by a thousand mystic ties, to every
created thing, and makes us feel, in our silent, contemplative moments, a sympathetic relationship with every
object by which we are surrounded, or with which we
have been associated. The tree, beneath whose shade
we played in our childhood, why is it that we yet
remember it? And why do we yet feel that between it
and us there once existed a strange, but _undefinable
companionship?   Never, amid the din and noise of the
world, the selfishness and activity of life, can we entirely forget the music of its rustling leaves, or the
thoughts it awakened, as it echoed, at quiet evening,
the vesper hymn of the flowers, or answered, at noonday, to the song of the rills. Why is it that we yet retain recollection of those we love, when their image no
longer dwells in our mind? It is the music of the voice
divine, that can never die. For the tones of love survive the glance of affection. 0 Music! divinest of all
the arts! deepest of all mysteries! In thee is embalmed
the memory of the past, and from thee comes the hope
of the future. Thou only revealest the coming blessed25*





294


THE OFFERING.


ness of the race,- thou only prophesiest of universal
harmony.
The phenomena of light, like that of sound, is the
result of innumerable vibrations. Everything in nature
seems to be in perpetual agitation, and each, in its own
way, is ever chanting a gladsome strain, that blendeth
in a common chorus, to the Maker of all. From the
low song of the flowers, so sweet and plaintive, to the
chorus of the spheres, so grand and majestic, there is
perpetually ascending to the Fountain of all, a hymn
of gratitude and praise. In this universal harmony,
there is but one exception, - one discord. Of all created things, man alone mars this paean of nature.
Yes, " the harp of a thousand strings," made capable
of such high music, formed for such divine strains,
withholds its tribute to the universal harmony, or mars
with its broken cadence. The heart of humanity, from
which once issued such holy melodies, - where is now
its primeval minstrelsy? Over its broken strings sweeps
no more the spirit of love. The fiend of selfishness has
broken the instrument, made by the hand of God for
the holiest purposes; and where erst an angel carolled,
there shrieks a demon.
Sad and mournful comes the dirge from him who
should have foremost sung the gladsome song in nature's universal orchestra. 0 man! must it ever be
thus? Must thou forever sing, in broken strains, the
requiem of thy departed joys,- of thy lost glory? Shall
there gush no more from out thy heart that deep delight that made thy early Eden vocal with thy praises?
Shall thy wondrous voice, formed for such lofty eloquence, be tuned no more in unison with nature? Must
thy bitter wailings never cease? and all thy life seem
but a mockery?





MUSIC.,


295


TNo! it shall not always be thus with thee,
Thou greatest of all earth's mystery;
Thy noblest song is not yet sung,
Thy highest work is not yet done.
What the world most needs is a benefactor, -one
who shall expound to our race the laws of harmony,
the observance of which shall place men in true relationship to each other and to nature. A poet or a
prophet, whose burning words shall awaken, in the
mighty heart of humanity, a deeper consciousness of its
unity and its harmonies, that shall kindle once more in
the bosom of man the flame of seraphic minstrelsy, and
revive again those beautiful affinities that once united
him to all intelligences. Then will music, the divinest
of all the arts, become what it once was, the medium
of all true thought and expression.
There are times, when oppressed by the conceptions
and aspirations of the soul, we strive in vain for utterance. There are no words that can convey our ideas.
Then it is that we have recourse to music, for it is then
only that we can truly understand its significance and
power. We strive to make ourselves heard and understood, but our yearnings and our struggles meet with
no response. The dark world is too much engrossed in
its selfishness and sensuality. We commune only with
the voices of the past, with the spirits of the departed.
Are we sad and sorrowful, we crave the deep sympathy of Beethoven. If we would raise ourselves above
this poor life, and catch a glimpse of a higher destiny,
we listen with gratitude and admiration to Mozart and
Haydn. There are a host of others, who come at our
bidding, and, with their deep, impassioned strains assuage our grief and elevate our joys. It is at such
times that we cease to be conscious of that dark pall





296


THE OFFERING.


that, from our infancy, hath veiled from us the beautiful in earth and sky.
From   my earliest days, I have felt within me a
striving to be free, that music can only adequately express. A longing for a deeper sympathy, a closer communion with the good, the true, the beautiful. In
childhood, those blessed and balmy days, when the
fragrance of the flowers and the music of the birds
thrilled my heart with deep delight, I felt within,-I
knew not what,-a spirit, whose plaintive, earnest voice
wept and smiled, and ever yearned for a fuller, brighter
manifestation. 'T was all in vain I strove to express
its meaning. To each dear, cherished thing, around
which affection twined, the voice within replied, It will
not do. The spirit cried aloud for something more.
But once, but only once, it gave me rest. 0, that
happiest hour of all my life, that deepest joy I ever
knew!
The sun's last rays had kissed the verdant hill-top,
and trailed in beauty along the evening sky. The soft
zephyr, laden with the perfume of a thousand flowers,
distilled its grateful incense upon all around.  The
birds had carolled their last sweet lay and gone to rest.
A deep, delicious languor overspread all nature. At
that holy hour, when solemn thoughts, that, like the
stars, come forth at night to shine within the soul's serener sky, when nature everywhere seems wrapped
in meditation deep, profound,-I wandered forth alone,
for unto me both day and night are one. Yet, dearest
of all time is summer eve,-- for it was at such an
hour, that I first felt the mystery of that voice divine,
that awoke within me such unutterable delight, that
called forth from my heart such deep response, as music, only, hath power to awaken. 0! if I had but





MUSIC.


297


fitting words to tell how all-absorbing, how uncontrollable, was the love awakened by those dulcet tones, that
softly trembled on the evening air. At that blessed
hour, most blessed of all my life, when she, my Isadora, accompanied by her guitar, breathed forth this
impassioned lay: -
"Give me the night, the calm, beautiful night,
When the green earth reposes in heaven's own light;
When the moon and the stars keep their vigils above,
And nought is awake save the spirit of love.
"When visions of memory visit the heart,
Like the dreams of the past, which too soon must depart,
And the soul fondly dwells on the scenes of delight,
Give me the night, the calm, beautiful night.
" Spirit of love, in yon isles of the blest,
Where the bright and the beautiful ever have rest,
Spread thy wings o'er the earth, now so smiling and fair,
And breathe all thy tenderness, loveliness, there.
"Though the tear will escape as the heart heaves a sigh,
And thoughts, all too deep for emotion, reply,
Yet the soul lingers still o'er the scene of delight,Give me the night, the calm, beautiful night."
She ceased; but in my soul, that, until then, had not
known aught of companionship, there was created a
sense of fulness and deep joy, an all-pervading consciousness that I was blessed, supremely blessed.
Years have passed away, but memory of that hour
shall live forever.
My Isadora, but for thee,
E'en doubly dark this world would be!
He who may never hope to gaze upon earth or sky,
who can never behold the light of the sun, nor look
upon the face of a friend, can only adequately appreciate the music of the human voice. To him only can





298


THE OFFERING.


music impart its highest delight, and change his midnight darkness to a noonday splendor. Who can estimate fully the influence of music upon the heart and
the life?  What can do more to soften and refine the
feelings? to purify and elevate the whole nature? And
why should it not exert as great a power now, as in the
earlier ages of society? Why not have as much influence upon the civilized, as the savage man?  Those
who have been the most constantly affected by it,who are best capable of appreciating its effects, tell us
that there is nothing that can so exalt and ennoble the
moral and religious element. Who can calculate the
influence it exerts in our churches?  What is so well
designed to lift the mind from earth to the contemplation of heaven?, And then, too, consider the influence
of music upon our social feelings. There is nothing
like the concord of sweet sounds that can so move the
heart to noble deeds and lofty daring, and that, at the
same time, can prompt to that spirit of kindness and
disinterestedness that softens and beautifies our social
intercourse. However, the power to appreciate music
is the gift of God. Shall I not say it is one of the noblest vouchsafed to man?  Blessed is he who possesses
it, and can appreciate it. For amidst all the vicissituides of this strange life, he has within him that which
can sustain and cheer him.
It is a pleasant thing to see the smiling faces of those
around you, to look upon the speaking countenances of
your friends, to read the burning thoughts that come
forth in each glance of the eye. But the beautifiul face
soon becomes pale and emaciated; the eye soon loses
its brilliancy and lustre, the form its grace, and the step
its elasticity; but the music of the voice can never die.
Like the soul, it is divine and immortal. Great is his





MvUSIC.                   299
priv ilege for whom nature, with its m.yriad objects of
beauty, has power to delight, -who can look upon the
green, beautiful earth, -who can gaze upon the heavens, adorned with its innumerable lights. But there
is a yet greater boon, there is a depth in music which
transcends all else.
"0 say, is there a star above
Like the low, sweet voice of one you love?"
There is no faculty I possess, with which I would not
part, rather than relinquish the high satisfaction which
music affords. Gladly would I open these sealed orbs,
and look out upon the vast, magnificent universe; but
I would not accept so great a boon, if it must be obtained at the sacrifice of the deep delight, of the inexpressible joy, of the unutterable happiness, which music.
alone can impart.





300


THE TRUE AND THE APPARENT LIFE.
Every spirit builds itself a house; and beyond its house, a world;
and beyoud its world, a heaven. Know thou that the world exists for
you."5
MAN is placed upon the confines of two worlds, and is
endowed with liberty to choose in which he will reside;
and upon his choice depends his blessedness. The sad
mistake of most men is, that they prefer the shadowy
unsubstantial, and delude themselves with the belief
that it is the only permanent. The great controversy
between the man of thought and the manl of action is
no-wwhat it ever has been, and may be stated thus:
"1Which is the true world, and which the phenomenal?3"
Upon our answer to this question will depend the life
we live, or, as we have just intimated, our blessedness.
Children and savages repose with implicit confidence
upon the testimony of the senses; they know only what
they see, hear, touch, and so forth; but as the child advances to manhood, and the savage to civilization,so soon, indeed, as they begin to examine and analyze
the impressions they have received from without, - do
they experience the noble doubt which opens to them
the only true world - " the world of thought." Thousands, indeed, live on, from the cradle to the grave,
without ever once questioning the testimony of their
senses, or even dreaming of the world of beauty that
lies concealed within them; and, though daily and
hlourly admonished, as one phantom after another fades
away, in their eager pursuit after that which they can
never obtain, "1true happiness," they never suppose
that, like the lost traveller, they have taken the wrong





THE TRUE AND THE APPARENT LIFE.


301


road. Blessedness, not happiness, should be the end,and aim of man. What I most need is not self-gratification; but, on the contrary, a complete forgetfulness of
self; or, if this be impossible, at least an entire subjection of all that properly belongs to my personality to
duty. The great problem which has, in all ages, occupied the minds of men, is the mystery and significance
of life. The man of the world, the artist, the philosopher, have each, in different ways, attempted a solution.
What is truth to the philosopher, is beauty to the artist,
is action to the man of the world. The life we live is
just such a one as we make. What appears to us as
the outward world, is that, and that only, which our
thought creates. Whatever is beautiful in nature, or
great and heroic in action, exists only for him to whom
it is possible. We mirror ourselves in the smiling landscape, and the starry heavens; nothing is beautiful,
nothing truly is, until the soul has breathed upon it.
To the ignorant, - and I mean, by this term, not those
unlearned in the schools, but those who, as yet, know
not themselves, - a work of art, or a sublime life, is as
unintelligible as a book, written in an unknown tongue,
to a little child. There are two points of view from
which life may be regarded - the sensual and the spirit-.ual. We live either under the complete dominion of our
senses, seeking only for their legitimate development and
gratification, or we sustain a relation to an immaterial
principle, to which we apply the terms mind, spirit, infinite, and many other fine names.
We are aware that there is a system which might be
denominated a very accommodating eclecticism, which
seeks to reconcile the sensualist and the spiritualist.
But with this system we have at present nothing to do,
further than to apply to it those familiar and pointed
26





302


THE OFFERING.


words, "Thou canst not serve two masters."   To us
it seems evident, that a man must either live the life of
a sensualist, or a spiritualist; that is to say, his thoughts
and affections will seek for exercise and gratification
either in the objective or the subjective world; that the
majority of mankind live under the habitual slavery of
the senses, is sufficiently attested by their ignorance and
misery. To most men, the greatest misfortune which
could befall them would be the privation of any of the
senses. But there is in every human soul a consciousness (often, we admit, dim and indistinct) of something
higher and nobler than that which the senses can either
perceive or enjoy. "Yes!" there is in the depth of our
being a still, small voice, which is ever calling us from
the fleeting and the transitory, to the love and the contemplation of the good, the true, and the beautiful, within
ourselves. It is the want of unity between the soul and
the external world, and our ignorance of the true relation existing between them, that constitute so much of
the misery of life. How little does the material world,
with its manifold but transient enjoyments, respond to
the deep yearnings of the immortal soul! The sensualist, impelled by self-love, toils unceasingly, that he
may realize his highest conceptions of happiness; he
builds his palace, lays out his gardens, adorns them with
statuary, surrounds himself with whatever he fondly
fancies will minister to his gratification; and if he succeeds, has his object been accomplished? In gratifying
his senses and his taste, has he attained the highest good
he craved?  "Assuredly not;" he will exclaim, as did
the vwise Hebrew, "All is vanity!"  No one can free
himself entirely from the innate consciousness that he
has an immortal nature, which the outward world cannot satisfy. The materialist, whose faith and love seeks





THE TRUE AND THE APPARENT LIFE.


303


gratification through the senses, and sneers at the suggestion of the idealist, that the only true life is the
spiritual, is still compelled to feel, that which he
practically denies, the yearning of the restless soul, that
nothing will satisfy. 'Tis all in vain that he seeks for
repose upon the traditions of the ages or the formulas of
men: these were only designed for helps, - they can be
nothing more. To the man whose constant life is in the
outward and apparent, whose thoughts dwell habitually
upon the transient objects of sense, nothing can be more
appalling than the idea of death; yet it is forced upon
his attention by all he sees in nature; by all the vicissitudes of the life he lives; to him  death is indeed a
change from  the known to the unknown. There are
two ways in which he seeks for solace. He regards, or
pretends to regard, death as a total annihilation; or he
pictures to his imagination a sensual heaven, which is
nothing more than this world, with all its grossness, elevated to the skies. But, to the spiritualist, life has a
deeper meaning, a profounder significance; to him death
is but the absence of true life; for him there is no time,
- all is eternity; he needs no ingenious arguments, no
balancing of probabilities, to assure him of immortality;
for the life he lives is unchanging and eternal. What
passes before his senses is but the creation of his own
thought; when his material body has accomplished its
purpose, his soul will create for itself another. His
heaven is perpetual blessedness--his life is unending
love.





304


MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
THE other day I visited my native town, after an
absence of many years. Very cordial and sincere were
the greetings of those that yet remain of my associates
in early life. But time had wrought great changes in
the home of my childhood. Many an object once familiar to my touch, many a friend ever dear to my
heart, was gone; the tree beneath whose shade I was
wont to sit, and wonder why the blessed sunlight, which
shone so kindly upon all, should be denied to me, - the
rock by the sea-side, I had so often climbed, that I might
hear the rippling wave, the dashing spray, -has been
removed. It may be by the action of the elements, but
more probably to suit the caprice or convenience of
man.
And where, too, is the youth whose noble bearing and
kindly heart made him the favorite of all? In early
manhood he embarked on board a ship, to visit other
climes, and was never heard of more. Where is the
maiden, whose graceful form and sunny brow, - whose
sweet young face and bright blue eye,- made her the
idol of her parents and the pride of all who knew her?
Very brief and sad is her story. The pretty girl became the beautiful woman; loved with all the intensity
of her noble nature, was deceived, betrayed, and died of
a broken heart.
But there is one place ever dear to my memory - one
little spot of earth, to which, in anxious manhood, my
thoughts have often returned with a kind of tender sorsow. 'Tis the grave of my mother. Thither I repaired





MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.


305


at the close of day; and though I saw not the light of
the setting sun, I felt upon my heart the dreamy, quiet,
holy influence of the twilight hour. Once more I stood
where, five and twenty years ago, we laid the form of
my venerated mother. The events of a quarter of a
century seemed crowded into a moment. It is not strange
that one for whom the material world has but few
charms should find a kind of melancholy pleasure in
dwelling upon the only being he ever saw. Often, very
often, have I endeavored to recall to my mind the form
and face of her on whom I first gazed. And long since
have I fancied I have done so. And now, in my silent,
contemplative moments, I see before my mind's eye a
form, not graceful, but fragile; a face, not beautiful, but
serene and thoughtful; an eye, not brilliant, but tender
and tearful. But that low, sorrowful voice, I can only
recall when, in moments of high enthusiasm, I fancy I
hear the whispering of angels. Around this ideal image
cluster many holy memories, and upon it hang, as it
were, all my highest conceptions and noblest thoughts
of a brighter world and a better life. And now, after
so many years have elapsed, I find myself again beside
my mother's grave, gladly forgetting the poor experience
of life, that I may dwell more intently upon her love.
When on that day the hand of destiny veiled from these
eyes the blessed sunlight, and the dearest thing it revealed, her serene and thoughtful countenance, with
many tears she pressed me to her heart, sadly exclaiming, -" My poor boy is blind! Who will take care of
him when I am gone? "  And when she knew that she
must die, placing her hand upon my head, she invoked
the blessing of Him, who, though His ways be mysterious, doeth all things well. 0, my mother! how often
in the hours of sorrow, when forsaken by friends, as36k





306                THE OFFERING.
sailed by calumny, or tempted by sin, have I turned
aside that I might weep and pray, and think of thee! I
was never haunted with dreams of greatness. Ambition
rarely fires the blind man's heart. LHe knows full well
that the misfortune that distinguishes him from his fellows limits his sphere of activity and usefulness, and
renders possible for him only what is possible for alla purer life. May I go on the even tenor of my way,
and when my life on earth is ended, oh, grant mne but
this boon, a place to rest beside my mother's grave!
Reader! hast thou a mother 3 Love and cherish her,
for she is of more worth to thee than all the world
besides. Is her spirit in heaven?3 Go often and stand
beside her grave, and meditate upon her virtues, and it
shall do thee good.





307


A HINT.
NOTHING is more natural and praiseworthy than the
desire to console those who are deprived of any blessing
which we enjoy; but the means employed are often of a
very doubtful nature. For instance, when we tell one,
who by some sudden misfortune has been deprived of the
wealth he has labored for years to accumulate, that his
condition is no worse than the majority of mankind, -
or, when we say to the man who has been bereft of the
use of a leg, or an arm, that the other has become
strengthened thereby, - we administer a very poor and
inadequate consolation. A friend once said to me, by
way of making the want of sight more tolerable, that if
I had not been blind, I might probably have been hung;
and this may have been true. Still, if I could have had
my choice, I think I would have risked my neck for my
eyes. We have no faith in this philosophy of compensation. Say to the child of misfortune, it is the will of
God, and you have said all. Reader, dost thou sympathize with me? -I will tell thee a way to manifest thy
sympathy. Purchase a copy of my book, and if there
be compensation for the want of sight in the cultivation
of the mind, you will enable me to obtain it.





308


A LESSON FOR THE DAY.
WE have had occasion, in one or two former articles
to speak of the character of the present age, and the
peculiarities of society as it now exists, especially in our
own country. Though not enjoying the means of such
extended observation as many others possess, we have
still, however, employed all the resources at our disposal, in the study of human character and human
society; or man as an individual, and man in the aggregate. And it must, we think, be admitted, that
nothing is so worthy of careful study, deep thought, and
profound contemplation. The majestic past, big with
events and vicissitudes, affecting alike the destiny of the
individual and of society, -the present, with its ceaseless agitations, and ever-shifting scenes,-the unexplored future, where the imagination loves to revel,
and picture better and brighter things for man than he
has ever yet realized,-all this is eminently fitted to
stimulate the intellect to its utmost capacity, and engage the warmest affections and liveliest sensibility of
the heart. We, of the present generation, are passing
through a transition state, prepared by that which has
gone before,-we are, to a great extent, contributing to
the character of that which is to come after us. The
present, then, is the field of our operations, the theatre
of our actions; and it is what is now going on around
us that most claims our undivided attention, and it is
this that will constitute the subject of our present article.
As every individual life is, to some extent, the minia




A LESSON FOR THE DAY.


309


ture or fac-simile of the life of society, so a great nation,
like our own, in its social and political relations, may
be considered as a type of the world. Whatever, therefore, are the peculiarities and events which, at the present moment, are in operation in this country, and which
are effecting the intellectual and moral development of
man, and forming or influencing the character of society, they are under various aspects, subjected, of course,
to innumerable modifying circumstances, pervading
every civilized country upon the globe. So that we have
but to look around us, and carefully observe all that is
going on within the sphere of our observation, to have a
pretty fair idea of the condition of society and the state
of the world. The most striking fact which everywhere presents itself at the present day, is the transition
state of society, and the unsettled character of our social
institutions. Progress is not less a law of the nature of
man, than of that social compact, that binds men together by so many indissoluble ties. Change, then,
better than any other word, expresses the great idea of
our times. For human thought and human action,
there is, so to speak, no inertia. All is movement, activity, advancement.   And this character, this peculiarity, is impressed not merely upon man, but upon all
those institutions which, for a time, supply his wants,
and administer to his development. And this has formed,
in every country and every age, the dominant phase of
those successive stages, through which the human race
has passed in attaining to its present state of civinzation. It is this element, this great principle, which has
been at the bottom of all those mighty revolutions
which in every age, and especially in modern times, have
exerted such a controlling, such an all-pervading influence in human affairs. It was this that lay at the bot




310


THE OFFERING.


tom of the Reformation in the sixteenth century, and
that caused the English revolution in the century following, and that finally set in operation those remarkable events that dethroned the Bourbons, and made
France, for a time at least, a republic. And it is, as
we have already observed, this all-pervading desire for
change to which our country is indebted for her present
social and political advancement. But to deal no more
in generalization, let us examine more minutely than
we have yet done the condition of that state of society
in the midst of which we are placed, and of which we
form a part. One thing is very observable in the condition of our country at the present moment. There is
a greater amount of activity among the masses, than
was ever displayed at any former period. Individual
minds no longer exert such a controlling power in the
government. We have as many great men now as at
any former time. But they no longer possess that influence in the councils of the nation. The general intelligence of the people, the facility with which knowledge
is now acquired upon almost every subject, has produced a greater intellectual equality than has ever existed before. The laborer and the artisan share with
the jurist in making the laws and legislating for the
country. Every situation in the state is open alike to
all. The ambition and intelligence of every individual
is thus stimulated and excited, to a degree without a
parallel in the history of the world. Nowhere but in
this country do the laws so fully express the will of the
majority. Nowhere does the government confer greater
blessings upon the governed. But notwithstanding the
superiority of our political institutions, there exist here
the same social evils in embryo that have manifested
themselves in older countries. The equality, of which





A LESSON FOR THE DAY.


311


we so proudly boast, is all political. The same differences, the same castes, have manifested themselves
among us that form the chief curse of European society. We have our aristocrats, who make up for the
want of a title, in their pompous demeanor, costly equipage, &c. A million obtains as much consideration, as
much servility in the United States, as my lord does
in England. It is surprising to observe what an immense influence wealth exerts in this country upon all
classes. It is the standard, in too many instances, by
which worth is measured. It creates, on the one hand,
and in one portion of society, a haughtiness and arrogance, that vie with the lofty pretensions of the titled
aristocrats of the most despotic country in the world, -
while in the poor it excites a superciliousness, a degrading demeanor, truly pitiable to witness, and which is
by no means in keeping with that political equality of
which we have spoken. We have not time to speak
of all the physical and moral evils that wealth engenders. They must, we fear, always continue to exist
until the unnatural relations between labor and capital
are greatly changed. There is some truth in the charge
that we are a nation of apes. We have grown tired of
our republican simplicity,--we no longer possess the
stern virtues of our fathers. The rich copy the fashions
and habits of the higher classes of Europe, and the poor,
with a sickening exactness, copy the rich. Thus all
classes become enervated, by the silly and ridiculous
attempt to transplant, so to speak, the usages and customs of the corrupt society of the old world. There is
yet another peculiarity, which is equally lamentable,
that may be said to form one of the characteristics of
Americans. We refer to that ridiculous sensitiveness
which is so often manifested to the opinions of foreign




312


THE 'OFFERING.


ers.  As a people, we cannot endure criticism. Like
the Chinese, we are accustomed to regard and to speak
of our country as the best in the world. Hence, the
public anxiety, so often manifested when we are visited
by some traveller from Europe, to make him think as
highly of our country as we do ourselves. We have
sometimes paid dearly for this. One would think, on
reading Dickens' Notes, that he was feasted in our cities
to little purpose. Who could expect a man to give anything like a philosophic account of our institutions,
when his stay among us had been only for a period of
about six months. English' tourists have usually, with
some few exceptions, imitated the example of Mrs. Trollope, in caricaturing us. There is no trait which has
excited this ridicule more than our ridiculous fondness
for whatever is foreign. We do not even pass a law, or
decide upon any great governmental measure, without
asking what effect it will have in England or France.
No one can acquire among us a very great celebrity
in any of the fine arts without spending some years in
Italy. Indeed, it is beginning to be thought, among the
higher classes in this country, that their children cannot
be thoroughly educated until they have spent a year or
two in one of the European schools. A young man, as
soon as he has passed his minority, if he is desirous of
seeing the world, instead of becoming acquainted with
his own country, prefers to pass a few years in observing the workings of society in the European capitals.
And when at length he returns to his own country, he
is shocked with the coarseness of plain republican life.
It has been said, that the American, in common with
the English, are the most gullible people upon earth.
If a foreigner comes among us, claiming to be physician
to the King of the French, or pianist to his most Chris




A LESSON FOR THE DAY.


313


tian majesty, the whole country is thrown into a state
of excitement. All are for availing themselves of the
skill of the doctor, or to listen, with raptures of course, to
the performances of the professor. After these wonders
have succeeded in obtaining all that they wanted,-a
round hundred thousand, -they go home, and at their
leisure laugh at our simplicity. However, it is with
the nation as with the individual, - experience is the
best teacher. We shall, I trust, soon learn to place a
higher value upon the advantages we really enjoy, and
at the same time be less sensitive as to the light, in
which we are regarded by foreigners. There is one fact
which cannot be denied: there is no country upon the
earth where the millions are better provided for, better
fed, and clothed, than in the United States. And nowhere is general intelligence more widely diffused.
There exists, it is true, despite our political equality,
the great social differences of which we have spoken as
being produced by the unnatural relations that exist
between labor and capital. But we hope it will not
lead to such deplorable consequences as it has in older
countries.  Indeed, it is impossible for wealth to accumulate in the same hands and to so great an extent
here as in England and France, for example. Property
and wealth, of all kinds, is subjected to great changes
and vicissitudes among us. And this leads to a greater
generalization, to a more frequent distribution among
all classes, and this is always the case when government never arbitrarily interferes with the natural order
of things.
It is almost always found to be the case in this country, that the same family rarely retain their wealth
longer than three generations. You will often find the
grandchildren of rich men to be poor. There is another
27





314


THE OFFERING.


characteristic of American society which we must not
omit here. We have already referred to the great, the
almost unprecedented, intellectual activity among us.
The American and the English people are not so remarkable for deep thinking as for great and magnificent actions. Common sense is something of which the
Anglo-Saxon race may proudly boast. Still, it is not
difficult to observe the tendency of the American mind
to speculation. We are beginning to deal largely in
abstractions. Action, prompt and efficient action, no
longer succeeds thought, as it was wont to do. We can
plan a revolution as well as our fathers, but we cannot
accomplish it. We can invent a theory or hypothesis
of society, but we cannot achieve its actualization.
How many beautiful ideas are put forth at the present
day, -how many fine-spun theories are invented, -in
short, how many admirable things are merely said and
written! There is, we repeat it, great intellectual activity manifested among us, but it seems to be divorced
from physical power. They no longer act in harmony,
as they were wont to do, in the accomplishment of
those great revolutions that have done so much for the
advancement of human society. And hence it forms
one of the peculiarities of our age, that we attempt
much more than we accomplish,- we think much
more than we do. One would naturally suppose, on
reading many of the publications of the present day,
and the striking delineations they contain of the advancement of human society, that we had well nigh
reached social perfection. But when we look around us,
-when we go forth into the busy world, - when we examine man as we everywhere find him, - we are then
satisfied that the description we have read is but a
beautiful dream of a fond enthusiast. We have time





A LESSON FOR THE DAY.


315


only to mention one more of the characteristics of
American society; and it is the saddest one of all to
which we have referred. It is the predominance of the
physical and the intellectual over the moral element.
Society, as yet, has no conscience, or, if it has, it is, as
we often find it in the individual, dormant. How much
labor is expended in obtaining mere physical enjoyment!
How many sacrifices are made for mere intellectual
gratification! But how little has yet been done, either
by man or by society, to develop the moral element, or
to cultivate the moral principle. Society often punishes
crimes in individuals which she perpetrates herself
without any compunctions. How little abhorrence has
repudiation excited in this country! But few remonstrated against the perfidy we displayed in our intercourse with the aborigines. And does not this indicate
the want of a healthy, of a more moral tone in society?
Consider, too, the war in which we are now engaged,
and the real purpose for which it was instituted, and
deny, if you can, that, though we have developed our
physical resources, and cultivated the national intellect,
yet have we mournfully retrograded from that high
moral position that distinguished us in the infancy of
the republic. In a moral respect, indeed, how little do
we differ from other countries! The same desire of aggrandizement, regardless of consequences, that has so
often impelled other nations, seems also to animate us.
The same inevitable consequences will certainly follow, no matter what may be our particular form of government, if we adhere to and act upon the false maxim
that might is right; if we acknowledge, in our dealings, a degrading expediency, we must expect to share
the fate of other republics,--have a brief existence, a
poor and imperfect development, and have it said of





316


THE OFFERING.


us, as it was of them, that republicanism was a miserable failure.
Thus have we spoken of American government and of
American society. We have touched upon many subjects, each of which is sufficient, of itself, for an entire
article. But believing that many of our readers are
better acquainted with the subject than we are, the
most that we have ventured to do is to make a few concise observations upon those evils so prominent as not to
have escaped the notice of the most unobserving. We
hope and believe that they will yet find a corrective. Notwithstanding all her faults, we love our native country.
We have not yet subscribed to that sentiment, that has
become so prevalent of late, that patriotism is incompatible with philanthropy. Neither do we feel inclined
to indulge in that excessive adulation, by which so many
labor to prove their attachment to the republic. No;
we think it is wiser and better to prove our patriotism,
by doing all we can to correct the evils and guard our
country from the dangers to which she is exposed. This
is what we have endeavored to do in the present imperfectly-written article. Let those who have it in their
power, effect more, -be up and doing.





317


THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION.
THE religious element is the strongest of our nature.
It manifests itself, with more or less power, at every period of our existence, at every stage of our advancement
in life.  In the savage as well as in the civilized man,
there is this craving for something higher, -this longing after a more perfect communion, a purer joy, a diviner life, than can ever be attained upon the earth.
Sometimes this wonderful principle seeks for gratification in the various forms and images of beauty which
the external world presents.   But, disappointed, it
again falls back upon the soul. It soars to the stars; it
wanders everywhere, but finds rest nowhere. It is this
feeling that never becomes extinct in the most degraded
human being, and which the most perfect life we are
capable of here cannot satisfy, that seems to unite us
with the angels and to God. It is interesting to witness
the earnest but too often ineffectual attempt of mankind,
in every age, to gratify this longing, this highest aspiration of our common nature. It is melancholy to behold
the sufferings of our race, that have marked its progress,
from the lowest to the highest degree of development it
has yet attained in civilization. But the sad mistakes
of mankind,- the faults they have everywhere manifested, and with which the history of the world is full,
--the perverted manner in which they have so often
sought to manifest and gratify the religious element,
present a far more deplorable and gloomy picture. The
false religions that have existed in every age, through
which man has so often vainly striven to satisfy the
27'





318


THE OFFERING.


cravings of that divine instinct which, amid all his
degradation, has preserved within him a desire for a
better life, constitutes the most interesting, and yet the
darkest passage of his history.  Idolatry, in all its
forms, presents the melancholy spectacle of men laboring in vain to give utterance to their consciousness of
the existence of Him, who is alone entitled to the
homage of all hearts. Nowhere has man been able entirely to free himself from the idea of God. And yet,
nowhere, without the aid of revelation, has he been
able to express it. - Formed for worship, yet for the
most part ignorant of the object alone entitled to adoration, he has often made a deity of himself, or, worse
than this, he has bowed down to inferior natures.
The Greeks and the Romans, with their imposing mythologyi, --- Asia and Africa, with their degrading rites
and mournful superstitions, show us how often and how
earnestly man has labored to gratify the highest want
of his nature, and to restore himself to that state of innocence, and to that heaven from which he had fallen.
The Pantheon, with its gods and its demi-gods, creatures of passion and of fancy, how little is there in the
idea they were intended to embody, akin to that lofty
conception, of the only living and true God, which the
Bible presents. How degraded were the Greeks in
their most advanced state of civilization, and what a
striking proof did they afford of the inability of man,
unaided, to discover the true God through what is
called natural religion. The teachings of the mostenlightened philosophers of antiquity, not excepting
Socrates, the greatest moralist the heathen world produced, fall far short of the morality of Judaism, to say
nothing of that contained in the precepts of Christ.
Comparisons are instituted and analogies are drawn by





THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION.


319


the philosophers of our day, between the systems of
Plato, Confucius, Zoroaster, and the religion of the
New Testament. We sometimes hear it said that Jesus
Christ embodied in his precepts ideas contained in the
maxims of the sages of the heathen world. But the
superiority consists in that he lived out what he taught,
He actualized what before had been but mere abstractions. The central idea of Christianity is, a pure life,
-the offspring of a divine faith. Such a life, such a
faith as man had never before conceived.
We admire the system of Zoroaster; it was vastly
superior to anything the Persians had known before.
We cheerfully accord our admiration to the philosophy
of Confucius, and to the beneficent moral influence it
exerted upon his countrymen. His system was based
upon obedience of the child to the parent, of the citizen
to the state. It is sometimes claimed that he was the
first that uttered the maxim, "Do unto others as ye
would that others should do unto you."  The form,
however, in which he inculcated it, was different,-it
was negative, -  Thou shalt not do unto others what
thou wouldst not have others do unto thee." Although
he lived, considering his time, a remarkably pure life,
yet his example came far short of Christ, if, indeed, it
be not impious to compare them at all. Christianity,
when compared as a whole, with any or all of the systems of philosophy or religion that have ever been promulgated, infinitely transcends them in its adaptation to
the wants and necessities of man. All that is beautiful
in the mysticism of Plato, all that is excellent in the
maxims of Confucius and Zoroaster, it contains; but it
has something more, -something which they could
never obtain,--the impress of heaven, the signet of
God.





320


THE OFFERING.


The maxims which they inculcated were calculated
to act merely upon man's outward life,--to make him
a truer friend, a better citizen. Christianity, while it
does not neglect this, goes beyond it. It purifies the
heart, and reveals a higher life beyond the grave. It
belongs to no country; it was designed for no one peculiar nation. It proclaims the universal brotherhood of
man, the equality of the race. There is another respect
in which it differs from all other systems. It does not
voluntarily ally itself with physical power. It has revealed to man a mightier force, a more potent agency.
It has declared love to be the only true principle of action. It is upon this alone that it relies for its ascendency. It is in this that we discover the secret of its
influence upon the lives and the hearts of men. Love,
it declares, is the essence of God, who is the Father of
all. And it is through the agency of this mighty principle, that it would regenerate the children of earth and
make them heirs of heaven. There is yet another respect in which we can see the superiority of Christianity
over all other systems. It is in the comprehensive view
it takes of man. It seeks his elevation, by first purifying the heart, and then by regulating and controlling his
actions. It is adapted to him in every state of development, in every situation of life. It meets all the wants
of the ignorant and the learned. From its pure fountain
all can drink and be satisfied. Christianity, wherever
it has established itself, has elevated and ennobled man.
And it has always been most successful, when least
it has relied upon human instrumentality. Its greatest
victories, unlike those of all other religions, have been
achieved, not upon the battle-field, and by the blood of
conquered millions, but upon the degraded and sinful





THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION

321


heart; fitting it for the great battle of life, whose victory is only achieved when heaven is obtained.
Nothing is more wonderful than the manner in which
the Christian religion gained its ascendency in the
world, supplanting everywhere idolatry, by its own
moral power and intrinsic loveliness, and redeeming the
human race from the terrible dominion of dark and degrading superstitions. At a time when the world was
shrouded in darkness and in ignorance, and man led only
by the feeble and inefficient light of human philosophy,
or degraded by the appetites and passions of his corrupt
heart, there appeared, in an obscure corner of the earth,
among a people remarkable for nothing so much as
their exclusiveness and isolation from the rest of mankind, one who was distinguished from his fellows by
the beauty and simplicity of his daily life. He associated not with the wise and the great, but, on the contrary, chose his companions from the poor, the neglected, the despised. His disciples were a few unlettered
fishermen, who followed him around from place to
place, listening with eagerness to the words that fell
from his lips, "For he spake as never man spake." He
ttught not in the academy or the lyceum, but in the
market-place and by the way-side. His auditors were
the ignorant and the oppressed multitude, into whose
earnest hearts his words fell as manna from heaven.
The beauty of his daily life transcended that of the
greatest of the prophets; and the deep compassion of
his sympathetic heart was manifested in his every act.
For three years this wonderful being went about doing
good, -healing the sick, restoring the blind to sight,
and even raising the dead. All were astonished at the
manner in which he taught. But at length his opposition to wrong and oppression of every kind, created for





322


THE OFFERING.


him  many enemies, and they sought to put him to
death. They soon succeeded in accomplishing their
object. The humble Nazarene,.the meek and lowly
Jesus, died upon the Cross. The few unlettered fishermen whom he had instructed went forth unarmed, save
by the power of truth, to convert and enlighten the
world.  And, strange to say, they confounded with
their heavenly wisdom, the learned Jew and philosophic
Greek. Driven from city to city, these wonderful men,
whom no persecution could overcome, proclaimed the
gospel of good news to a degraded world. They lived
to see the prediction of their Master verified in the destruction of Jerusalem by the Roman army. At length,
one by one, this heroic band of apostles sealed with
their blood their devotion to truth. Meantime, the new
religion which had been proclaimed by them, still continued to gain new conquests. Two centuries had
scarcely passed away, when, strange to relate, that
power which had conquered every other until it proclaimed itself mistress of the world,--Rome, imperial
Rome, - became, in its turn, conquered by the religion
of the Prince of Peace. From the conversion of Constantine to this day, Christianity has exerted a predomir
nant influence in elevating the condition of mankind.
When the Northern barbarians overran the Roman empire, trampling upon and scattering the monuments of
its former greatness, they found one institution which
they could not overthrow, but which was destined, in
process of time, to subject them to its dominion. During the dark ages, the Christian church contained within
itself whatever of value in literature or art that had
survived the devastating influence of those barbarous
tribes.
It is not easy to conjecture what would now be the





THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION.


323


condition of Europe, and the whole civilized world,
if there had not existed in the midst of society an institution strong enough to control the turbulent passions
of men, at a time when human laws were powerless,
and human governments existed only in name. It is
difficult to form a correct opinion of the character of the
nations of Europe, during the long period that elapsed,
from the overthrow of ancient to the commencement
of modern civilization. We know enough, however, to
feel assured that, but for the influence of Christianity,
they would have remained in a state of barbarism
for a much longer time. Of the wonders Christianity
has wrought in modern times, we need not speak. Of
the share it has taken in modern civilization, of the
blessings it has conferred upon every class of society,
we need say nothing. Whatever may be the advantages that we at the present time enjoy of social improvement, or of individual progress, are to be attributed
to the ameliorating influence of Christianity. To it
also must be ascribed all those benevolent institutions
that form the chief characteristic of our day, and that
extend their benign influence to the poor, the benighted,
the unfortunate, wherever they may exist. Yes; all
that we have attained as individuals, all the blessings
we have derived from society, are the offspring of our
holy religion. And more than this; it is to it alone
that we can look for the complete annihilation of those
evils that still afflict the world. It was tile philanthropic element that was most predominant in the
character of Christ; and it is this that forms the chief
characteristic of his religion. Wherever it has been
promulgated in its purity, it has always made men
better and happier. This is its great object,-to redeem the human family, and to restore man to the





324


THE OFFERING.


favor of his heavenly Father. Slowly it may be, but
surely, it will accomplish its object.  Already, methinks, I hear the Angel of the Future announce its approach, and the hallelujahs of redeemed millions proclaiming its final success. Soon shall this be a glorious
reality. Soon shall that for which the good of every
age have so long prayed, be realized,-" Thy kingdom
come, thy will be done on earth as it is done in
heaven."
The general desire which is now everywhere manifested, to correct time-honored abuses, and eradicate
those evils that still afflict human society and degrade
the individual, can only be accomplished by the agency
of that religion which has alone proved adequate in every
emergency. Already we have witnessed the influence
it has exerted in all the great philanthropic efforts of
the day. Christianity is truly reformatory. He who
denies this, knows but little of its spirit. Progress is
one of the essential conditions of the Christian life.
And he who knows anything of its power must be
conscious of this; for it is one of its essential facts.
What a contrast does the gradual change, effected by
Christianity, in the condition of mankind, present to
those sudden but transient revolutions brought about
by man, impelled by generous but poorly-regulated
impulses, to the attainment of the same great object.
It must, however, be borne in mind, that we are speaking of the Christianity of Christ, and not that which
passes for it, but which is its counterfeit. We have no
sympathy with those religionists who are so far elevated above the world, as to feel little or no interest in
the welfare of their fellow-men. We have said it, and
we repeat it, that Christianity is reformatory. Steadily
and firmly it is advancing to the accomplishment of its





THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION.         325
object, --the regeneration of man. Yes; this world of
antagonisms shall again be blessed1 with unity, and
men so long estranged from each other shall taste the
sweets of harmony. Then will the vision of the
prophet become a glorious reality, and there shall be a
new heaven and a new earth.
28





326


TRUE HEROISM.
WE sometimes hear it said that the spirit of chivalry
has fled the earth; that man is no longer animated by
those sublime and lofty sentiments, that, in the middle
ages, prompted to such deeds of noble daring. The
poets complain that we have no heroes at the present
day, that we have become sordid and selfish, and that
our elevated and noble sentiments are compelled to
give place to utilitarianism and selfishness. There
may be in this some truth. It is quite possible that
we are less influenced, at the present day, by the wonderful and extraordinary, and are more inclined to
the practical and attainable; or, in other words, we are
now governed more by common sense, and less susceptible of the influence of the imagination. The different elements of our nature have, each in their turn,
exerted a preponderating influence upon human life.
In the present age, the desire for the real, the substantial, the practical, is in the ascendant; but it must not
therefore be inferred that imagination, the love of the
beautiful, the heroic in human actions, has died out, or
has ceased to animate man; though the circumstances
in which we are placed, and the advanced state of
human society, may have combined to give it a different direction than that which it received in the middle ages. In the twelfth century, for instance, the
crusades, or the holy wars, as they were called, afforded all classes of Christendom a rare opportunity for the
display of the heroic element. The religious principle,
through the imagination, was excited to a degree of





TRUE HEROISM.


327


activity it had never before attained. And it gave
rise, at this period, to those great achievements, which,
when viewed at the present day, bewilder and astonish
us. There is, without doubt, in the chivalry to which
feudalism  gave rise, something which at first sight
seems grand and imposing. But the more attentively
we examine it,-the more carefully we investigate the
causes that originated it, and the principle by which it
was sustained,--the admiration and enthusiasm which
are first awakened, give place to abhorrence, and even
disgust; for there never was a period when human
society was more degraded than during the feudal age.
The nobility, the lords of the soil, alone enjoyed any
degree of personal liberty. The mass of the people, the
serfs, were doomed to all the horrors of a savage life,
without any of its advantages. Nothing can be more
gloomy than the spectacle which they presented. Deprived of all their natural rights, under the absolute and
unlimited control of the lord of the fief, and the no less
galling despotism of a corrupt priesthood, they had but,
at most, a mere animal existence, and were but a little
elevated above the condition of the brute. Such was
the condition of a large portion of European society, at
that period which has been denominated, by way of
preeminence, the glorious age of chivalry.  There
was something in the isolated life of the feudal nobility, and in the exalted sentiments of personal liberty
to which it gave rise, which is, at first, calculated to
excite our admiration. But when we look more closely,
we find the heroism they so often displayed, and which
has enkindled, in later times, the enthusiasm of the
novelist, and inflamed the imagination of the poet, was
but little superior to that which has been so often manifested by the aborigines of our own country. Osceola




328


THE OFFERING.


would compare well with any of the most adventurous
spirits of the tenth or twelfth century. There is something captivating, to the romantic and susceptible mind,
in the imposing display of the feudal lord, clad in the
armor of war, issuing forth from his castle, followed
by his vassals, to give battle to some neighboring and
rival chieftain. But the moment we examine more
closely into the life he led, and the abject condition of
his vassals, disgust and pity take the place of every
other sentiment. Of all the vicissitudes to which mankind have been subjected, that to which they were
doomed in the middle ages is truly the most appalling.
However, there is no state through which human society has passed, that may not be said to have some
peculiar advantage. That of the feudal ages seems
to be, that it greatly favored the cultivation of the
domestic relations. Woman acquired an influence and
consideration, at that period, which she never before
possessed. And it is this, probably, that has made so
many overlook the enormous evils to which feudal
institutions and customs gave rise. We need only
study them attentively to become convinced that the
age in which they existed forms the darkest epoch in
the history of the world; for at no other period had
the few acquired such an absolute control over the
many; at no time had right been so completely subjugated by might. Tear from chivalry the glossy drapery with which poetry has veiled it,--you will then see
it in all its deformity; a thing of beauty becomes a
hideous monster. We find that that which we had so
much admired, which has been so often applauded as
the heroic period, as the age of poetry and minstrelsy,
was based and maintained upon the ascendency of
brute force over the rights and souls of men; so that,





TRUE HEROISM.


329


that which at first appears the brightest, forms, in
reality, the darkest passage in the history of the race.
If we would look for true heroism, we must search the
annals of a later period. We must read the history of
the sixteenth, seventeeth, and eighteenth centuries;
when degraded and crushed humanity rose in its
might, shaking off at first the despotism of a corrupt
church, and afterwards freeing itself from political
tyranny, it boldly asserted its freedom and maintained
its rights, and taught the tyrants in church and state,
a lesson they will never forget. The world has not
yet recognized its heroes, its noblest benefactors; those
who toiled and died in the cause of their race. When
it does so, it will rank among the foremost, the reformers, the philosophers, and the philanthropists of
the last three centuries, -Luther, Melancthon, Descartes, Bacon, Wilberforce and Channing;--these are the
heroes of history, the champions of the race, who, by
their splendid lives, eclipse the exploits of the most
chivalrous adventurers of the middle ages. Let it not,
then, be said that the heroic ages have past; they
have but just commenced. The present is as well
fitted to excite the spirit of chivalry as at any former
period. The theatre for the display of true courage
and noble daring, is broader now than ever before.
No longer is bravery displayed in the predatory excursions of half-savage chieftains. True glory is no more
sought for on the field of blood and carnage. It has a
higher purpose, and a wider range. It seeks to display
itself upon the broad battle-field of life. Its high object
is the amelioration of man, the advancement of the
race. The fierce struggle is between man and that
which has in all ages degraded him; between knowledge and ignorance, liberty and oppression.  The
28S





330                THE OFFERING.
bugle and the clarion summon no more the lord of
the castle to the fierce conflict of death. But the mildtoned philanthropist is everywhere pleading with earnest sincerity, the cause of his brother man. The sword
and the spear, and the other dread implements of bru.tal warfare, are beginning to give place to the omnipotent power of all-conquering love. The present, then,
is but the dawn Of the true heroic age, whose chivalry
shall not exist merely in poetry, but in reality. It
shall not be maintained by the sword, but by the,
power of truth and justice. In this high heroism all
can participate. All may share its glory. The field
is as broad as the world; its aim is as high as the
heavens. Then let us all take a part; let us all be up
and be doing.





331


CONTENTMENT.
Ah! why to be happy, a moment forbear,
For dread that a sorrow may fall to our share:
Why look for the night when the sun 's in its noon?
For come care when it will, we shall know it too soon.
EVERY one, to a certain extent, forms for himself a
theory of life, and the ideas of each individual are
made more or less manifest, by his daily intercourse
with those around him. When we meet with a man
for the first time, he makes upon us a certain impression, often, indeed, sufficient to enable us to form
a correct notion of his most prominent characteristics, and of his general views of the purpose of human existence. Often, without speaking a word, by
the mere interchange of a passing glance, are we
enabled to arrive at something like a correct and definite idea, of the state of another's mind, and, consequently, the point of view from which he regards life.
Though there is every conceivable shade of difference
in men's opinions of human life,--from him who is all
sunshine and happiness, to the morose misanthropic,
whose very gestures contain a complaint, - yet, I think
they can all be reduced to two classes; those that
seem born to laugh alike at happiness and misery,
who go through the world as if sent upon an agreeable
errand, and those, on the other hand, who always
look and speak as if they had conceived some dislike
to the world in their infancy, and were determined to
carry their resentment with them to the grave. We
meet with some one of each of these classes at every





332


THE OFFERING.


step in life. Now, you are approached by one who by
his bland manners, unaffected sincerity, and cheerful
deportment never fails to impart to you something of
his own happy disposition. We greet him as we do
the warm sunshine of heaven, and we experience in
his society the highest happiness that life can afford.
Anon we meet with one who is in every respect his
opposite; slowly he advances towards you, with a
cold look, and averted brow, as if he saw an enemy in
everything by which he was surrounded. He offers
you his hand as if you were hardly worth the effort it
cost him. He opens his mouth with as much deliberation as if lips were regulated by the principles of
arithmetic, and he speaks as if the fate of worlds hung
upon every word he uttered, and yet all he says is
sure to relate to himself. Such a one never fails to
inspire you with gloom and ennui, for misanthropy
is the worst of moral epidemics. We are influenced,
much more than we would at first suppose, by the
opinion we form of life in the abstract. Some men
seem to commence their earthly pilgrimage with the
idea that everything ought to contribute to their enjoyments; and the great end of all their actions appears to
be, to make everything contribute to this result.  And
when, at length, they are disappointed, which of
course, they always are, they seem to derive a malicious pleasure in withholding from society, the contribution of a smile. They put on a long face, and
grumble at every occurring event, as if to chastise the
world because it has not made their happiness its end
and aim.
It is, I think, a demonstrable fact, that those who
are the most constantly complaining,-with whom nothing is exactly as it should be, -who see, in almost every





CONTENTMENT.


333


circumstance of life, something that might be changed
for the better,--constitute, for the most part, those who
actually receive more than their average share of the
favors of fortune. Who are they that are the most
constantly repining at their lot?3 Is it the 1 oor, the
friendless, the unfortunate? No, usually quite the
reverse. It is those who complain because they have
nothing else to do; who are enervated with the smiles
of fortune; who seem incapable of thinking or feeling
aught but that which in some way relates to themselves. They count with exactness the pulsations of
their hearts, lest the condition of another should cause
a generous throb.
Those who, for the most part, are compelled to contend with the stern and terrible realities of life, whose
pathway is marked with nothing so much as suffering
and sorrow, who bear without a murmur more than
their share of the burdens of the world, --it is such
that most frequently exhibit, in its beauty and attractiveness, the virtue of contentment. Instead of regretting what they have not, they thank God for what
they have, and go on their way rejoicing.  Give
me the man who has a heart for any fate; who is
greater than his circumstances; from whom no calamity, however appalling, can chase away the cheerful smile; whose great soul rises above the petty
annoyances and ills of life; who, amidst the darkness
of the present, can always see a bright and glorious
future beyond. Where shall such a one be found?
Not among the favored few, but among the poorlyfavored many. Not in the palaces of the rich, but in
the abode of poverty. Yet is he welcomed everywhere! His cheerful deportment and unruffled tem




334


THE OFFERING.


per is his passport. There is genius in his frank, open
countenance and laughing eye, that finds a ready
welcome to every heart; of such a one it may indeed
be said, he is a model man.
But what shall be said of him whose pigmy thoughts
circle perpetually around his little self? Who never
speaks to another but to report some ache or pain;
who is forever recounting his own sorrows? You may
know him by the dull, stupid glance, the sluggish
gait, the inexpressive face, the whining tone, the altogether forbidding aspect. He goes forth into the world
in search of sympathy, but never thinks of imparting
it. His greatest misery is to witness the happiness
of others. He is ever croaking about the wretchedness of life, but does nothing to diminish it; dissatisfied with everything, pleased only with his discontent.
Much of the dissatisfaction of those who perpetually
look upon the dark side of life, is dignified with the
appellation of sentimentality, and even takes to expressing itself in poetry. The spoiled beauty will
often weep big tears over a decayed dandelion flower,
in a wine-glass upon the centre-table, but beholds,
unmoved, the most appalling suffering which exists
everywhere in society. Sentimentality, forsooth! No,
call it by its right name, - abject selfishness. This is
the true origin of most of the discontent in the world.
The deepest, truest sorrow  utters no plaint.  The
heart that is its subject never murmurs or repines, for
it is conscious that by suffering alone it can be purified
and elevated to a higher and holier life. This simpering and wimpering, this silly and sickly sentimentality
breathed forth in much of our common-place poetry,
emanates from weak heads and little hearts, and is the





CONTENTMENT.


335


offspring of inactivity, selfishness and ennui. If we
carefully reflect upon the thousand sources of happiness open alike to all; if we compare the nature and
the number of blessings we each enjoy, with our
respective merits, we shall find, I think, little justification for a discontented spirit. Life itself, aside from
all other considerations, is something for which we
can never be too grateful. Our physical, intellectual
and moral powers, what are they but so many means
of happiness? The material world is ever furnishing,
through the medium of the five senses, an amount of
pleasure which amply compensates for all physical
suffering. But how shall we speak of those higher
enjoyments in which we are permitted to participate
as rational and intelligent beings? Is there not, in the
deep delight imparted by one original thought, enough
to make us forget the misery of a whole life?  We do
not pretend to explain the design of evil, nor would we
for a moment deny the suffering which is its consequence. What we do maintain is that it is the
exception and not the rule.  Happiness preponderates
over its opposite. There is no one that is not conscious
of a greater amount of pleasure than pain. There are
but few who may not find, in the circumstances of life,
an abundant reason for cherishing the spirit of contentment. The sunlight of heaven shines down upon
all. The beautiful objects with which God has everywhere studded the earth, speak to us of happiness.
What though there be here and there one for whom
the sun never shines, and the flowers never bloom,who sees not aught in earth and sky? Is there
not a world within whose spirit light knows no
eclipse? Shall he who has four senses complain because there are others who have more? And yet it





336


THE OFFERING.


is upon this poor principle alone that discontent can
be justified.
It cannot be denied that much of the suffering of life
comes from our own ignorance or neglect of those laws
which were instituted to afford us happiness. Yet,
after all, why should we concern ourselves about mere
enjoyment? Why should we spend so much of our
time in the pursuit of mere pleasure. It seems to us
that there is a far higher state than that which is
denoted by happiness, pleasure, enjoyment, &c. Every one, we think, must be conscious, at times, of a
higher excellence than these terms would seem to
indicate, - of a blessedness, an exaltation above mere
physical suffering, and free from all selfish considerations. The maxim, that happiness is the end and aim
of man's existence, is, to say the least, very questionable. Duty, we think, would better express the
idea intended to be conveyed.
There is nothing which so resembles the repose
and quietude of nature, as the spirit of contentment
in the human soul. It not only puts us in harmony
with nature and with all around us, but it prepares
us for the vicissitudes and changes incidental to this
primitive state of existence. Contentment gives consistency and beauty to ofr daily life, and enables
us to impart a portion of our serenity to those with
whom we associate. Virtue is lovely in any of the
thousand forms in which it may present itself. But
there is no trait of the human character more necessary to be cultivated, and more worthy of our admiration than contentment.   Do you ask whence
it comes?  I will tell you, my brother.  It flows
from a grateful heart, a well spent life,--from a
conscience void of offence towards God and man.





337


TO THE MEMORY OF A DEPARTED FRIEND.
The beautiful, the beautiful,
Have faded from our track,
And we mourn them, and we mourn them,
But we cannot bring them back.
IT is with regret that we listen to the falling leaves
of autumn. It is with feelings of sadness that we behold the flower we have cherished droop and die.
But the deepest sorrow the heart can know is experienced when we are called to part with a much loved
friend, - when the familiar eye looks upon us for the
last time, and when the voice whose music has so
long blest us, pronounces, in tremulous accents, the last
dreaded farewell!
One who shared with us the enjoyments of life, who
contributed by her rare excellences to the happiness
of all who knew her, has left us for her home in
heaven. The angel has taken her from us in the pride
and beauty of life, while yet the countenance was
radiant with beauty and joy, and the heart yet beat
with youth's first, fresh impulses. The step, that but
yesterday *was so blithesome and gay, has ceased.
The voice, that carolled so sweetly, is mute. The
smile that wreathed the lips with gladness, like the
last rays of departing day, has withdrawn its light.
And the eye, that so eloquently told the workings of
an innocent heart, is closed in death.  But fancy
delights to picture the image of one in whom was
blended so many graces in unity and perfection. Oh,
my friend! gladly would I have parted with life,
could I have retained in thee the vital spark! Could
29





338


THE OFFERING.


I have revived again that prostrate form, I would
have welcomed the fell destroyer to my own bosom.
But no, it could not be. We knew, by the hectic flush
on thy young cheek,l-by the hollow cough,, that, like
a funeral-knell, broke on our ears, -by these we knew
that consumption had marked thee for its own. Too
soon, at last, the dreaded time approached. All that
skill and love could do, could not preserve our fair
young friend; yet she lingered long ere her bright
spirit took its flight to its more genial home on high.
'T is sad to see one you love wasting away, day
by day, without being able to softly whisper one
word of hope. To know that you can count the
hours that all too quickly pass away, till the dread
moment when the spirit takes its flight. Yet this
we knew, who wept that one so beautiful as Mary
should so soon be taken from us. Would that I could
tell how she in happier days endeared herself to every
heart by those thousand nameless acts that spoke
a woman in the child. But she is gone! The fresh,
young flower, chilled by the cold north wind, has
drooped and died. Yet, its sweet fragrance shall live
forever. Embalmed is her memory with the beautiful but faded visions of the past. We gaze no more
where once was enshrined her innocent heart. We
see no more those eyes through which an angel
smiled, yet do we know that she is blest. Like
a gay young bird she unfolded her wings upon the
earth, warbled her sweet song, and then returned
again to her home in the skies.





339


A JOURNEY ACROS8 THE ALLEGHANIES.
THERE are some situations in life devoid of all mitigating circumstances. Some one, writing upon this
subject, has mentioned two, -"to be shipwrecked at
sea, and to be irrecoverably involved in debt." To
these, we would add a third; -" To be compelled to
ride on the top of a stage-coach, two days and nights,
in succession, across the Alleghany mountains." Yet,
this was once our fate. We have had the toothache,
and sometimes, the heart-ache, but, we must confess,
that never until then, were we fully made acquainted
with our capacity for suffering. One day, at about
eleven o'clock, P. M., in the month of January, 1846,
-we like to be particular in dates, -we found ourselves occupying anything but a comfortable position
on the top of a stage that was to take us from Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, to the Ohio river. Besides
twelve passengers in the inside, there were three, including myself, upon the top. As soon as our baggage
had been stowed in the boot, we drove off. It seemed
to me that I never before felt such a deep desire to
look upon the stars; for, somehow, I had conceived
the idea that they would serve to divert my mind from
a consciousness of my true condition. As a general
thing, I like to ride by night; for, though I cannot see
the fair earth reposing in the soft moonlight, nor the
stars, that, like the mystic sentinels, look coldly down
upon us; yet, there is something in the profound stillness of midnight that seems to elevate the soul with
noble thoughts and lofty aspirations. But, on the





340


THE OFFERING.


present occasion, I am free to confess, dear reader,
that my thoughts were all occupied with the state of
the body. And if I thought at all of the sun, moon,
or the stars, it was because I envied them their
more genial climate. The wind blew fresh from the
northwest, from whose penetrating power our clothes
seemed to afford no protection. I had, a day or two
previous, read the description of the Northmen's idea
of hell, so graphically described by Frederica Bremer,
and, for a short time, I began to think I had been
given over to its fury by fate. My companions were
so busily occupied in keeping up the circulation, by
stamping their feet, clapping their hands, and performing sundry other antics, it was a long time before I could
find out who and what were the nature of those with
whom I was to spend some forty-eight hours of unmitigated misery. At length, however, I succeeded in
drawing from one of them a reply. It seemed to come
from a heart whose temperature was not much above
the surrounding atmosphere. I addressed the other,
and found him to be not quite devoid of his humanity,
and who manifested by his conversation, some interest
in life and its objects. He said his name was Williams,
that he was going to Pittsburg on business, but quickly
rejoined, " Do you think we shall ever get there 7"
"We shall," replied the other, slowly drawling out his
words, "but not in a condition to be of any further
service to the world." Prompted by curiosity, and
with a desire to engage him in conversation, I asked
him his name. "Yesterday," he replied, "it was
Rice, but unless the weather greatly changes, by tomorrow, it will be more appropriate to call me ice."
As to the driver, he seldom spoke, and when he did, it
was usually to his horses. I found Mr. Williams to





A JOURNEY AdROSS THE ALLEGHANIES.


341


be, upon the whole, rather an agreeable companion.
We talked much, and in this way endeavored to forget, or, if this was impossible, to manifest indifference to, our freezing condition. Mr. Rice seemed to
prefer his own to the company of any one else. The
greater part of his person was completely enveloped in
a buffalo skin. He kept, however, constantly stamping
his feet, as if he had spent a great part of his previous
life upon a treadmill. About once in every five minutes, he would exclaim, in a tone that indicated serious
apprehensions lest he should congeal, " Have mercy
upon us! have mercy upon us!" on which occasion,
Mr. Williams and myself would respond a hearty
amen. About once in every three hours we stopped
for the purpose of changing horses, and this afforded
us an opportunity to diffuse into our half-perishing
systems a small amount of caloric. On such occasions
it was amusing and instructing to witness the display
of that dominant instinct of man's nature, that everactive principle that prompts him, first of all, to seek
his own happiness, regardless of others. No sooner
did the stage stop before the door of the hotel, than
each passenger endeavored to secure for himself the
most comfortable position by the fire, if, indeed, there
happened to be one, which was not always the case.
Some there were among our number, who had recourse
to that more terrible fire, which, if at the time it
diffuses a temporary heat through the body, consumes
with terrible rapidity the soul. In this way was our
journey, for the first night, accomplished. I had cultivated a kind of intimacy with my fellow-traveller,
Williams, and we endeavored to amuse each other, by
relating such portions of our experience as we thought
would best accomplish this object. In our views of
29*





342


THE OFFERING.


life, and our opinions upon almost every subject, there
was a great diversity. There was but just one thing
upon which we both thoroughly agreed; that to be
situated as we were at that time, was the perfection
of misery. However, it has been justly remarked,
that there is no situation in life to which we cannot
accustom ourselves. Our experience in crossing the
Alleghanies verified this. A rather curious question
was argued among my fellow-passengers in the inside
of the coach, which was discussed for the time, with
great earnestness, as to the degree of cold a man could
endure and live. In the course of the discussion, the
point was raised, as to which was the easiest way of
dying, freezing or burning to death. The question, on
being referred to us on the outside, was, of course,
decided in favor of the latter method. Morning, at
length, approached, and in a few hours I felt the
warm, genial heat of the sun, and at that moment I
felt amply compensated for never having been permitted to behold its light. Blessed sunshine, that
diffuseth joy alike in the palace of the rich, and the
cot of the poor, and that everywhere admonishes men
of their common brotherhood. At length, we arrived
at the village where we were to take breakfast. Mr.
Rice, who, for several hours, had been lying by my
side, as immovable as a piece of marble, suddenly
emerged from his buffalo skin, something in the same
manner as those animals, who spend the winter in
a torpid state, come forth from their holes in the
spring. We were soon all seated around a well supplied breakfast table, and for the ten minutes which
were allowed us, we each labored to obtain our full
equivalent for three shillings. There is a wonderful
connection between our external and internal condi




A JOURNEY ACROSS THE ALLEGHANIES.


343


tion. We would, by all means, give prominence in
life to the wants of the soul over those of the body.
But, we frankly confess, we could never attain to a
very high degree of spiritual exaltation, while suffering from the influence of hunger or thirst. We always
found it more easy to cultivate a poetical frame of
mind, after eating a good meal; and we would suggest this as the best method of improving the spiritual
condition of mankind, - of the millions of famishing,
starving, and ignorant all over the earth, whose wretchedness appeals alike to the sympathy of good men and
angels. Give them enough to eat, and clothes to keep
them warm, and they will listen with pleasure and
profit to your fine homilies upon moral goodness, the
vast capacities and future condition of the soul, &c.
Until you do this, complain not that the imperious
appetites and passions so often gain the ascendency
over reason, and silence the voice of conscience. But
to return once more to our journey; the breakfast exerted an immediate and beneficent influence upon us.
And Mr. Rice, who seemed naturally inclined to look
upon the dark side of things, said, as he wrapped his
buffalo around him, and resumed his place upon the
coach, " There is really something worth living for,
after all! " "Do you think," said Mr. Williams, "vwe
shall arrive at Pittsburg in a condition to be of further
service to the world?."  " That will depend," was the
reply, "upon how many such hotels as this we shall
stop at." At this place, we exchanged our drivers.
Instead of a mere block of flesh and bones, with barely sufficient mechanical power to perform the most
common evolutions, and a voice that seemed fitted
only to growl, we had a fine young fellow, who proved
to be very companionable. I early engaged him in





344


THE OFFERING.


conversation, and found that he had ideas and acquirements greatly surpassing the average of those who
pursue his avocation. He had evidently employed
his mind upon something else besides the mere training and driving of horses. He remarked to me, that
with the house where we had taken breakfast there
was connected a very painful history. He then proceeded to relate the following story. We wish it was
in our power to give it in his own words, for it would
greatly add to its effect.
The hotel where we had taken breakfast, was, until
recently, the family mansion of a wealthy but eccentric Dutchman, by the name of Van Scoburg, by
whom it was built some thirty years ago. Mr. Van
Scoburg had two children, a son and daughter, who
occupied the house after their father's death, which
occurred a few years since. There was something
peculiar in the mode of life which this family led,
which astonished the inhabitants of the village, and
greatly excited their curiosity. They always sought
to seclude themselves, as much as possible, from the
scrutiny and acquaintance of their neighbors.  Nor
did the brother and sister manifest, after their father's
death, any disposition to cultivate a more intimate
acquaintance with those around them, than they had
been permitted to do during his life. This seemed the
more surprising, because they had arrived at that period in life, when the need of human society is usually
most deeply felt. The neighbors sometimes visited
them, and though they were treated with great kindness2 their visits were never returned. The brother
and the sister seemed to be contented with each other's
society, and to ask nothing more. " Things went on in
this way," said my companion, "for some time. The





A JOURNEY ACROSS THE ALLEGHANIES.


345


Van Scoburgs continued to maintain their imperturbable
isolation, and the curiosity of the neighbors, on the
other hand, continued to increase. Every facdt or circumstance which had been observed in relation to the
family was carefully considered. The most remarkable one was, that they never attended church, but that
the minister went at regular intervals to their house to
administer the sacrament. It was therefore thought
by the villagers that he could gratify their curiosity.
But whenever that personage was addressed upon the
subject, he only said that which tended to excite them
the more. To the men he would speak of the gentleness and amiability of the sister, while, to the women,
he would eulogize the manly traits of the brother.
Every expedient was had recourse to, to induce the
Van Scoburgs to live (as the neighbors expressed it)
like other people, but all to no purpose; they seemed
determined on maintaining their incognito.
One day, just at dusk, the stage stopped in front of
the house, that had now become in the village an object
of general interest.  A young man, richly dressed,
stepped out and knocked at the door, which was
immediately opened by Julia Van Scoburg, and the
new comer welcomed with great cordiality and affection.  This circumstance, which was witnessed by
several persons, spread with great rapidity through the
village. Thus, there was another item for speculation. Innumerable were the questions to which it
gave rise. Who could this man be? Where was he
from? What was his object here? How long would
he stay? and such like. To the great astonishment
of all, the next Sabbath after the event we have just
described, the Van Scoburgs appeared, with their new
visitor, in the village church. It may well be supposed





346


THE OFFERING.


that the domine's sermon for that day was but little
attended to. All minds seemed occupied, for the time,
in the fruitless endeavor to explain what to them
seemed the strangest circumstance that had ever occurred. Never before had the Van Scoburgs been seen
in the inside of the church. Their first appearance,
at this time, was justly ascribed to the influence of the
stranger. This, at once, created for him a lively interest. The villagers looked upon him as one who
would enable them, at length, to gratify their curiosity.
During the week there was no want of a subject for
gossip. After the occurrence of which we have just
spoken, the Van Scoburgs, with their friend, were
often seen walking or riding through the village,
though they still maintained a seclusion from their
neighbors, which was quite contrary to the rules of
Dutch society.
" However," said the driver, pausing for a moment,
cc you have not yet heard the most wonderful part of
my story." We urged him to go on, and he proceeded.
" This stranger, of whom I have been speaking, was
a young German student. We afterwards found out
all about him. It seems that the father of the Van
Scoburgs had promised the father of the student, that
he would give his daughter in marriage to his son.
As soon, therefore, as Van Scoburg died, the young
student came to see her who had been promised him
as his bride." "Well," said I, growing rather tired
of the narrative, " were they finally married? " Yes,"
replied the driver, " they were married, -and in
the church, too. And the villagers were all amply
gratified in witnessing the ceremony. But, alas! in
two weeks from that day, the young student and his
beautiful bride, with their brother, were each con




A JOURNEY ACROSS THE ALLEGHANIES.


347


signed to the cold grave."  " What, so soon?" said I;
" how happened it "?"  " It would take too long to tell
you the rest of the story. We have now," said the
driver, " arrived to the place where I leave. Should
you ever come this way again, I will conclude my
history of the Van Scoburgs."
After taking dinner, we proceeded on our journey,
with a driver remarkable for his stupidity as his predecessor had been for story-telling. Just at dark, we had
arrived at the commencement of the ascent of the
highest part of the Alleghanies, with the prospect of
having a colder time than the preceding night. Here I
witnessed what is probably seldom seen upon any other
road in the United States, - the passengers upon the
inside of the coach, bargaining away their right to a
seat with those upon the outside. In this way, my companions had both succeeded, for a small consideration,
in securing a seat in the inside of the coach for the rest
of the journey. There is but one thing that tends to
mitigate the many evils to which a traveller in the western part of Pennsylvania is exposed; you are always
sure to get enough to eat, provided you will pay twice
as much for it as you would have to in any other part
of the country. I cannot exactly tell how I contrived
to pass the last night in my journey across the mountains. I only know, that when morning came, and
we had stopped for breakfast, I experienced something
of the sensations of one who has come near being
drowned, but who has been suddenly restored by great
effort. At length, after another monotonous day's
journey, we arrived in sight of Pittsburg, or rather, its
smoke, which rises up from its thousand furnaces,
completely enveloping the city.  Yet, beneath that
smoke, there is many a happy home, many a friendly





348                 THE OFFERING.
fireside.  Of all the cities, west of Philadelphia,
Pittsburg yields to none for energy and enterprise.
It is a fitting place to rest, after you have endured
the fatigue and vicissitudes of a journey over the Alleghanies.





349


MAN AND HIS LIFE.
THE greatest mistake man can ever commit, is to
suppose that he can find, in the present state of existence, that which can fully gratify all his wants. The
cravings of the immortal soul-how vain and futile
it is to expect that they can ever be gratified in this
primary and imperfect state of existence. There is no
lesson of life so constantly impressed upon our minds,
no truth so often forced upon our consciousness by the
ordinary occurrences of every day, and every hour, as
that this world is too poor, too inadequate to gratify
the longings and aspirations of the restless spirit of
man, that is ever asking for more,--that is ever
striving to attain that which it can never fully succeed
in grasping in his present imperfect state of development.
If we look abroad upon the earth and study attentively human life as it is there presented in its thousand different aspects, --if we regard it as a whole,
or view each phase separately, - if we contemplate
man as savage or as civilized, or as emerging from one
state into the other, we everywhere find this great fact
stamped upon all his actions, giving character to all
he says and does, and pervading in very truth his
inmost being,-that time is too short, that the world
is too poor, to enable him to develop and expand the
mighty energies of his exalted nature. To us, the
strongest argument for another and a higher life is
furnished in the sad mistakes and miserable failures
that constitute so much of our experience upon this
30





350


THE OFFERING.


mundane sphere. How many and varied, yet, for the
most part, how poor and inadequate, are the efforts of
man to realize what he conceives, -to actualize his
thoughts, -to embody his ideas, -to give symmetry and
beauty to the myriad forms that haunt his imagination, and that struggle in vain for realization.  The
artist endeavors to express upon the canvass his conception of the good, the true, and the beautiful; he
toils for days and nights, for months and years, to
embody the seraphic vision, the angel form, that,
amidst all the vicissitudes of life, breathes its soft music
through his delicately wrought spirit. Yet when a
wondering world gaze with rapture and delight at his
noble effort, how often will he exclaim, "This is not
my dream, this is not what I hope to do;" and then,
as if impelled by a prophetic instinct, he turns upwards
his gaze to the stars, as if he felt conscious he should
achieve there what he vainly endeavored to realize here.
In like manner does the sculptor labor to chisel from
the cold marble of the quarry, a form that shall fittingly express his highest thought, his loftiest idea of
beauty and perfection; yet how often is he compelled
to acknowledge that this life is not long enough for the
attainment of his object! When he looks upon the
creation of years, beholds the once shapeless marble,
made, by his patient toil, a statue, whose graceful
proportions,- whose wonderful symmetry seems to
constitute the perfection of the divinest of the arts;
yet, from his inmost soul does he feel that there is yet
something wanting,-that his great thought has been
but half realized. At such an hour the gifted genius
feels what an eminent artist once expressed after he
had finished his master-piece, -that " there was not
time enough in the present state of existence, to enable





MAN AND HIS LIFE.


351


him fully to realize his conception, but that he was
sure what could not be accomplished on earth would
be realized in heaven."  What we have said of the
painter and sculptor, is equally true of the poet and
musician. None can fully express the thought which
it seems to have been their mission but to partly unfold.
None ever succeeded in fully completing all that they
had desired. But this is rendered even more striking,
when we contemplate the daily life of the less gifted,when we leave the studio of the artist, the enchanted
haunts of the poet and musician, and go forth into the
broad theatre of the world. Everywhere do we behold the same disparity between the aim and the end;
between what one essays to do and what is actually
accomplished. This is a universal fact, and forms a
part of the experience of every individual soul.
Every man seems to have a consciousness of an
individual destiny, - of a purpose which he alone can,
at best, but imperfectly express. And after the brief
period of his earthly pilgrimage has passed, and he
feels how little he has been able to effect, he realizes,
what it would have been well if he could have learned
before, that the present life is insufficient,-that the
plans projected here can, for the most part, only be
accomplished in a higher state of existence; yet it is
interesting to witness, with what earnestness, with
what deep sincerity, each one labors in his own peculiar
sphere of activity, and it is wonderful to observe how
the failures of all contribute to a certain given result
which could not be otherwise obtained. The individual fails, but the race is always advancing. There is
a unity, (if we would but see it,) in the seeming desultory efforts that produce such fragmentary results.
There is more truth than is generally supposed in





352


THE OFFERING.


the trite adage, " It takes all kinds of people to make
a world."  When we look merely at immediate results,
we cannot but deplore the spectacle which is everywhere presented in human society, of men laboring to
accomplish a purpose, having only their individual
good in view, (seemingly,) at first sight, in contravention to those obligations that bind men together in one
common family. Much is said of the isolation and
selfishness that everywhere exist. We hear it deeply
deplored that the common brotherhood of men is not
more deeply felt; but we ought to remember that the
individual is greater than society,--that the one existed long before the other; consequently, the claims
of the individual will ever be paramount to those of
the, social compact, whose highest aim it is to favor
his development. Much is written upon the obligations we owe to society. There is, perhaps, no fact
that has taken so strong a hold of the consciousness of
the present age as the power conferred by combination,
- the influence exerted by the aggregation of numbers;
but in our opinion, there is nothing to be so much
dreaded as the despotism of association. Of all tyrannies, that of majorities is the most galling, the most
relentless. We hope we shall not be misunderstood;
we do not deny, and we would not depreciate, the
advantages obtained and the blessings conferred by
united action. Many public enterprises of great utility
are effected in this way, when, perhaps, they could
not be in any other; but the advantages obtained by
concert of action do, at most, but augment our facilities for mere physical improvement, and so far as
this contributes to the intellectual improvement, or
moral advancement of the individual, or of man in the
aggregate, it is well; and it is by this principle that





MAN AND HIS LIFE.


353


we must judge society. It is by the influence which
it exerts upon the development of the individual soul
that each and every social institution must be measured.
We know that this much is claimed for most of the
boasted improvements of modern times. It is said, for
instance, that railroads, by establishing a more frequent
communication between remote parts of the country,
and by bringing distant communities in immediate
proximity with each other, contribute to the enlargement and diffusion of ideas and to the expansion of the
sympathies, and thus promote a greater unity among
men. But the advantage that is thus conferred upon
the individual is, at most, but incidental. The object
of this, as of every other improvement, is to augment
social facilities, and not to promote the permanent happiness of man. And hence, we find, that although the
advancement of society at the present day is without a
parallel, the individual has retrograded. Who can fail
to see that there is an immense disproportion between
the attention bestowed upon the public and the individual interest. Society is enervated with its luxuries,
while yet many of its members are suffering for the
most common necessaries of life. There exists, in
consequence, a greater inequality among men than at
any former period. It seems to us that we have bestowed too much attention upon the physical, and not
enough upon the intellectual and moral wants of our
nature. The external, the mere physical, has been
developed, while the internal, the spiritual, has been
neglected. Society moulds man; instead of administering to his wants and favoring his development, it
tyrannizes over and enslaves him. To a great extent,
is it not true that our ideas and thoughts are regulated
by custom. Is it not the great object to think and act
30*





354


THE OFFERING.


as the majority do? What is more rare than originality 7
Perfection in social organism can only be attained
by the advancement of the individual. Social progress
ought always to be in proportion to individual development. There is a dignity in man which society can
never possess, and which ought never to be compromised by surrendering those rights with which he alone
is endowed. That desire for unity and harmony, of
which every soul is conscious, can only be fully gratified when the powers and faculties which God has
conferred upon us are so developed and regulated that
they shall sustain to each other an exact and true relationship. So slow is the process by which this can be
accomplished, that the most we can hope for in the
present state of existence is, to commence a work
which will occupy eternity in its completion. Heaven,
paradoxical as it may seem, is the perfection of individuality. There is oneness only in the unit.
In the present infancy of our being, where, like inexperienced children, we occupy our thoughts with the
things wherewith the great God has ornamented our
playhouse, we see but little, very little of ourselves; all
our thoughts are turned outward. We admire the
growth of the tree, but notice not the expansion of the
soul. We search for music and for beauty as if they
existed in the leaf of the rose or the flowing of the
waters, when, in very truth, they flow forth from our
inmost being. So ignorant are we of ourselves, that
when we see our reflection in surrounding objects, we
do not recognize it; we occupy ourselves more with
the clothes than that which they envelop; we are more
familiar with the symbol than that which it was
intended to express. In fine, we have not yet begun





MAN AND HIS LIFE.           355
to apprehend that sublimest of truths, that the only
permanent is the immaterial, the only real is the ideal.
All in the present state of existence is dim, indistinct,
undefinable.  Man comprehends nothing fully, but
least of all himself; yet is he slowly, all unconsciously,
working out the great problem, -looking for harmony,
-beholding nothing but diversity, --ever sighing for
unity, yet hearing naught but discord. Such is man,
and such is his present condition; yet in the misery
and imperfection of to-day, there is indicated a brighter
morrow; and though we behold everywhere written
the insufficiency and inadequacy of the present life, we
see a mysterious hand that is ever pointed to the faroff future, and a voice proclaiming this to be our
destiny. -Onward! ever onward!!





356


THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK.
WE have, in a previous article, given some account
of Nicholas Saunderson, one of the most remarkable
blind men of whom history speaks. We propose, in
the present essay, to make a few remarks upon the life
and writings of Dr. Blacklock, who acquired, during
the last century, no common celebrity as a poet. And
if we take into consideration the fact, that, like Saunderson, he was deprived of his sight from his earliest
infancy, we must, I am sure, consider the attainments
he made in literature and philosophy to be very remarkable. No one can become acquainted with his writings
without admitting that he was as great a poet as
Saunderson was a mathematician. Taking them both
together they were certainly wonderful men, and demonstrate in their lives, how much can be done to
counteract the effects of one of the greatest calamities
to which a human being can ever be subjected. Nothing at first thought seems more astonishing than that
two men deprived of the use of their eyes at so early
a period as never to have remembered anything about
visible objects, should have devoted their lives to those
pursuits which more than any others seem to require
the aid of sight. But while we are filled with admiration at their astonishing success, we cannot at the same
time avoid the conviction, that if they had not been
subjected to so great a physical calamity, they might
have accomplished much more for themselves and mankind. When, for example, we read with what amazing facility Saunderson was able to expound the laws





LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOOK.  357
and phenomena of light, we are more deeply impressed
than we could ever have been before, of the influence
that blindness must ever exert in retarding intellectual
progress,-and we involuntarily exclaim, what a pity
that so great a man should be the victim of so terrible
a misfortune! And in like manner, when we read the
beautiful verses of Blacklock, especially those in which
he attempts to depict the wonders of nature, forever
veiled from his gaze, and that existed to him only in
story, though we are greatly surprised at the correctness and even vividness of his pictures, still we are
made to feel that when he was bereft of sight the
world was deprived of a great descriptive poet, -of one
who in his delineations of nature might have equalled
Burns or even Byron. Still, the poetical productions
of Blacklock possess great merit. For if he did not
always succeed in describing as graphically as others
have done the material world, he yielded to none in
delineating the workings of the passions. He understood the nature and the power of love, and could speak
of its effects on the heart and life with much greater
ease and correctness than he could possibly describe
the most common phenomenon of nature - as, for example, the reflection of the moonbeams upon the quiet
waters, a gorgeous sunset, &c.
It is worthy of remark, in this connection, that all
the ideas which a man who is born blind can have of
external nature are obtained through his other senses,
or by association. It is by this latter method alone,
that he can obtain a knowledge of colors. It is then
evident that he could never succeed as a dramatic poet.
And it will always be, at least, a partial failure, whenever he attempts to illustrate his thoughts, in prose or
verse, by images drawn from the external world. Not





358


THE OFFERING.


because he has not within him the principle of beauty,
for the soul is beauty's birth-place; but in a blind man
it struggles in vain to manifest itself. Of the enchanting landscape, the serene sky, the sun, the moon, the
infn:itude of stars, the green, beautiful earth, reposing in
heaven's soft light, -of these, alas! he can only dream.
It is true that the soul, conscious of its mission, seeks
to manifest itself- it is true that the blind man, impelled from within, endeavors to discover a similitude
between his thoughts and the different objects by which
he is surrounded. And though he: sometimes succeeds
in forming beautiful analogies, yet for the most part
they but imperfectly convey his ideas. It has often
been observed, that persons bereft of sight make use
of the same terms that those do who are blessed with
eyes. They speak, for instance, of seeing or beholding
objects; -but these terms are used, of course, in a
metaphorical sense. By seeing, they mean that they
perceive. They early accustom themselves to make
use of the same terms employed by those around them,
though it must be evident that they attach to them a
different idea, which is formed or modified as they
advance in life and their knowledge is increased.
Thus, I attach to the word glory a different meaning
now from that which it had in my childhood. I made
use of it formerly, to express whatever seemed to be
vast, grand, inconceivable, illimitable, &c. The meaning it now has is somewhat different. By the words
glory, glorious, &c., I mean great brightness or brilliancy. If I were to place my hands upon a large
sphere or globe highly polished, I could not better express my idea of it than to say it was bright or glorious. To be more explicit, we mean by the word
glorious, infinite brightness. It must also be apparent





LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK.


359


that we attach to the names of colors a different meaning from that commonly applied to them. Red, blue,
violet, green, yellow, &c., have each, to the mind of a
blind man, an idea which may be found to differ materially from the true one, or from that which they
have who are permitted to behold them in those infinite
combinations, in those beautiful varieties, which are
everywhere exhibited in the material world. For example; the blind man associates the blue with the
sound of the flute; violet, with the violin; crimson,
with the clarionet; black, with the bass viol; brown,
with the bassoon; and yellow, which is the least
pleasing to him of all the colors, he associates with the
sound of that instrument which every person with a
cultivated ear cannot but dislike--the trombone;--
the deepest red or scarlet corresponds with the sound
of the trumpet; the pink is associated with the soft
notes of the bugle. We state these correspondences as
they appear to us.
On reading Blacklock's poetry, one is surprised with
the uniformity and regularity with which he applies
the names of the different colors to appropriate objects
- as the blue sky, the green earth, the purple morn,
the pale moonbeams, &c., &c. This has led some to
suppose that he applied these terms for no other reason
than that be had been accustomed to hear others do
so. But we are inclined to dissent from this opinion.
We cannot help thinking that he must have formed in
his mind some definite idea of each color, after something in the same manner as hinted above. There is
a more striking analogy than one would at first suppose, between sounds and colors. Both are produced
by vibration. And may it not be possible that the
effect upon the optic nerve in the one case, is the same





360


THE OFFERING.


as that upon the auditory nerve in the other. I would
state here for the benefit of the curious, that there is a
fancied resemblance, at least, between colors and the
tones of the human voice. The lower tones correspond
with the darker shades - the medium voice, with the
paler colors, or the milder shades - and the higher
tones or the head voice, with the brightest and most
brilliant colors, as a bright red for example.  The
female voice, whose melodious tones can move the
heart to deepest ecstasy, is a combination of the
blue, the violet, and the pink.   The masculine
voice resembles the black, the green, and the red.
These are variously compounded in different individuals. We hear, in the deep, rich tones of the Hon. Daniel Webster's voice, for example, the first two, or the
black and red, or, if you please, dark and brilliant. In
most persons, however, the medium or green voice predominates. Those who have what is called a squeaking voice, such as the celebrated John Randolph is
said to have had, have the red predominant. The two
extremes when rightly combined are the most agreeable
to the ear. These remarks may seem crude, and to
some even silly. We have made them, however, for
what they are worth. It seems to us the only way in
which we can satisfactorily explain how it is that the
blind can obtain the most remote idea of colors. For
it is absurd to suppose that they would make use of
their names without attaching to them any meaning -
that they would repeat, parrot-like, just as children
sometimes do, words, without attaching to them any
definite idea. It may not generally be known that the
blind attach to almost all physical objects some moral
quality. It of course depends upon the effect produced
by different objects upon the mind through their other





LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK.  361
senses, or upon some idea which they have obtained
from others. With the sun is connected the idea of
greatness and magnificence. With the moon, amiability, benignity,d&c. The blind often display great discrimination and delicacy in distinguishing between
those objects that are beautiful, and those that are of
an opposite character. A highly polished object, if it
be a perfect circle, is the most agreeable to the touch.
A square is much less so. A line that is a little curved
is much more pleasing than one that is perfectly
straight. A marble column, for instance, that gradually tapers from the base to the apex, seems much more
beautiful to the touch than one in which there is no
variation. It will, perhaps, be said that the blind think
the pyramid the most beautiful because it is more secure, because the centre of gravity is near the base. It
will, however, be found, by experiment, that it is not
this that influences their decision. If you take two
models, the pyramid and the pyramid reversed, securing the latter upon its apex, so as to appear to the
touch equally firm as the other, and then allow a blind
child to examine each, he will tell you that the first is
by far the most beautiful, though he may be entirely
ignorant of attraction and its effects. And though he
may not be able to assign any reason for his opinion,
he will insist upon his preference for the pyramid. This,
as well as many other facts which we might give, goes
to show, we think conclusively, that our idea of the
beautiful is not, as many have supposed, derived from
considerations of utility, associations, education, &c.,
(though these, without doubt, exert a great influence in
developing and modifying it,) but that we have within
us an innate perception, which at once discriminates
between those qualities or attributes of objects which
31





362


THE OFFERING.


we designate by the terms beauty and deformity. It
may, perhaps, seem singular that the blind should have
a marked preference for any style of architecture. Yet
it will be found that they do. And what seems more
wonderful, they uniformly manifest a decided preference for the Gothic over all others. The only way in
which we can explain this is that they are influenced
by the poetical associations connected with the ages in
which Gothic architecture had its origin. As the blind
are more susceptible to the emotion of beauty than of
sublimity, it might naturally be thought that they
would be more agreeably affected with the light, graceful, and delicate Corinthian, than with the more heavy,
dark, and sombre Gothic style.*      We have made the
preceding remarks, not for the psychologist or metaphysician, but for those who, without claiming to be either,
still feel a deep interest in whatever tends to throw
light upon the effects which any great physical calamity must always exert in counteracting or modifying
the development of mind. To such, perhaps, even my
poor and imperfect speculations will not be altogether
uninteresting.
We will now      proceed to the consideration of the
main object of this essay, which has been already too
* A blind man of Troy, N. Y., had a legacy left him on condition
that it should be appropriated to the building of a house, which should
serve as his future home. Nothwithstanding the remonstrances of his
friends, he insisted upon having it built in the Gothic style, or as near
as it could be, although one might have been erected, in the ordinary
way, at much less expense and far more convenient. The blind man,
however, insisted upon having his taste gratified, and he has now the
satisfaction of knowing that he has the most singular house in the
city, and that it attracts the attention of every one by its singular appearance. Thus do those that have no eyes prove that they have taste
and vanity as well as the rest of mankind.





LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK.  363
long deferred. We judged it best, however, to offer
for the consideration of the reader these general remarks, because, if they were introduced at any other
place, they would be more likely to be misunderstood.
Dr. Thomas Blacklock was born in the town of Annan, Dumfrieshire, Scotland. When only six months
old, he was deprived, by the small-pox, of the use of
his eyes. To one in his circumstances this was a peculiarly great calamity. His father was a poor working mason, who had a large family to provide for, and
who could, of course, do but little towards mitigating
the condition of his unfortunate child. It is, however,
related of this excellent man that he endeavored by
reading, and in every other way in his power, to make
up to his son, in some degree at least, the loss he had
sustained. Blacklock refers in several of his poems to
the kind manner and untiring affection which his
father always manifested towards him. He seems
early to have evinced an ardent love of knowledge,
which his benevolent parent labored assiduously to
gratify, by reading to him at first books calculated to
interest children under ten years of age. Afterwards,
he was made acquainted with such works as Allan
Ramsay, Prior's Poems, and the Tattlers, Spectators,
and Guardians. He displayed at a very early period
an uncommon fondness for poetry, and in reading Milton, Spencer, Addison, and Pope, especially the two
former, he took great delight. The enthusiasm awakened by the works of these eminent writers, was soon
displayed by young Blacklock in making verses himself. His first performances must, of course, be mere
imitations of those he had read. Gradually, however,
he became more original, and would utter such thoughts
in verse, as the circumstances of his life and peculiari




364


THE OFFERING,


ties of his condition might naturally be supposed to
suggest. Sometimes, in mournful numbers, he would
bewail the loss of sight, but oftener, in livelier strains,
he would express his gratitude for the kindness of his
friends. Sometimes he would essay to describe an
amusing incident, or uncommon occurrence, which
happened to himself or his friends. It is to be regretted that these productions of his earlier years, with one
exception, are lost. Among a collection of his works,
there is a short poem, written when he was only
twelve years of age, which is certainly very pretty,
and very creditable too, for one at that early age,
who had never beheld those innumerable forms and
images in the material world, whose mission it seems
to be to excite in man a love of the beautiful.
During his boyhood he was sent to school, where, in
spite of his misfortunes, he made rapid progress. His
instruction must have been, for the most part, oral.
We are told that he endeared himself to his schoolfellows by those amiable traits for which he was so
much distinguished and so greatly beloved in after life.
Young Blacklock, when only nineteen years of age, lost
his father. That noble man was suddenly deprived
of his life by an accident to which he was exposed
in pursuing his humble but honest avocation. The
situation of the young poet was now gloomy enough.
Deprived of the sympathy and assistance of one whose
tenderness, as he afterwards expressed it, anticipated
his every wish, without any means of regular employment, how could he now continue the pursuit of knowledge, which could alone enable him to realize that
bright dream of fame that fired his youthful imagination. But he seems, however, to have found many
friends at this time, and to have become more widely





LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK,  366
known. His uncommon talents and his destitute situation early introduced him to the attention and sympathy of men of letters. About a year after the death of
his father, he was invited to take up his residence in
the Scotch metropolis; accordingly, he proceeded at
once to Edinburgh, under the patronage of Dr. Stevenson, a gentleman of taste, and a distinguished physician, who placed Blacklock at the university in that
city, and generously defrayed the expense of his education. Here he continued the study of the Latin language, which he had commenced at the grammar
school. He also acquired a thorough acquaintance
with the Greek, and his biographers say that he was
able to read books written in these languages with great
ease and facility; by which it was meant, of course,
he was able to understand them when read to him. It
is also added, that he could converse in French with
ease and correctness. It seems he had spent some time
in a family of his acquaintance, Mr. Alexander, whose
lady was a Parisian, and it was by daily conversation
with her that he learned to speak the French language.
After he had been four years at the university, he
removed into the country, on the breaking out of the
rebellion. It was at this time that he published a
small collection of his poems, at Glasgow, to gratify
his personal friends. After tranquillity was restored,
he returned again to the university and resumed his
studies. During the six remaining years he spent at
the university, he wrote several of his best poems.
About the year 1754, he published a second edition of
his poems, very much enlarged and improved. These
attracted the attention of Mr. Spence, professor of
poetry at Oxford. This gentleman, in a long and able
31*





366


THE OFFERING.


critical essay, may be said to have first made the world
acquainted with the literary attainments of the blind
poet   It is from Mr. Spence's account of his life that
we are principally indebted for this brief sketch. In
1755, having completed the course of studies required
by the church of Scotland, he was licensed by the
Presbytery, and he was soon after inducted to the
church of Kirkcudbright, on the presentation of the
Earl of Selkirk. The inhabitants of the place, however, manifested opposition to the arrangement; though
undoubtedly blind enough themselves, they did not like
the idea of having a blind clergyman. He was soon
induced to resign his situation for a small annuity.
Being married, he returned to Edinburgh, and opened a
boarding-house for young persons, whose studies he
proposed to superintend. The third edition of his
poems appeared in 1756. Ten years afterwards, he
had conferred upon him the degree of doctor of divinity. He devoted the remainder of his life entirely to
literary pursuits, and may be said to have acquired a
high character among the literary men of his day.
Indeed, Burke, and many of his contemporaries mention him as the wonder of his age. He died at the age
of seventy, in 1791.k
That Dr. Blacklock possessed a remarkable intellect cannot be denied by those who have read his
poetical and prose productions. He possessed what
is called an active mind and a discriminating judgment.
* Recent speculations upon the effects of blindness have led some to
believe that instances of long life are rarer among the blind than the
deaf and dumb. It is, however, a remarkable fact, that the instances
of eminent blind men, recorded in history, go to prove the fallacy of
these speculations. Saunderson lived to be fifty-seven years of age,
and Blacklock, we have seen, lived the whole of the allotted period of
man.





LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK.  367
Like all blind persons, he had a retentive memory and
a wonderful power of concentration. It is not at all
improbable, that, if his attention had been given in
early life to the study of mathematics and the physical
sciences, he would have equalled Saunderson; but his
mind received a different direction. He was operated
upon by different external circumstances, and, of course,
became altogether a different man. He seems to have
been endowed by nature with a highly poetical temperament, -was keenly alive to the beautiful, wherever
he could perceive it, whether in the workings of his
own soul or in the material world around him. From
his earliest days he seems to have derived exquisite
delight from poetry and music; and he devoted himself to the cultivation of the former with a patience
and assiduity worthy the fame that he afterwards
acquired. His faculty for versification was very great.
He sometimes would dictate twenty or thirty verses,
nearly as fast as his friend could write them, and he
was never guilty of prostituting the muse for the base
purpose of inflaming the passions, or of pandering to the
corrupt taste of the multitude. He loved virtue, and
for its own sake. And he loathed and abhorred vice
wherever it existed, or under whatever name it presented itself.*  He maintained through life a very
exemplary moral character. He cultivated only those
graces and accomplishments that distinguish alike the
gentleman, the scholar, and the Christian.  Those
who had the pleasure of his personal acquaintance,
represent him as possessing great conversational powers,
and as being a very agreeable companion in social life.
Though keenly sensible of the nature of the misfortune
- See his Elegy on Constahtia.





368


THE OFFERING.


to which he was subjected, yet, nevertheless, he was
uniformly cheerful. He sometimes indulged in satire,
but never at another's expense, or, as he says himself,
he "never endeavored to be witty by torturing common sense."     His poem on the "Refinements in Metaphysical Philosophy" will compare well with "' English
Bards and Scotch Reviewers." It has all the wit,
though free from the bitterness of Byron. Take the
following for an example:
"False wisdom, fly, with all thy owls;
The dust and cobwebs of the schools
For me have charms no more.
The gross Minerva of our days
In mighty bulk my learned essays
Reads joyful o'er and o'er.
Led by her hand a length of time,
Through sense and nonsense, prose and rhyme,
I beat my painful way;
Long, long revolved the mystic page
Of many a Dutch and German sage,
And hoped at last for day.
But as the mole hid under ground
Still works more dark as more profound,
So all my toils were vain;
For truth and sense indignant fly,
As far as ocean from the sky,
From all the formal train.
The Stagyrite, whose fruitful quill
O'er free-born nature lords it still,
Sustained by form and phrase
Of dire portent and solemn sound,
Where meaning seldom can be found,
From me shall gain no praise.
But you who would be truly wise, -
To nature's light unveil your eyes,
Her gentle call obey; -





LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK. 369
She leads by no false, wandering glare,
No voice ambiguous strikes your ear,
To bid you vainly stray."
We intimated, at the commencement of this article,
that the highest kind of poetry, - that which approximates nearest to painting, descriptive poetry,--was that
in which a person born blind would be least likely
to excel. Dr. Blacklock made several very successful
attempts to delineate external nature, and to describe
those objects around him, and the varied phenomena
which the material world presents, but of which he
could know nothing, excepting that which he obtained
from the necessarily very imperfect descriptions of
others; yet, nevertheless, in many of his pictures he
was surprisingly true and exact. We have before us
an English copy of the third edition of his works.
One of the best poems it contains is his hymn to the
Supreme Being. In the following extract, in which
he represents the dawn of creation, there is something
truly sublime. As we read it we cannot help feeling
a deep regret that the writer should never have seen.
" Arise, my soul! on wings seraphic rise,
And praise th' Almighty Sovereign of the skies;
In whom alone essential glory shines,
Which not the heaven of heavens, nor boundless space confines.
When darkness ruled with universal sway,
He spoke, and kindled up the blaze of day;
First, fairest offspring of the omnific word!
Which like a garment clothed its Sovereign Lord.
On liquid air he bade the columns rise
That prop the starry concave of the skies;
Diffused the blue expanse from pole to pole,
And spread circumfluent ether round the whole.
Soon as he bids impetuous tempests fly,
To wing his sounding chariot through the sky,
Impetuous tempests the command obey,
Sustain his flight, and sweep the aerial way.





370.


THE OFFERING.


Fraught with his mandates, from the realms on high,
Unnumbered hosts of radiant heralds fly
From orb to orb, with progress unconfined,
As lightning swift, resistless as the wind.
In ambient air this ponderous ball he hung,
And bade its centre rest forever strong; -
Heaven, air, and sea, with all their storms, in vain
Assault the basis of the firm machine.
At thy Almighty voice old ocean raves,
Shakes all his force, and gathers all his waves;
Nature lies mantled in a watery robe,
And shoreless billows revel round the globe;
O'er highest hills the highest surges rise,
Mix with the clouds, and meet the fluid skies.
But when in thunder the rebuke was given,
That shook the eternal firmament of heaven,
The grand rebuke the affrighted waves obey,
And in confusion scour their uncouth way;
And posting rapid to the place decreed,
Wind down the hills, and sweep the humble mead."
His picture of a lion has something in it very striking. It will be observed, that he mentions only those
peculiarities that a seeing person would be likely to
refer to in describing the noble animal to a blind person; as, the terrific growl, the heavy tramp, the
shaggy mane, glaring eye, &c. See the following,
from the same poem as the preceding:
"At his command, wide hovering o'er the plain,
Primeval night resumes her gloomy reign:
Then from their dens, impatient of delay,
The savage monsters bend their speedy way, -
Howl through the spacious waste, and chase their frighted prey.
Here stalks the shaggy monarch of the wood,
Taught from thy Providence to ask his food,To thee, O, Father! to thy bounteous skies,
He rears his mane and rolls his glaring eyes.
He roars! the desert trembles wide around,
And repercussive hills repeat the sound."





LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK.      371
Our author succeeded better in painting the workings of the passions.     His pastorals display great
refinement of taste and true sensibility. He speaks
of love with all the fervor and enthusiasm of one who
has felt its power.without ever seeing the object by
which it was awakened.       See his pastoral inscribed
to Euanthe, and "The Plaintive Shepherd," a pastoral
elegy.  We would also instance his "Elegy on the
Death of Mr. Pope," as a very able production. He
refers to all of Pope's works, and shows good sense by
eulogizing his translation of the Iliad, which is destined to survive the memory of those who have ridiculed it. It is quite delightful to see how prettily and
appropriately our author refers to the flowers in this
elegy, which is decidedly one of his happiest productions, -when he summoned the maids of Windsor to
garnish the tomb of his favorite with the fairest flowers of spring:
"Ye tuneful shepherds, and ye beauteous maids,
From far Ladona's banks, and Windsor's shades,
Whose souls in transports melted at his song,
Soft as his sighs, and as your wishes strong;
0, come! your copious annual tribute bring, -
The full luxuriance of the rifled spring;
Strip various Nature of each fairest flower,
And on his tomb the gay profusion shower.
Let long-lived pansies here their scents bestow,
The violets languish, and the roses glow;
In yellow glory let the crocus shine,
Narcissus here his love-sick head recline;
Here, hyacinths in purple sweetness rise,
And tulips tinged with beauty's fairest dyes."
Throughout all his works, Dr. Blacklock manifests
his strong faith in God, and his hope for the final
redemption of humanity. His great heart overflowed





372


THE OFFERING.


with   benevolence for all mankind.        In  many of his
sweetest strains he breathes forth his gratitude for the
favors he has received from his friends. The only
decidedly melancholy poem in the work before us is that
in which the writer refers to     a narrow     escape from
falling into a well, from which he was only preserved
by the sound of his favorite lap-dog's feet, who was
playing upon the board with which the well was partially covered. The poem is written in the syllogistic
form. Observe how feelingly he refers to his blindness. The extract is long, but we cannot very well
omit it:
" For oh! while others gaze on Nature's face,
The verdant vale, the mountains, woods, and streams,
Or, with delight ineffable, survey
The sun, - bright image of his parent, God; -
The seasons, in majestic order, round
This varied globe revolving; young-eyed spring,
Profuse of life and joy; - summer, adorned
With keen effulgence, bright'ning heaven and earth; -
Autumn, replete with Nature's various boon,
To bless the toiling hind; and winter, grand
With rapid storms, convulsing Nature's frame; -
Whilst others view heaven's all-involving arch,
Bright with unnumbered worlds, and, lost in joy,
Fair order and utility behold; -
Or, unfatigued, the amazing chain pursue,
Which in one vast, all-comprehending whole
Unites the immense, stupendous works of God,
Conjoining part with part, and through the frame
Diffusing sacred harmony and joy; -
To me'those fair vicissitudes are lost,
And grace and beauty blotted from my view.
The verdant vale, the mountains, woods, and streams,
One horrid blank appear."
It is a common opinion, that those who are deprived
of sight early in life, or who are born blind, live in a





LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK.  373
state of blissful ignorance in regard to all those things
that can only be perceived by the eye. This, however,
is a great mistake; it is a fallacy to suppose that we
are incapable of forming an estimate of anything
excepting that which we have actually enjoyed.
There can be no doubt that our author, possessing a
lively imagination and a keen susceptibility to the
beautiful, was not only fully conscious of the many
disadvantages to which his misfortune subjected him,
but actually exaggerated them.  For sometimes he
speaks of the beautiful as if it existed only in the
objective, - as if the flowers and the stars were of
themselves beautiful, when, if this were true, it would
have been impossible for him to have described them
so accurately. If the principle of beauty was not
purely subjective, he could not have furnished to the
world such a ravishing picture of nature as is contained
in the work before us.
One of Blacklock's contemporaries, when speaking
of his poetry, said " it was wanting in force;" accordingly, every one who has subsequently favored the
world with criticisms upon his works, has felt called on to repeat this objection with a pitiable exactness. We have preferred, however, to read Mr.
Blacklock's poems with some attention; and so far as
we are capable of forming a judgment of the subject,
assign Blacklock, without hesitation, a respectable
rank among the second-class poets of England. We
think our readers will agree with us, that the short
extracts we have already given, -and they by no
means constitute the best that might have been selected,
- will compare well with passages of the same length
selected from the writings of Scott, Campbell, and
Pope. And if we take the poems of Dr. Blacklock as
32





374


THE OFFERING.


a whole, and judge of them as they should. be judged,
-by the effect they produce upon the mind and the
heart, - they are infinitely superior to much that Byron
wrote. We by no means would be understood as
claiming for our author such a vigorous intellect as
the immortal author of Childe Harold possessed, but
he had not his dark and malignant passions. In the
moral world they were antipodes. Byron was endowed
with intellect, imagination, - was favored in every
respect by fortune, although he constantly complains
through all his writings, that he was not. No man
was ever so highly favored by Heaven. None was
ever more ungrateful. Who can ever estimate the
mischief his writings have accomplished, -who can
tell how much they have done to deprave the taste
and corrupt the morals of mankind? The most beautiful passages he ever wrote are found in " Don Juan,"
which no pure person can read without requiring
regeneration. And in his shorter sketches, as well as in
his longer poems, there is but little to admire, except,
indeed, you can be pleased with egotism, sensualism,
and misanthropy. Widely different is the effect of the
poems now under consideration, - as different, indeed,
as were the circumstances of their author. Blacklock,
though, as we have seen, deprived of sight at the
dawn of existence, and compelled for the greater part
of his life, to contend with poverty, and a thousand
other evils, from which Byron was exempt, yet we
never find him complaining of his lot, without testifying, at the same time, in the liveliest manner, his gratitude to "benignant Heaven," and to the generous
friends by whom he was surrounded. Take, for example, the following extracts, in which, after speaking of
his misfortunes, he reproaches himself for his selfish




LIFE AND WRITINGS OF REV. DR. BLACKLOCK.          375
ness, and in a beautiful and pious strain testifies his
gratitude to God.
" What then, - because the indulgent Sire of all
Has in the plan of things prescribed my sphere;
Because consummate Wisdom thought not fit
In affluence and pomp to bid me shine,
Shall I regret my destiny, and curse
That state by Heaven's paternal care designed
To train me up for scenes, with which compared,
These ages, measured by the orbs of heaven,
In blank annihilation fade away?"
And again, -
" Before the Almighty voice
From non-existence called me into life,
What claim had I to being? what to shine
In this high rank of creatures formed to climb
The steep ascent of virtue unrelaxed,
Till infinite perfection crown their toil? "
And again, from    the same, -
"Hush, then, my heart! with pious cares suppress
This tumid pride and impotence of soul."
Again, -
" Then with becoming rev'rence let each power
In deep attention hear the voice of God;
That awful voice, which, speaking to the soul,
Commands its resignation to his law!"
Besides those to which we have already referred,
there are other poems of great merit in the work before
us. The hymn to Divine Love, in imitation of Spenser, is very well executed. So, too, is his imitation of
one of the odes of Horace, and several of the Psalms
of David.    We notice, also, several pithy epigrams,
and a very amusing sketch, in which the author





376


THE OFFERING.


endeavors to delineate himself, which we regret we
we are unable to transcribe for want of space. We
have said so much of the poetical that we have but
little time to remark upon the prose productions of Dr.
Blacklock. His paper upon blindness, in the Encyclopedia Britannica, is a masterly production and displays great learning and research. His Essay on the
Immortality of the Soul, manifests great philosophical
acumen, and proves that the poet was also a logician.
We would likewise mention his short " Address upon
Friendship," as a very creditable performance. He
wrote, during his life, several other miscellaneous articles which we have not seen. Upon the whole, Dr.
Blacklock was a remarkable man; and considering
the disadvantages under which he labored, his want
of sight, poverty, &c., and the attainments he made in
literature and science, and more especially in poetry,
he deserves a high place among the distinguished men
of his day; and no one can with justice withhold from
him that admiration to which a truly poetical genius
and superior moral worth are entitled.





377


A LETTER TO A FRIEND,
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF LAURA BRIDGMAN AND OLIVER
CASWELL, TWO DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND CHILDREN.
C "MVY DEAR FRIEND:
6 IN my previous letters, I have given you an account of the blind; I have also occasionally referred
to the deaf and dumb, and have spoken somewhat at
length of the effects of each of these calamities upon the
intellectual and moral development. You may, perhaps, have thought that I sometimes overrated the
advantages which the former of these classes enjoy
over the latter, in the pursuit of knowledge. I have,
however, expressed my opinion that the deaf-mute can
greatly surpass the blind, in almost all the avocations
of life. He can go into the workshop, the countingroom, or till the soil, as though he did not suffer from
any deprivation. Not so with the blind man, for sight
is necessary to enable one to make a successful mechanic, merchant, or farmer; but, in estimating the
comparative value of the senses, we ought not merely
to look at the physical advantages (if I may so speak)
which they confer; we should take into consideration
the influence which they each exert upon the development of the mind. Now, we freely admit, that sight
is the most important of our senses, so far as the physical world is concerned; but we do maintain, that for
the cultivation of the intellectual and moral nature,
hearing is of more importance than sight; and it was
this consideration that led us to say, that we preferred
32*





378


THE OFFERING.


our own condition to that of the deaf-mute. If I could
not enjoy both, I would much rather hear the voice
than see the face of those I love. However, those who
have all their senses, may, like you, my dear friend,
disagree with me. There is one fact which cannot be
evaded nor set aside, to which I have referred in my
previous letters upon this subject; viz.--that there
have been, in every age, blind men who were distinthemselves for their scientific and literary attainments, while I do not remember a single instance of
the kind among the deaf and dumb.*    It is not my
purpose, however, to enlarge upon this subject. You
are, I am sure, fully aware of the great advantages
which each of the senses confer, and I feel confident
that you deeply sympathize with those who are deprived of any of them, for it is sad to reflect, that there
are, in our own country, thousands of human beings
who have never seen the light of day, nor the smile
that wreathes the lip with gladness; and probably as
many more who have never heard the music of
nature, nor the deeper, richer music of the voice divine. There are a few instances on record, of persons
who have been deprived of two, and even three, out
of the five senses, -who have not only been blind, but
deaf and dumb. It would seem, at first thought, that
the situation of such a being must be without alleviation; but human ingenuity and benevolence have succeeded in devising means of imparting, to one thus cut
off from communication with the world, the inestimable
advantages of education. I told you, in my last letter,
that I would give you some account of Laura Bridg* It is but fair, however, to state here, that the deaf and dumb have
excelled in the cultivation of some of the fine arts; as, for instance,--
engraving, sculpture, painting, &c.





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


379


man and Oliver Caswell, whose unfortunate situation
and remarkable mental and moral powers have awakened in the community a deep interest; for you
know that they have neither seen nor heard anything
from their earliest infancy. They are inmates of the
Perkins Institution and Massachusetts Asylum for the
Blind, in this city. All that we know of them is contained in the Annual Reports of this establishment,
from which we shall make copious extracts. Nothing
need be said in praise of Dr. Howe, who has revealed
to these victims of niisfortune sources of deep and
never-ending enjoyment, by imparting to them, through
the medium of their only remaining sense, knowledge
of language, by which they can communicate with
those around them and acquire ideas of men and
things. If there be happiness in the reflection of having mitigated the most appalling form of suffering to
which a human being can ever be subjected, it is his.
We commence our extracts from the reports referred
to above by observing, that those which we shall select
are designed not to gratify the metaphysician and psychologist, but the general reader.
Laura Bridgman was born in Hanover, New Hampshire, on the twenty-first of December, 1829. "She
is described as having been a very sprightly and pretty
infant, with bright blue eyes. She was, however, so
puny and feeble until she was a year and a half old,
that her parents hardly hoped to rear her. She was
subject to severe fits, which seemed to rack her frame
almost beyond her power of endurance; and life was
held by the feeblest tenure; but when a year and a
half old, she seemed to rally; the dangerous symptoms
subsided; and at twenty months old, she was perfectly well.





380


THE OFFERING.


"Then her mental powers, hitherto stinted in their
growth, rapidly developed themselves; and during the
four months of health which she enjoyed, she appears
(making due allowance for a fond mother's account)
to have displayed a considerable degree of intelligence.
" But suddenly she sickened again; her disease
raged with great violence during five weeks, when her
eyes and ears were inflamed, suppurated, and their
contents were discharged. But though sight and hearing were gone forever, the poor child's sufferings were
not ended. The fever raged during seven weeks; for
five months she was kept in bed in a darkened room;
it was a year before she could walk unsupported, and
two years before she could sit up all day. It was now
observed' that her sense of smell was almost entirely
destroyed; and, consequently, that her taste was much
blunted.
"It was not until four years of age that the poor
child's bodily health seemed restord, aned she was
able to enter upon her apprenticeship of life and the
world.
"' But what a situation was hers! The darkness
and the silence of the tomb were around her; no
mother's smile called forth her answering smile, - no
father's voice taught her to imitate his sounds; they,
brothers and sisters, were but forms of matter which
resisted her touch, but which differed not from the furniture of the house, save in warmth, and in the power
of locomotion; and not even in these respects from the
dog and the cat.
" But the immortal spirit which had been implanted
within her could not die, nor be maimed nor mutilated;
and, though most of its avenues of communication with
the world were cut off, it began to manifest itself





A LETIER TO A FRIEND.


381


through the others. As soon as she could walk, she
began to explore the room, and then the house; she
became familiar with the form, density, and weight, and
heat of every article she could lay her hands upon.
She followed her mother, and felt her hands and arms,
as she was occupied about the house; and her disposition to imitate, led her to repeat everything herself.
She even learned to sew a little and to knit.
"' The reader will scarcely need to be told, however,
that the opportunities of communicating with her were
very, very limited; and that the moral effects of her
wretched state soon began to appear. Those who cannot
be enlightened by reason, can only be controlled by force;
and this, coupled with her great privations, must soon
have reduced her to a worse condition than that of the
beasts that perish, but for timely and unhoped-for aid.
"At this time, I was so fortunate as to hear of the
child, and immediately hastened to Hanover to see
her. I found her with a well-formed figure; a strongly-marked, nervous-sanguine temperament; a large
and beautiful-shaped head, and the whole system in
healthy action. The parents were easily induced to
consent to her coming to Boston, and on the fourth of
October, 1837, they brought her to the Institution.
"For a while, she was much bewildered; and after
waiting about two weeks, until she became acquainted
with her new locality, and somewhat familiar with the
inmates, the attempt was made to give her knowledge
of arbitrary signs, by which she could interchange
thoughts with others.
"There was one of two ways to be adopted; either
to go on to build up a language of signs on the basis
of the natural language which she had already commenced herself, or to teach her the purely arbitrary





382


THE OFFERING.


language in common use; that is, to give her a sign
for every individual thing, or to give her a knowledge
of letters by combination of which, she might express
her idea of the existence, and the mode and condition
of existence of anything. The former would have
been easy, but very ineffectual; the latter seemed very
difficult, but, if accomplished, very effectual. I determined, therefore, to try the latter.
" The first experiments were made by taking articles
in common use, such as knives, forks, spoons, keys,
&c., and pasting upon them labels, with their names
printed in raised letters. These she felt very carefully,
afid soon, of course, distinguished that the crooked lines
sp o o n, differed as much from the crooked lines k ey,
as the spoon differed from the key in form.
" Then small detached labels, with the same words
printed upon them, were put into her hands; and she
soon observed that they were similar to the ones pasted
on the articles. She showed her perception of this
similarity by laying the label k e y upon the key, and
the label sp o o n upon the spoon. She was encouraged here by the natural sign of approbation, patting
on the head.
" The same process was then repeated with all the
articles which she could handle; and she very easily
learned to place the proper labels upon them.  It was
evident, however, that the only intellectual exercise
was that of imitation and memory. She recollected
that the label b o o k was placed upon a book, and she
repeated the process first from imitation, next from
memory, with only the motive of love of approbation,
but apparently without the intellectual perception of
any relation between the things.
"After a while, instead of labels, the individual





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


383


letters were given to her on detached bits of paper;
they were arranged side by side so as to spell boo k,
k e y, &c.; then they were mixed up in a heap, and a
sign was made for her to arrange them herself, so
as to express the words boo k, k e y, &c.; and she did
SO.
"Hitherto, the process had been mechanical, and the
success about as great as teaching a very knowing dog
a variety of tricks. The poor child had sat in mute
amazement, and patiently imitated everything her
teacher did; but now the truth began to flash upon
her; her intellect began to work; she perceived that
here was a way by which she could herself make up a
sign of anything that was in her own mind, and show
it to another mind; and at once her countenance
lighted up with a human expression; it was no longer
a dog, or parrot; it was an immortal spirit, eagerly
seizing upon a new link of union with other spirits! I
could almost fix upon the moment when this truth
dawned upon her mind, and spread its light to her
countenance. I saw that the great obstacle was overcome, and that henceforward, nothing but patient and
persevering, but plain and straightforward efforts were
to be used.
" The result, thus far, is quickly related, and easily
conceived; but not so was the process; for many
weeks of apparently unprofitable labor were passed
before it was effected.
" When it was said above, that a sign was made, it
was intended to say, that the action was performed by
her teacher, she feeling his hands, and then imitating
the motion.
" The next step was to procure a set of metal types,
with the different letters of the alphabet cast upon their





384


THE OFFERING.


ends; also a board, in which were square holes, into
which holes she could set the types; so that the letters
on their ends could alone be felt above the surface.
"Then, on any article being handed to her, for instance, a pencil, or a watch, she would select the component letters, and arrange them on her board, and
read them with apparent pleasure.
" She was exercised for several weeks in this way,
until her vocabulary became extensive; and then the
important step was taken of teaching her how to represent the different letters by the position of her fingers,
instead of the cumbrous apparatus of the board and
types. She accomplished this speedily and easily, for
her intellect had begun to work in aid of her teacher,
and her progress was rapid.
" This was the period, about three months after she
had commenced, that the first report of her case was
made, in which it is stated that 'she has just learned
the manual alphabet, as used by the deaf mutes, and it
is a subject of delight and wonder to see how rapidly,
correctly, and eagerly, she goes on with her labors.
Her teacher gives her a new object, for instance, a
pencil; first lets her examine it, and get an idea of its
use, then teaches her how to spell it by making the
signs for the letters with her own fingers; the child
grasps her hand, and feels her fingers, as the different
letters are formed. She turns her head a little on one
side, like a person listening closely; her lips are apart;
she seems scarcely to breathe; and her countenance,
at first anxious, gradually changes to a smile, as she
comprehends a lesson. She then holds up her tiny
fingers, and spells the word in the manual alphabet;
next, she takes her types and arranges her letters; and
last, to make sure that she is right, she takes the





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


385


whole of the types composing the word, and places
them upon or in contact with the pencil, or whatever
the object may be.'
"I The whole of the succeeding year was passed in
gratifying her eager inquiries for the names of every
object which she could possibly handle; in exercising
her in the use of the manual alphabet; in extending in
every possible way her knowledge of the physical relations of things; and in proper care of her health.
" At the end of the year, a report of her case was
made, from which the following is an extract:
"' It has been ascertained, beyond the possibility of
doubt, that she cannot see a ray of light, cannot hear
the least sound, and never exercises her sense of smell,
if she have any. Thus her mind dwells in darkness
and stillness, as profound as that of a closed tomb at
midnight. Of beautiful sights, and sweet sounds, and
pleasant odors, she has no conception; nevertheless,
she seems as happy and playful as a bird or a lamb;
and the employment of her intellectual faculties, or the
acquirement of a new idea, gives her a,vivid pleasure,
which is plainly marked in her expressive features.
She never seems to repine, but has all the buoyancy
and gayety of childhood. She is fond of fun and frolic,
and when playing with the rest of the children, her
shrill laugh sounds loudest of the group.
"'When left alone, she seems very happy if she
have her knitting or sewing, and will busy herself for
hours; if she have no occupation, she evidently amuses
herself by imaginary dialogues, or by recalling past
impressions; she counts with her fingers, or spells out
names of things which she has recently learned, in the
manual alphabet of the deaf mutes. In this lonely
self-communion she seems to reason, reflect, and argue;
33





386


THE OFFERING.


if she spell a word wrong with the fingers of her right
hand, she instantly strikes it with her left, as her
teacher does, in sign of disapprobation; if right, then
she pats herself upon the head, and looks pleased. She
sometimes purposely spells a word wrong with her left
hand, looks roguish and laughs, and then with the
right hand strikes the left, as if to correct it.
" 1During the year, she has attained great dexterity
in the use of the manual alphabet of the deaf mutes;
and she spells out the words and sentences which she
knows, so fast and so deftly, that only those accustomed to this language can follow with the eye the
rapid motions of her fingers.
"'But wonderful as is the rapidity with which she
writes her thoughts upon the air, still more so is the
ease and accuracy with which she reads the words
thus written by another; grasping their hands in hers,
and following every movement of their fingers, as letter
after letter conveys their meaning to her mind. It is in
this way that she converses with her blind playmates,
and nothing can more forcibly show the power of mind
in forcing matter to its purpose, than a meeting between
them. For if great talent and skill are necessary for
two pantomimes to paint their thoughts and feelings by
the movements of the body, and the expression of the
countenance, how much greater the difficulty when
darkness shrouds them both, and the one can hear no
sound!
":' When Laura is walking through a passage-way,
with her hands spread before her, she knows instantly
every one she meets, and passes them with a sign of
recognition; but if it be a girl of her own age, and
especially if it be one of her favorites, there is instantly
a bright smile of recognition, and a twining of arms, a





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


387


grasping of hands, and a swift telegraphing upon the tiny
fingers; whose rapid evolution conveys the thoughts and
feelings from the outposts of one mind to those of the
other. There are questions and answers, exchanges
of joy or sorrow, - there are kissings and partings, just
as between little children with all their senses.'
"During this year, and six months after she had left
home, her mother came to visit her, and the scene of
their meeting was an interesting one.
"The mother stood some time, gazing with overflowing eyes upon her unfortunate child, who, all
unconscious of her presence, was playing about the
room. Presently, Laura ran against her, and at once
began feeling her hands, examining her dress, and trying to find out if she knew her; but not succeeding in
this, she turned away as from a stranger, and the poor
woman could not conceal the pang she felt at finding
that her beloved child did not know her.
"She then gave Laura a string of beads which she
used to wear at home, which were recognized by the
child at once, who, with much joy, put them around
her neck, and sought me eagerly to say she understood
the string was from her home.
"The mother now tried to caress her, but poor
Laura repelled her, preferring to be with her acquaintances.
"Another article from home was now given her, and
she began to look much interested; she examined the
stranger much closer, and gave me to understand that
she knew she came from Hanover; she even endured
her caresses, but would leave her with indifference at
the slightest signal. The distress of the mother was
now painful to behold; for, although she had feared
that she should not be recognized, the painful reality





388


THE OFFERING.


of being treated with cold indifference by a darling
child, was too much for woman's nature to bear.
"After a while, on the mother taking hold of her
again, a vague idea seemed to flit across Laura's mind,
that this could not be a stranger; she therefore felt her
hands very eagerly, while her countenance assumed
an expression of intense interest; she became very
pale, and then suddenly red; hope seemed struggling
with doubt and anxiety, and never were contending
emotions more strongly painted upon the human face;
at this moment of painful uncertainty, the mother drew
her close to her side, and kissed her fondly, when at
once the truth flashed upon the child, and all mistrust
and anxiety disappeared from her face, as with an
expression of exceeding joy she eagerly nestled to the
bosom of her parent, and yielded herself to her fond
embraces.
"After this, the beads were all unheeded; the playthings which were offered to her were utterly disregarded; her playmates, for whom but a moment before
she gladly left the stranger, now vainly strove to pull
her from her mother; and though she yielded her usual
instantaneous obedience to my signal to follow me, it
was evidently with painful reluctance. She clung
close to me, as if bewildered and fearful; and when,
after a moment, I took her to her mother, she sprang
to her arms, and clung to her with eager joy.
" The subsequent parting between them, showed
alike the affection, the intelligence, and the resolution
of the child.
" Laura accompanied her mother to the door, clinging close to her all the way, until they arrived at the
threshold, where she paused, and felt around, to ascertain who was near her. Perceiving the matron, of





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


389


whom she is very fond, she grasped her with one hand,
holding on convulsively to her mother with the other;
and thus she stood for a moment; then she dropped
her mother's hand; put her handkerchief to her eyes;
and turning round, clung sobbing to the matron; while
her mother departed, with emotions as deep as those
of her child.
" It has been remarked in former reports, that she
can distinguish different degrees of intellect in others,
and that she soon regarded almost with contempt, a
new comer, when, after a few days, she discovered her
weakness of mind. This unamiable part of her character has been more strongly developed during the past
year.
" She chooses for her friends and companions those
children who are intelligent, and can talk best with
her; and she evidently dislikes to be with those who
are deficient in intellect, unless, indeed, she can make
them serve her purposes, which she is evidently inclined to do. She takes advantage of them, and makes
them wait upon her, in a manner that she knows she
could not exact of others; and in various ways she
shows her Saxon blood.
"She is fond of having other children noticed and
caressed by the teachers, and those whom she respects;
but this must not be carried too far, or she becomes
jealous. She wants to have her share, which, if not
the lion's, is the greater part; and if she does not get
it, she says, ' My Mother will love me.'
1" Her tendency to imitation is so strong, that it leads
her to actions which must be entirely incomprehensible
to her, and which can give her no other pleasure than
the gratification of an internal faculty. She has been
33*





THE OFFERING.


known to sit for half an hour, holding a book before
her sightless eyes, and moving her lips as she has
observed seeing people do when reading.
" She one day pretended that her doll was sick, and
went through all the motions of tending it and giving
it medicine; she then put it carefully to bed, and placed
a bottle of hot water to its feet, laughing all the time
most heartily. When I came home she insisted upon
my going to see it and feel its pulse; and when I told
her to put a blister on its back, she seemed to enjoy it
amazingly, and almost screamed with delight.
"Her social feelings and her affections are very
strong; and when she is sitting at work, or at her
studies, by the side of one of her little friends, she will
break off from her task every few moments to hug and
kiss them with an earnestness and warmth that is
touching to behold.
"When left alone, she occupies and apparently
amuses herself, and seems quite contented; and so
strong seems to be the natural tendency of thought to
put on the garb of language, that she often soliloquizes
in the finger language, slow and tedious as it is. But
it is only when alone that she is. quiet; for if she
become sensible of the presence of any one near her,
she is restless until she can sit close beside them, hold
their hands and converse with them by signs.
"In her intellectual character it is pleasing to observe
an insatiable thirst for knowledge, and a quick perception of the relations of things. In her moral character
it is beautiful to behold her continual gladness, her
keen enjoyment of existence, her expansive love, her
unhesitating confidence, her sympathy with suffering,
her conscientiousness, truthfulness, and hopefulness."





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


391


The foregoing extracts are taken from some of the
earliest reports, after Laura entered the institution, to
which we add another from one of a later date. The
following remarks from the Eleventh Annual Report,
made in 1843, show how the more difficult task was
accomplished of giving her a knowledge of the qualities of things; as sweet, sour, pleasant, bitter, &c. It
is singular to observe how comparatively easy it was
for Laura to learn the use of those words which express action, and for which there was no tangible
illustration. But we find, she not only accustomed
herself to use adjectives, but verbs and even pronouns,
prepositions, &c., with great facility and correctness;
but we will let the extract speak for itself.
" Some kind of language seems necessary for every
human being; the cravings of the social nature are
loud and constant, and cannot be gratified except by
some medium of communication for the feelings. The
intellect cannot be developed unless all the modifications of thought have some sign even, by which they
can be recalled. Hence men are compelled by a kind
of inward force to form languages; and they do form
them under all and every circumstance. The social
organ presents the natural and most perfect medium
through which, by attaching a meaning to every modulation of voice, a perfect system of communication is
kept up. The question whether a people coukW exist
without language would be about as reasonable as it
would be to ask whether they can exist without hands;
it is as natural for men to converse as it is for them to
eat; if they cannot speak they will converse by signs,
as, if they had no hands, they would feed themselves





392


THE OFFERING.


with their toes. Children, then, prompted by nature,
associate their thoughts with audible words, and learn
language without any special instruction. If you make
the sound rep-resented by the letters a p p 1 e, when you
hold up the fruit to a child, he naturally associates that
sound with it and will imitate the sound, even without
your trying to make him do so; if the child be deaf so
that he cannot hear the word which you speak, of
course he cannot imitate it, and as such, of course, he
must be forever dumb. But the desire to associate
the thing with a sign still remains, and he has the same
power of imitation as others, except in regard to words;
if, therefore, you make a visible sign when you show
him the apple, as by doubling the fist, the fist afterwards becomes to him the name or sign for the apple.
But suppose the child cannot see the apple; suppose
he be blind as well as deaf. What then? he has the
same intellectual nature, -- put the apple in his hand,
let him feel it, smell it, taste it, -put your clenched
hand in his at the same time, and several times, until
he associates this sign with the thing, and when he
wishes for the fruit he will hold up his little fist, and
delight your heart by this sign, which is just as much
a word, as though he had said apple! out loud.
'Reasoning in this way, I undertook the task of instructing Laura Bridgman, and the result has been
what it will ever be where nature is followed as our
guide.
"This simple process is readily understood, but simple
signs, and names of objects being easy enough, it is
often asked, how can a knowledge of qualities which
have no positive existence be communicated? Just as
easily, and just as they are taught to common children;
when a child bites a sweet apple, or a sour one, he per




A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


393


ceives the difference of taste; he hears you use one
sound, sweet, when you taste the one, another sound,
sour, when you taste the other. These sounds are
associated in his mind with those qualities; the deaf
child sees the pucker of your lips, or some grimace
when you taste the sour one, and that grimace perhaps
is seized upon by him for a sign or a name for sour;
and so with other physical qualities. The deaf, dumb,
and blind child cannot hear your sound, cannot see
your grimace, yet he perceives the quality of sweetness, and if you take pains to make some peculiar
sign two or three times when the quality is perceived,
he will associate that sign with the quality, and have
a name for it.
" Much surprise has been expressed by some who are
conversant with the difficulties of the teaching, &c., of
mutes, that Laura should have attained the use of
verbs without more special instruction. It may be
said in reply, that no minute and perfect account of
the various steps in the process of her instruction has
ever yet been published; and that, moreover, the difficulties in the use of the verbs are in reality much less
than is usually supposed.
" As soon as a child has learned the use of a noun, as
apple, and of one or two signs of qualities, as sour and
sweet, he begins to use them; he holds up the fruit,
and lisps out, apple- sour, or apple-sweet; he has not
been taught a verb, and yet he uses one; lie asserts
the one apple to be sweet, the other to be sour; he
in reality says, mentally, 'apple is sweet apple,' or
'apple is sour apple;' and in a little while he catches
by the ear, an audible sign, - the word is, and puts it
in where before he used only a sign, or meant to use
one. Just so with the deaf-mute; when he has learned





394


THE OFFERING.


a noun and an adjective he uses them by the help of
a verb, or some mark of assertion, and you have only
to give him some sign, which he will adopt just as
readily as the speaking child, by mere imitation, and
without any process of ratiocination. We give too
narrow a definition when we say a verb is a word,
&c. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that the long,
detailed, and very ingenious process laid down in some
books for teaching verbs and other parts of speech to
the deaf-mutes, are worse than useless; they have
excited much attention, and justly received much
admiration for their ingenuity, but it is of the kind
we should bestow on mechanical contrivances for imitating the human voice; and it would seem to be about
as wise to teach a child to talk by directing him to
contract this muscle, to relax that, and to place his
lips in such and such a posture, as to teach a deafmute the use of the different parts of speech in the
manner detailed by Sicard.
" Much attention has been paid during the year to
improving her in the use of language, and at the same
time to increasing her stock of knowledge. A useful
exercise for this purpose has been to tell her some
story, and to require her to repeat it in her own language, after she has forgotten the precise words in
which it was related to her.
"The following story was related to her one day:
" 'JOHN AND THE PLUMS.
" <1. An old man had a plum tree, and when the
plums were ripe, he said to his boy John,"'2. I want you to pick the plums off my tree, for I
am an old man, and I cannot get up into my tree to
pick them.





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


395


"'13. Then John said, yes sir! I will get up into the
tree and pick them for you.
"1 4. So the boy got up, and the old man gave him a
pail to put the plums in, and he hung it up in the tree
near him.
"' 5. And then he put the plums into the pail, one by
one, till the pail was full;
"'6. When the boy saw that the pail was full, he said
to the old man, Let me give you the pail, for it is full.
"'7. Then the man held up his hand and took the
pail of plums and put them in his cart.
"'8. I S For, said he, I am to take them to town in my
cart to sell them, - and he gave the pail back to the
boy to fill with more plums.
" '9. At last the boy said, I am tired and hot, will
you give me a plum to eat?
"' 10. Yes, said the old man, for you are a good boy,
and have worked well; so I will give you ten plums,
for you have earned them.
'11. The boy was glad to hear him say so, and
said, I do not want to eat them all now. I will eat five
and take five home to my sister
"'12. You may get down now, said the old man,
for it will soon be dark, and then you will lose your
way home.
"'113. So the boy got down and ran home, and felt
glad that he had been kind to the old man.
"' 14. And when he got home he was glad he had
been kind to his sister and kept half his plums for her.'
"The next day she was requested to recall it to
memory, and to write it down in her Journal, and she
did so in the following words:





THE OFFERING.


" 'An old man had a large plum tree,-he had a
little boy, John; the man asked John to please to go
up on the tree to pick many plums, because he was
very old and lame. The man gave John a pail for
plums. John put them in till it was very full; he said
to the man, it is very full of plums. He took the pail
up in his cart to sell them. John was tired and hot;
he asked the man if he might take one plum. The
man said he might take ten plums, because he was a
very good boy to earn them hard. The man told him
to hurry home. He ate five plums; he gave his sister
five plums; he felt very happy because he helped the
old man much, and made his sister happy. John was
kind to help the old man; he was very generous to
give his sister part of his plums. The old man loved
John very much. If John did not hurry home he
would have lost the way. John liked to help the old
man well.'
"It will be seen, that she made some moral reflections of her own which were not expressed in the
original story. It is desirable that every new word or
fact which she learns should be communicated by her
teachers, or that she should form a correct notion about
it; but this, as will be perceived, is impossible, without
depriving her of that intercourse with others which is
necessary for the development of her social nature."
We might copy much more which Dr. Howe has
written about this truly wonderful but unfortunate
girl. The extracts we have made, however, are sufficient to show her fondness for knowledge, and the
readiness with which she acquires ideas, and the general course of her instruction.





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


397


The 'history of Oliver Caswell is as interesting as
that of Laura. We give it in the words of his benefactor, with the remark, that he is now about eighteen
years of age; that he enjoyed the exercise of all his
senses for the first three years and four months of his
life. At that time he was attacked by scarlet fever,
which, at the expiration of four weeks, deprived him
of hearing, and in three weeks more, of his sight. At
the end of six months, the poor child could neither
hear, see, nor speak; for being unable to hear the
sound of his own voice, he soon ceased altogether to
articulate the words he had learned before his faculties
had become injured.
" His thirst for knowledge," says Dr. Howe, "'proclaimed itself as soon as he entered the house, by his
eager examination of everything he could feel or smell
in his new location. For instance, treading upon the
register of a furnace, he instantly stooped down and
began to feel it, and soon discovered the way in which
the upper plate moved upon the lower one; but this
was not enough for him; so, lying down upon his face,
he applied his tongue first to one, then to the other, and
seemed to discover that they were of different kinds of
metal.
" His signs were expressive; and the strictly natural
language, laughing, crying, sighing, kissing, embracing, &c., was perfect.
"Some of the analogical signs which (guided by
his faculty of imitation) he had contrived were comprehensible, such as the waving motion of his hand
for the motion of a boat, the circular one for a wheel,
&c.
"The first object was to break up the use of these
34





398


THE OFFERING.


signs, and to substitute for them the use of purely
arbitrary ones.
"Profiting by the experience I had gained in the
other cases, I omitted several steps of the process before
employed, and commenced at once with the finger language. Taking, therefore, several articles having short
names, such as key, cup, mug, &c., and with Laura
for an auxiliary, I sat down, and, taking his hand,
placed it upon one of them, and then, with his own,
made the letters k e y. He felt my hands eagerly with
both of his; and, on my repeating the process, he evidently tried to imitate the motions of my fingers. In a
few minutes he contrived to feel the motions of my
fingers with one hand, and holding out the other, he
tried to imitate them, laughing most heartily when he
succeeded. Laura was by, interested even to agitation; and the two presented a singular sight; her face
was flushed and anxious, and her fingers twined in
among ours so closely as to follow every motion, but
so lightly as not to embarrass them; while Oliver stood
attentive, his head a little aside, his face turned up,
his left hand grasping mine, and his right held out.
At every motion of my fingers his countenance betokened keen attention; there was an expression of
anxiety as he tried to imitate the motions; then a smile
came stealing out as he thought he could do so, and
spread into a joyous laugh the moment he succeeded,
and felt me pat his head and Laura clap him heartily
upon the back, and jump up and down in her joy.
" He learned more than half a dozen letters in half
an hour, and seemed delighted with his success, at
least in gaining approbation. His attention then began
to flag, and I commenced playing with him. It was
evident that in all this he had merely been imitating





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


O9


the motions of my fingers, and placing his hand upon
the key, cup, &c., as part of the process, without any
perception of the relation between the sign and the
object.
" When he was tired with play I took him back to
the table, and he was quite ready to begin again his
process of imitation. He soon learned to make the
letters for key, pen, pin; and, by having the object
repeatedly placed in his hand, he at last perceived the
relation I wished to establish between them. This
was evident, because, when I would make the letters
p i n, or p e n, or c up, he would select the article.
" The perception of this relation was not accompanied by that radiant flash of intelligence, and that glow
of joy, which marked the delightful moment when
Laura first perceived it. I then placed all the articles
on the table, and, going away a little distance with the
children, placed Oliver's fingers in the position to spell
k e y, on which Laura went and brought the article.
The little fellow seemed to be much amused by this,
and looked very attentive and smiling. I then caused
him to make the letters bread, and in an instant
Laura went and brought him a piece. He smelled it,
put it to his lips, cocked up his head with a most
knowing look, seemed to reflect a moment, and then
laughed outright, as much as to say, 'Ah! I understand now how something may be made out of this.'
"It was now clear that he had the capacity and
inclination to learn, that he was a proper subject for
instruction, and needed only persevering attention. I
therefore put him in the hands of an intelligent teacher,
nothing doubting of his rapid progress.
"L He is rather lymphatic in temperament, and has
by no means that rapidity of thought and action which





400


THE OFFERING.


characterizes Laura in so remarkable a degree  But
though very quiet in his deportment, and slow in all
his movements, his smiling and intelligent countenance
gives him an interesting appearance, and his thick-set
frame indicates strength and endurance. The most
remarkable trait in his character is his affectionate and
cheerful disposition. He is a favorite throughout the
house; every one loves him; every one gives him a
kiss or caress on meeting. him; and he greets all with
smiles in return. He is uniformly cheerful, and seems
to have that enjoyment of existence which characterizes Laura, though unaccompanied by the keen zest
that makes her buoyant, while he is only calm.
" He does not manifest his affection for others by
those active demonstrations which she is constantly
making. It does not seem a necessity of his nature to
unburthen himself by kisses and caresses to others;
but he is evidently pleased at receiving them. And
though he seldom returns them, still he is evidently
deeply attached to many of the persons about him, and
manifests his love and sympathy by natural language
which cannot be mistaken.
" A great deal of time has been spent during the last
year in communicating to him a knowledge of that
indispensable requisite for the development of mind,
arbitrary language; and he has profited much thereby.
He acquires words slowly, and uses them slowly, but
takes great pleasure in both processes, and has already
made a considerable acquisition of words. For instance, here are some of his sentences as he made them
early in the year. Wishing to inform his teacher that
he had been out fishing with two persons, he said,
'Oliver, fish, boat, Thomas, Bradford.' Pointing out
to his teacher a rat-hole in the wainscot he said eat rat.





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


401


Having made a little boat and rigged it with sails, he
put it into a trough of water, and, blowing too hard,
overset it, which he related to his teacher thus,-  Water, boat, Oliver, blow, fall.' Wishing to express the
fact of witnessing a person sawing and cutting wood,
he said, ' Wood, saw, Thomas;' and ' Wood, axe, cut,
Thomas.'   The slaughtering of the pig which he had
been made to comprehend before he came here, and
which was referred to in the last report, seems to have
made a strong impression on his mind. One day, he
wrote down of his own accord, ' Pig, fall, knife, cut,
leg, Oliver;' which I interpret, the Pig fell down cut
by a knife, and he, Oliver, used his legs, and ran
away.
"The following extract from his teacher's journal
shows the ease with which verbs are taught. July 15.
-' Tried to make Oliver familiar with the use of a verb
in connection with adjectives. He asked for a cracker;
I went with him to get one, and told him 'Cracker is
round;' he smiled and nodded his head, as much as to
say, I understand it. Afterwards he applied it to other
things of himself, saying, 'Button is round, ball is
round,' &c. My former plan was to go on step by
step, and give the different parts of speech separately,
beginning with nouns, but reflection has convinced me
this was wrong. Whenever the deaf-mute indicates
through natural signs, assertion, negation, interrogation, quality, &c., then is the time to give him the
corresponding arbitrary signs or words, which he, by
mere imitation, and without requiring any explanation,
immediately adopts.
"' When he was taught that persons have two names,
he was very much interested, and went on to ask the
second name of all the members of his family, as John
34*





402:


THE OFFERING.


Caswell, Richard Caswell, &c.; but afterwards asking
the family name of one of his school-mates, which
happened to be Caswell, he was sorely perplexed, and
much of the value of the lesson was necessarily lost
from inability to explain to him the apparent violation
of a rule which he seemed himself to have established.
He also inquired what was the second, or family name
of cat, dog, &c. - One of his exercises is when alone to
put down words and sentences by inserting metallic
types in the form of pegs into a board pierced with
holes to receive them. He can write quite well with a
pencil, but this method of putting down words with
types is better, inasmuch as it enables his teacher to
make him   correct his own sentences. He generally
puts down the words in what is probably the most
natural order, placing the one of leading import first,
as Jacket, Oliver, give, mother; that is, mother gave
me (Oliver) the jacket; the jacket, the principal object; to him, the second; given, the third; by his
mother, the fourth.  Having been drawn upon a
sled on the snow, he said, 'Ride, Oliver, sled, snow,
rope, Thomas;' that is, Oliver rode on a sled on the
snow, the rope held by Thomas; and, 'Fall, Oliver, sled,
snow2, rope, Thomas;' that he fell from the sled on the
snow, the rope being drawn by Thomas; the word
significative of the leading idea coming first in each
case. One chilly day he perceived that the dog was
wet, trembling with cold; and on his teacher saying to
him interrogatively, 'Wallc?k that is, will you go to
walk, he said, 'Walkc, no, rain;' and added, 'Shake,
cold, dog.'
" Like Laura, and like all children, indeed, he is
very fond of using new words; his teacher having
explained to him the word hurry, he amused himself





A LETTER TO A FRIEND.


403


during the rest of the day by saying hurry to every one
he met, and pushing them along to show them how to
hurry. Having learned a word, he easily and of his
own accord makes various applications of it. For
instance, having learned the use of the verb is, when
his teacher caused him to shut the door, and then to
spell door shut, he added, a Door is shut.' He then took
up an umbrella, and made signs to know what the
cover was called, and being told cloth, he said, ' Umbrella is cloth.' Having fallen over a sled, and hurt
his leg, he said to his teacher, 'Oliver, hit, fall, leg,
sled, hurt; leg sore; Oliver blind;' that is, I hit, in
falling, my leg against the sled, and hurt it; my leg is
sore; I was blind.
" He is much inclined to frolic, and sometimes tries
to excite laughter by saying extravagant things; as,
'House can laugh,'--and then laughing at himself;
rolling a button on the floor and saying, 'Button can
walk.' He seems to understand readily that mere
play is intended, when one holds him over a place from
which he might fear to fall, or when one tells him anything extravagant; but is inclined to put implicit
reliance on what is said in an ordinary way. For
instance, when I had gone away, to be absent, as he
was told, for two nights, but returned the next day,
his teacher said to him, I Doctor has come;' he replied,
'No! Doctor will come after one;' that is, after one
night more; but, being, again told I had come, he
seemed troubled, and replied emphatically,* and with
a look of reproof, ' No! Doctor will come after one
night; Rogers not know!'     He understands when
* Deaf-mutes may be said to talk emphatically with their fingers;
and it is very easy to perceive when Laura or Oliver wish to lay stress
on particular words.





404


THE OFFERING.


words are to be taken interrogatively, by a peculiar
manner of using them, and will answer affirmatively
or negatively. For instance, his teacher said to him a
few days ago, 'Did Oliver go with Bradford to see
sister? ' ' Yes.' ' When? ' ' Yesterday,' said he. He
makes this visit weekly, and on a particular day, and
said, ' Oliver will with Bradford after five nights;' that
is, will go with Bradford after five nights. Being
asked, to see who? he replied, 'Sister.'    He has
learned to count pretty correctly as far as fifty, but he
always fives, (as the old form of expression is,) that is,
counts his fingers; if he is counting leaves, for instance,
and finds eighteen, he will hold up both hands, with
the fingers spread out, then one hand with the fingers,
then one with three fingers. His progress, however,
is slow in this as in other studies.
" We have never had occasion to give him any lessons on propriety, either as to personal decency, or
moderation in eating; and yet in both respects his conduct is not only unexceptionable, but, as I think,
remarkable. He is a very moderate eater, and chews
his food very deliberately. He does not crave so much
as most other children, but is fond of odors, especially
of flowers and the pleasure which he derives from
visiting a greenhouse seems almost equal to that obtained by persons with all their senses. He has a sense
of property, and though not particularly acquisitive,
asserts his right to his own, while he always respects
the rights of others.
" I have said that he is cheerful and affectionate.
There have been very few exceptions to this in his
conduct. He has rarely shown marks of temper, and
only when he had been teased or imposed upon, or
thought he had been, and then he becomes passionate,





A LETTER, TO A FRIEND.


405;


and seems bold as a little lion. There is much manliness about him, and he takes great delight in those
exercises which require strength and activity. In our
gymnasium he is one of the strongest and most expert
performers, leaping the bars, clambering the ropes, and
swinging himself about in the air, with entire fearlessness. When injured, he bears it bravely; rubs the
part injured, and conceals his emotion, or, if a tear is
forced' out, it is unaccompanied by a groan. He has a
very strong frame, and is seldom ill; but when anything ails him, he drops his head, sits quietly, or goes
to bed, without any whining or any complaints. Sometimes, when he is grieved by a friend going away, h:e
seems to be full of emotion, which, however, he conceals, though the tears sometimes trickle down his,
cheeks. He seems perfectly truthful and conscientious, though I am sure no one ever gave him any
lessons upon the necessity of being so. Finally, without
that remarkable degree of mental activity which makes
Laura so apt a learner, he is in every respect a most:
interesting and beautiful boy, and it cannot be doubted
that, by long and close perseverance in the course of
instruction which has been adopted for him, his mind
will be developed, and he will become an intelligent
and happy man."
I have thus, my dear friend, given you some account
of these two interesting cases that have attracted so
much attention, and whose attainments in knowledge
are well calculated to shame those, who, possessing all
the senses, yet know not their value. How many thousands there are, " who having eyes see not, and having
ears hear not." The last Report of the Perkins Institution states that there has been the same marked pro




406


THE OFFERING.


gress in the studies of Laura Bridgman and Oliver
Caswell during the past year, as at any former period.
Laura has been sick and is still feeble. Oliver is as
healthy and active as usual, manifesting great fondness for manual exercise; and he will probably be
able to maintain himself in after life, at some useful
trade. I need not add, in conclusion, the reflections
which the foregoing cannot fail to excite in every
thoughtful mind. If those who are bereft of sight, of
hearing, and of speech, who have but one avenue of
knowledge, -one outlet alone through which the mind
can communicate with the external world,-are, nevertheless, enabled to acquire so much knowledge of men
and things, what ought they to do who enjoy the innumerable and unspeakable advantages which each of
the five senses confer.
0, my friend, think of this, and remember that " to
whom much is given much will be required."  If this
letter shall stimulate you to greater exertions in those
pursuits which now occupy your attention, and I doubt
not that it will, its object will have been accomplished.





407


HINTS TO YOUNG MEN.
THiE first question which a young man might be
supposed to ask, when he assumes the responsibility of
acting for himself, is, For what purpose was I created 3
What am I designed to accomplish'? or, in other words,
What is my duty and my destiny 7 'We do not mean
to say that every one, on commencing life, does
actually propose to himself this question, much less
that he states it in this precise form. All that we
mean is, that a thoughtful man, when he feels for the
first time that his destiny has been committed, in a
measure, to his own keeping, and his future happiness
or misery depends upon nothing so much as the manner in which he decides upon the duties and purposes
which he feels called upon to perform, will naturally
be inclined to pause and reflect before taking the first
step in that devious path that must lead him he knows
not whither. For he feels an intuitive consciousness
that there is a strange and intimate connection between
all our acts. And he knows that our success or failure
is mainly dependent on the view we take of life, and
the manner in which we enter upon the performance
of its duties. And therefore we say, a wise man would
do well, first of all, attentively to consider the object
for which he was made, and the best method by which
it can be attained. For the slightest reflection will be
sufficient to satisfy him that we were placed here not
merely for amusement, or for momentary pastime, but
that life is in fact a serious business; and that its character and usefulness depend mainly upon the manner





408S


THE OFFERING.


in which it is commenced. It may be assumed as certain, as a fixed and invariable law, that our usefulness
and our happiness in the present state of existence, are
decided by nothing so much as the manner in which
we first commence to perform its duties. We hear
much said about the capriciousness of fortune, about
the many that fail, and the comparatively few that
succeed, in the journey of life. But if we examine the
subject closely, -if from the actions of men we endeavor
to discover the principles which originated them, - we
shall find, I think, in almost every case, that they are
the true exponents of the wisdom or folly of those by
whom they were put forth. Or, in other words, if we
analyze with care the events of our own lives, we shall
find that our experience has been in perfect accordance
with the degree of thought and reflection which we
bestowed upon life and its objects, at the very outset;
and that whatever may be the vicissitudes to which
we are subjected, we cannot in justice attribute them
to any other cause foreign to ourselves. It is an indication of ignorance or imbecility to ascribe our prosperity or adversity to chance or fortune. Man is the
arbiter of his own destiny; and he decides for himself
whether his life shall be fraught with happiness or
misery. But we would not be here misunderstood.
We would by no means deny that there is a greater
power than that of mere human agency, that makes
itself manifest in the affairs of men. But this mighty
influence operates more frequently in a general, than in
a particular way. It is more strikingly displayed in its
effects upon society than upon the individual, and
besides its influence is always beneficent. Whatever
evil may exist in the world, is attributable not to the
Providence of God, but to the ignorance and degrada




HINTS TO YOUNG MEN.,19


tion of man. We do not deny, indeed, that there is
evil inherent in the very nature of things; but it bears
no proportion to the misery caused by the sad mistakes
and appalling crimes of man. What a fearful contrast
does his life present, with its ceaseless discord, to the
beauty and harmony that everywhere pervade nature.
Whence this difference. It seems to me that it exists
in that very superiority that man enjoys over all other
terrestrial beings. The little insect of a day fulfils its
brief destiny with admirable exactness.  The silkworm spins its thread and dies. And in every part of
the animal kingdom, we find everywhere the same
regularity to exist. Each one of all God's creatures,
in its peculiar sphere, accomplishes the purpose of its
being. Man alone, endowed with intelligence, - to
whose vast capacities, no limits have been fixed, preeminently distinguished above all other terrestrial
beings, with a nature that can never die, made in the
very image of God, and destined forever to be the companion of angels,-mars the general plan, the great
design of Heaven. We look in vain to his daily life
for that beauty and regularity that exists in the world
around him. Yes! No one can escape the conviction
that the want of oneness between man and nature, as
well as the want of harmony in himself, is the natural
result of ignorance or neglect of those universal laws
which man alone refuses to obey. Because he alone
of all created beings is left free to decide for himself.
Is it not lamentable that this freedom, that constitutes
his highest glory, should so often be the cause of his
deepest degradation. From what we have said, it
will be readily understood, that we regard man, to a
very great extent, as the arbiter of his own destiny.
And that his failure to realize that degree of develop35





410


THE OFFERING.


ment of which he is capable, is not to be attributed to
any influence foreign to himself. Every human soul
possesses energy enough to triumph over its external
circumstances. It is a false and shallow philosophy
which teaches the contrary.
We can never hope for anything higher than a thirdrate civilization, until this is practically admitted.
And we must not expect that there will be any considerable improvement in the condition of the individua.
man, until this is felt and acted upon. So long as we
attribute our faults and our crimes to other than the
right cause, we shall sin, and we must suffer. What
every man needs, and more especially on entering life,
is a deeper consciousness of himself, that he may truly
understand the full extent of that which he is designed
to accomplish. I do not assert, indeed, that a young
man must comprehend the entire problem of his being,
before he can fulfil those obligations that grow out of
his complicated relations. But it certainly is necessary
that he should have some fixed principles, some definite
views by which he can determine with some degree of
certainty upon a course of life which will be most conducive to promote his own physical, intellectual, and
moral development, and at the same time will enable
him to perform the duties he owes to society and to his
Creator.
Every man ought to form, carefully, for himself, a
theory of life, and, so far as practicable, he ought to
make his actions conform to it. The case is, with most
of us, quite the reverse. We make our view of the
objects of life, in too many instances, square with our
own limited and selfish actions; or what is, perhaps,
more frequent, there really exists no kind of connection
between what we think and what we do; between





HINTS TO YOUNG MEN.


411


what we conceive ought to be, and what we actually
accomplish. Is it not true, that by far the greatest
portion of mankind go through life without having
any precise or definite idea of its object, who live on
from day to day as if they were creatures of instinct,
rather than reason. It is to this that we must
ascribe the failure of so many schemes. We plan, in
too many instances, without seeming to know why.
We make use of means without having any definite
idea of an end. And hence it so frequently happens
that life is a miserable failure. It has become a common saying, that one must live twice to know how to
live once. Now, we think, every one, on taking a retrospective view of his past life, can see that his mistakes
and errors have been for the most part the results of
his ignorance, or the want of a thorough preparation at
the commencement.    Such, at least, has been our
experience. And we think that all, at times, must
have felt, that a more thorough education would have
enabled them to avoid many of those unhappy events,
those unfortunate circumstances that are remembered
only with pain and regret. How many rash and foolish things we do in our youth, only to be repented of
in after life. There is probably no one who has not in
his more thoughtful moments, when the events of his
past life, assuming fantastic shapes, appear before him
in terrible distinctness, confessed, in bitterness and in
tears, that by far the greater number of those acts,
which are now viewed only with sorrow, might have
been avoided, if he had but better understood the true
nature and object of life before taking upon himself its
responsibilities. The young man, fired with enthusiasm and impelled by passion, enters upon the arena
of life, knowing but little of his combatants, and





412


THE OFFERING.


deplorably ignorant of the conflict. A momentary
flush of success is sufficient to inspire him with new
and increased ardor, and for a while he thinks of
nothing but glory and renown. But soon the dream
of his imagination is,compelled to give place to the
more sober and tardy convictions of reason and common sense. The bubbles that once amused him, vanish,
and he is grasped by the cold, stern hand of terrible
reality. Hence it is that we hear so many complain
that they never realize, in the experience of after life,
all that they hoped for in their youth. And the reason
obviously is, that we form, at that period, an altogether
different idea of life from the true one; or, more frequently still, we have no idea at all. We enter upon
life knowing but little of its character, and but poorly
fitted for the performance of its varied duties, and are
compelled to learn from experience what might have
been just as well obtained before, could we have
enjoyed, during our minority, a more enlarged and
liberal culture. And this leads us to observe, that we
can never hope for that regularity and unity in the
successive states of our progress from childhood to old
age, until the significance of life, as a whole, is more
fully comprehended than it is at present by the majority of mankind. If there be any period of our existence
more important than any other, it is that in which we
relinquish those influences that have guided and controlled our childhood, and go forth single-handed and
alone to play our part in the broad battle-field of life.
And yet, strange as it may seem, at no time are we
less governed by the convictions of reason and the dictates of sound principles. The dawn of manhood
seems to have been.givenover, by common consent, to
the sway of the passions. The most critical moment





HINTS TO YOUNG MEN.


413


of all our existence, at which, more frequently than
any other, our destiny is decided, is suffered to pass
away neglected, or is spent in the pursuit of that which
seldom fails to embitter our future days. How many
noble men have been lost to the world, how many
gifted minds have been sacrificed at this crisis of their
existence, while yet they were young men, just entering upon the active duties of life. History furnishes
many examples of such. We can never read their
brief, sad story without regretting that the impressive
lesson it teaches should not have been better understood.
But we will now proceed to point out some of those
errors of which we have hitherto spoken only in a
general way. The grand and too often fatal mistake
which most young men commit, on setting out in life,
is the total disregard which they often manifest to the
experience of those who have preceded them. It is
singular that the period when we most need the
guidance of others, is precisely that in which it is most
irksome. There is no time when man can rightly free
himself from superior authority; in which he is not
bound by the laws of nature or of society. But at the
very commencement of his career, when as yet his
character and habits of life are, at most, but imperfectly
formed, with a blind impetuosity he spurns all authority, and gives himself up, if I may so speak, to the
pleasures of the imagination, or, worse still, to the
unbridled license of his passions. Now this utter contempt of authority, this total disregard of the wisdom
and experience of his seniors, is the most unamiable,
yet I am sorry to say, the most frequent trait which
the young man exhibits. He will tell you that his soul
is not a "palace of the past." He will talk largely
35*





414


THE OFFERING.


of manly independence, of his natural rights, &c. Yet
in a few years afterwards, he will confess, but not
unfrequently until it is too late, that at the very time
when he claimed most rights he was the least capable
of appreciating them, and that when he thought he
was the most free, he was in fact the greatest slave.
There is another characteristic which most young men
exhibit, and which, if not early overcome, will seriously
affect, if not altogether prevent, their future usefulness
and success in life. I mean that thoughtlessness, that
utter indifference, to all that is real, permanent, attainable, by systematic and well-directed efforts. This is
so common that it is thought to be a necessary characteristic of early manhood. There is a kind of seriousness, a solemn, thoughtful demeanor, which sometimes
displays itself in childhood, when the new-born spirit,
with all its freshness and buoyancy, in a kind of
enchanting bewilderment, looks forth upon the strange
and beautiful universe. One could almost wish,
though it would be at the expense of all progress, that
we could retain throughout our whole existence this
spiritual character that makes the little child seem so
much like an angel. How     terrible is the contrast
between the condition of the child that looks forth with
astonishment and delight upon every object around
him, or turns upward his gaze and views the starry
heavens, as if conscious that it was once his home; and
the thoughtless and impetuous being just emerging into
manhood, impelled by those dark and malignant passions that have drowned alike the voice of reason and
of conscience, and that have annihilated from the soul
all those bright and beautiful reminiscences of its
former home in the spirit land. The period of life of
which we are speaking is commonly denominated the





HINTS TO YOUNG MEN.


415


transition period. We are told that the phenomena it
exhibits is the result of the change consequent on passing from boyhood to manhood; that there must be a
time in every one's life in which the individual, for a
while, must be given up to the dominion of his
impulses, that he may more fully respect and revere
the authority of the intellect and the moral sentiment.
But there are those who believe that this could be
obtained in a far different and far better way. For it
cannot surely be that we are so constituted that we
may not appreciate a pure and elevated life until we
have first experienced its opposite. Can virtue and
excellence only be attained by first passing through a
state of ignorance and vice.? And yet this is what is
practically maintained by those who would throw a
veil over the thoughtlessness which so often characterizes the life of the young man, or who would apologize
for the excesses to which it leads, by insisting upon its
necessity. It is a great mistake to suppose that any
portion of our life, much less that in which the mind
first begins to exercise its dearest right, its noblest prerogative, freedom of action, can be given up to the
mere pursuit of pleasure or momentary self-gratification. So far from this, there is no time when we
ought to give ourselves over more fully to calm reflection, to the profound, thoughtful consideration of the
great work which we are appointed to accomplish, of
the great mission which we were destined to fulfil.
The young man should pause on the threshold of the
busy, active world upon which he is so soon to enter,
and calmly and attentively consider the part which he
is best fitted to act in its great drama, and the way in
which, he can best accomplish the purpose of his being;
and not, as is now too often the case, rush forth





416


THE OFFERING.


with a fiery impetuosity, attracted hither and thither
by every surrounding influence, made the sport of
every fortuitous circumstance, until, at length, the
hours of his existence have well nigh passed away,
and he feels, as he takes a retrospective view of his life,
that he has not accomplished its high purpose, and he
sinks at last into an inglorious grave, leaving behind
only the record of disappointed hopes and miserable
failures. The indifference to which we have referred,
and which constitutes one of the prominent characteristics in most young men, proceeds from the want of
proper views and definite ideas of the true aim of
human life. Nothing is required to remove this indifference, this thoughtlessness, but a more liberal and
extended culture. The primary object of all education
should be, to impress upon the mind of every human
being the purpose for which he was created, and
instruct him in the way by which it can be most
thoroughly attained. Then he will exhibit, on assuming the responsibilities of a man, a dignity worthy of
his high vocation; for he will then no longer be
swayed by impulse, but governed and controlled by
principle. He will advance onward, cautiously, but
resolutely. Instead of being the sport of circumstances,
he will make them administer to his ends. Life will
not be to him, what it now too often is, a mere series
of disconnected and adverse events. But he will be
able to see a beautiful unity and harmony in the vicissitudes of every day and every hour. Even the failure of such a one, (if indeed it be admitted that he
can ever be truly said not to have accomplished what
he has undertaken,) is infinitely preferable to the
casual and momentary success of him, who, on enter




HINTS TO YOUNG MEN.


417


ing life, acknowledges no higher law than the dictates
of his own caprice.
We might here specify many other peculiarities in
the character of young men, which are, for the most
part, the deplorable results of a defective education,
and which cause the experience of so many lives to
be barren and unfruitful. Or we might enlarge upon
those we have already,briefly noticed. But in such a
case we should greatly exceed the limits we have prescribed for this article. We have briefly referred to
the pecessity of a more thorough education than young
men at present receive. We would only add, that this
must be, for the most part, self-education. As we
before observed, every man is, to a great extent, the
arbiter of his own destiny; and as he alone can take
cognizance of the facts of consciousness, and of those
complicated processes of thought that are going on
within him, and which exert a far more important influence in fixing his sphere of activity, and determining his
destiny, than the innumerable agencies by which he is
surrounded; therefore it is that he must be, for the
most part, his own instructor. The motto written
upon the temple of Delphi, "Know thyself," should
be engraven upon every heart.
We might have referred to many other distinguishing, and, what we cannot help calling pernicious, traits
in the character of young men, and which are made
but too plainly visible in their influence upon society.
With them, usually, originate most of those Utopian
schemes for revolutionizing the world and regenerating
the race, and which, for the most part, accomplish but
little more than to keep the world in ceaseless turmoil. They commence to reform the world, without
seeming to think that the best way to attain their





418               THE OFFERING.
object is to begin by reforming themselves. However,
this and many other characteristics upon which we
might enlarge are all mainly attributable to the cause
we have assigned, - the want of a more thorough
self-culture, - a more complete preparation for the
active and responsible duties of life than young men
at present receive. We rejoice, however, to know that
the subject is beginning to receive the attention it
deserves. And we trust that the day is approaching,
when, to see an uneducated young man will be as rare
as it is now frequent; and when the end and aim of
every human being shall be to develop aright his
noble nature, and to accomplish his high destiny.





419


ETERNAL LIFE.
" The stars shall fade away: the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the warring elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds."
THERE is no subject more worthy of our thoughtful
consideration, none better fitted to occupy our noblest
powers, than the humble endeavor to discover the
nature and character of that life for which we are all
destined, and upon which we are so soon to enter.
We have expressed in another article, to the best of
our ability, reasons for believing in the soul's immortality. But next to the conviction that we shall live
beyond the grave, is the desire to know something of
the form and mode of such an existence. Indeed, the
one is inseparable from the other. The human soul is
not satisfied with having arrived at a certainty of its
eternal duration. It seeks for something more. It
endeavors to ascertain what will be the character and
object of this prolonged existence. Shall the sympathies awakened, the associations formed, the ideas
acquired here remain with us when we have entered
upon that higher life, or shall we retain, in the better
world, only the consciousness of our own identity,
whilst all we have formerly thought, felt, or known, is
buried in forgetfulness 7  We can conceive of no subject more worthy of the serious study, deep thought,
and profound contemplation of every rational, moral,
and accountable being. In those hours of deep reflec




420


THE OFFERING.


tion, when the soul turns inwardly its gaze, and views
its own inimitable graces, and endeavors, as it were, to
systematize its own lofty presentiments, it feels, without the aid of argument, that it can never die, that it
is destined for a life that shall never terminate, an
existence that shall have no end. At such a time, it
endeavors to discover, by the light of its intuitions, the
teachings of nature and the truths of revelation, where
and what is to be the nature of that home, in which,
after the struggles of its primitive state are over, it is to
realize its destiny. Every one, we think, must be conscious of a desire to know something more of that
world to which we are hastening with a rapidity
which we attempt to measure, but can never fully calculate. There is probably no one so constantly occupied with the pursuit of the world, so completely engrossed with the objects of sense, as not, occasionally at
least, to experience a longing, a desire to know something more of that purer and that better world towards
which he is now so rapidly advancing. This desire is
strengthened in every man by nearly all the circumstances attendant on our present state of existence, and
more especially by the uncertainty of its duration. No
thoughtful man can lie down at night, without feeling
conscious that before the dawn of another day he may
be removed from earth to heaven, from the world of
men to the world of spirits. It is this uncertainty that
invests our present life, that gives such a deep and
solemn interest to the inquiry, whither are we going?
Innumerable are the speculations to which this question has given rise. It might form    an interesting
exercise to collect and compare the ideas of heaven,
which devout men in every age have incorporated in
those religions, through which they have endeavored





ETERNAL LIFE.


421


to establish a more intimate connection between themselves and God, and to express their faith in the neverending existence of the human soul. And though we
should find between each a very striking difference,
yet there is one respect in which they would all bear a
resemblance. They would all unite in describing the
future abode of the soul to be something far higher and
nobler than that in which it at present exists.
This subject has formed, at all times and among all
nations, the most exciting theme for the poet'and the
philosopher. The poet has described heaven as the
sacred, enchanted land, adorned with perpetual luxuriance, where perennial flowers forever bloom, and
ambrosial streams forever flow. In this abode of the
just and good, where youth and beauty reign immortal, and the smile of love is the light of their existence,
exalted genius has endeavored to d6lineate its highest
conception of our future destiny. The philosopher,
dealing less with imagery and more with ideas, has
pictured a heavenly paradise, in whose sacred groves,
divine instructors shall impart to the souls of men a
knowledge of that truth which they sought for in vain
upon earth. This subject forms the burden of many
of those legends and myths, that constitute so large a
part of what may be denominated the sacred writings
of antiquity, and in which was embodied the religion of all those nations not favored with a direct revelation from heaven. Many of the most beautiful ideas
in the teachings of Socrates and the speculations of
Plato, relating to the future condition and abode of the
soul, were derived from the fables and traditions of
many of the oriental nations.  The allegories and
fables of those earlier times, relating to the Elysian
fields or the dread Tartarus, show with what earnest36





422


THE OFFERING.


ness man has ever contemplated his future condition.
The idea of heaven and hell has been incorporated
into every system of religion that has ever existed.
Indeed, it would be difficult to conceive a religion
without them. The human soul cannot be satisfied
with the conviction of its immortality. It seeks for
something more. It endeavors to discover where and
what will be the nature of its future condition. Now,
as we have before remarked, the idea of eternal life,
has, in some form or other, been connected with
men's notions of God and his moral government, and
the necessity of a higher development than the human
soul in its present imperfect state of existence can
receive. Among the rudest and most uncultivated
nations, who may hardly be said to have a language
sufficiently comprehensive to convey any but the most
common ideas, we find unmistakable evidences of a
belief in a higher life. True, it is often nothing more
than an exalted conception or an exaggerated view of
what they realize here upon earth. The red man's
idea of heaven, for example, is a more extensive
hunting-ground, where he will possess better implements of warfare, better facilities for hunting, and
richer game. The Indian has a firm faith, that when
he lays down the bow and arrow and dies, he is to
resume them again in that better land where his
fathers have gone before him. Now this extended
view of the present existence, this idea of having in
completeness what we only have here in part, or of
realizing that in the future of which here we only
dream, is the same in the civilized as in the savage
man. When we, as Christians, speak of heaven, we
mean a state of greater felicity than can be realized
upon the earth. Perhaps our most exalted conception





ETERNAL LIFE.


423


of paradise is an abode where we shall be united to
those we have loved, and where, in the society of purified spirits, we shall spend the ceaseless ages of eternity, in perfecting or completing what we have but
commenced in the present world, and in glorifying
God. The certainty of our immortality is revealed in
the New Testament; but the place where we are to
spend our future existence, its nature and character, as
well as the forms we are to assume, the parts we are to
act, the laws by which we are to be governed, is
shrouded in mystery, or, at most, is left to mere conjecture. Various and contradictory have been the theories or hypotheses by which enlightened and Christian
men have endeavored to explain the nature of the life
beyond the grave. Some have maintained that death
will effect an entire change in our condition, and that
in the next world the manner in which we are to
exist will be altogether unlike our present life.
Others, and we think with far more probability, insist,
that heaven is but another state, from which we are
separated only by a thin veil; and that we shall be
there in every respect as we are here, excepting only
that we shall be placed in more favorable circumstances to improve or progress. There has been a
great deal of dispute among theologians and divines,
as to whether we are to have in heaven the same
bodies that we inhabit here. Volumes have been written upon this single question, but without mankind
becoming any wiser.* The Scriptures, we think, favor
the idea of a spiritual body, resembling in form, - if
indeed it may be said that spirits can have form,--
the one we at present inhabit, but freed from all its


* See Taylor's Physical Theory of Another Life.





424


THE OFFERING.


imperfections and infirmities. This, however, is of
but little consequence. The intellect, which has been
expended in the investigation of this subject, might have
been, to say the least, much more profitably employed.
It is enough for us to know that the grave is not the
goal of our existence; that there is a brighter, better
land beyond. There, is no truth which the human
mind is capable of receiving, more consolatory than
this. And nothing can tend more to elevate us above'
the world, than the thought that we have a home in
the skies. The tired wanderer of earth loves to gaze
upon the beautiful stars, "and guess what one shall be
his home when love becomes immortal."   And he
who cannot see the light of sun, nor moon, nor stars,
is cheered in his darkness by the reflection that the
day is coming, when, from the heights of the far-off
future, he shall look down with delighted eye upon the
beautiful universe that he now yearns in vain to see.
When we look around us, and behold the inequality
that everywhere exists, the wretchedness and sin
from which none are entirely exempt, it is a blessed
thing, that we can look upwards and onwards with
hope, nay, with the assurance that the day is
approaching when the voice of the archangel shal proclaim to man that the reign of sorrow and suffering is
over. Then shall that song with which the angels
proclaimed the birth of the Saviour be again repeated.
Then shall the good of earth and the pure of heaven
unite in the triumphant chorus, " Glory to God in
the Highest, peace on earth, and good will towards
men."





425


CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS UPON THE BLIND.
IF we write more frequently upon blindness than
any other subject, it is because we are called upon at
every moment of our existence to feel and deplore its
effects. In whatever we attempt to accomplish in performing the most trifling act of every-day life, we are
admonished of the absence of vision, and of the difference, which, in consequence, exists between us and the
rest of mankind. It is not, therefore, strange that the
great fact of our life, - that which in an eminent degree
decides its character, - should, more frequently than
any other, occupy our thoughts.
We propose to devote the concluding pages of our
offering to a few additional observations upon the
blind.
In previous articles we have referred to the different
institutions that have been established in this and
other countries, for the education of this unfortunate
class of mankind. The system by which they are
instructed is partly by substituting the sense of touch
for that of which they are deprived, and partly oral.
One of the greatest improvements of modern times is
the printing of books in raised characters, so as to
enable the student deprived of sight to read with his
fingers. Who can estimate all the advantages which
books prepared in this way confer upon those for
whom they are designed?. What language can describe the alleviations they afford to the darkened life
of him '"to whom nature is at one entrance quite shut
out'?"  Still, there is such a thing as over-estimating
36*





426


THE OFFERING.


their value as a means of education. They form an
important and essential auxiliary in the instruction of
the blind. But they can never be wholly relied upon.
They can never entirely take the place of oral instruction. And besides, the number of books prepared in
this way must of necessity be very limited. There
have been published in this country, at the Perkins
Institution, some forty-three volumes. These have, by
no means been sufficient to meet the wants of educated
blind persons. They have, nevertheless, formed an
important addition to oral instruction. Most of the
knowledge which the blind man is enabled to acquire
of the physical sciences and speculative philosophy, as
well as of the world around him, and of passing
events, is obtained by having some seeing person read
to him from  some book, or describe to him   that
which is going on around him; and but for such
description, he would remain in ignorance of the commonest facts of every-day life. Oral instruction is
then the grand agent in the education of the blind,
which books in raised characters can greatly assist, but
never supersede. The disadvantages of books prepared in this way, are, that they are, in the first place,
too bulky. Secondly, that the difficulty of reading
them is increased as the student grows older, and his
fingers become hardened. Thirdly, it takes him three
times as long to read one third as much as is contained
in ordinary books. We might name other. objections,
but these are sufficient to substantiate what we have
already observed upon this subject. Of the contrivances for instructing the blind in writing, arithmetic,
higher mathematics, geography, astronomy, &c., we
need only say that they are simple and effective,





CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS UPON THE BLIND.  427
and that they admirably answer the purpose for
which they were invented.
The question, "can the blind be educated " is no
longer a debatable one. The experience of the last
half century is enough to satisfy every one that the
mere want of sight does not necessarily debar the
individual from the high enjoyment which knowledge
imparts; and that intellectual stupidity and ignorance are not necessarily consequent upon physical
blindness. There are, however, other problems connected with the blind, which, as yet, have not received
a solution. We have time only to briefly advert to
one. It is acknowledged by all, that there are insuperable difficulties in the way of a blind man's obtaining an independent livelihood. Everywhere in human
society, the possession of sight seems necessary to fit
one for any considerable degree of activity.  And
hence, it too often happens that education does but a
little more for the blind than to awaken them to the
fuller consciousness of their deprivation. This is at
length beginning to receive the attention it merits;
and the philanthropist is now compelled to acknowledge that next to the importance of giving the unfortunate an education, is the devising of some method by
which they can obtain their daily bread. The friends
of the blind recommend the establishment of asylums,
where those blind persons who are too old to receive
an education, or otherwise disqualified, or who, having
received an education, are still unable to obtain a subsistence in the world at large, by their own unaided
exertions, may be received, and employed at some
useful handicraft work, so that, by laboring with their
own hands some twelve or fifteen hours a day, they
may be able to supply themselves with the necessaries





428


THE OFFERING.


of life. We cannot but think that such establishments
would not only fail to realize the object for which
they were designed, but would actually create greater
evils than those under which the blind at present
labor. None can deplore more deeply than we do, the
inability of the blind to compete with seeing persons in
many of the avocations of life. We are still, however,
of the opinion, that there are some situations in which
they can not only be useful to others, but by which
they can also, without the aid of society, maintain themselves and their families. There is no reason why the
blind may not become effective teachers in our seminaries and academies, and even in our colleges. Mr.
Nelson, a blind man, was for many years, a successful
professor in a college in New Jersey. It would not be out
of place in this connection to refer to Mr. Shaw, the
distinguished blind musician. Indeed, we see not what
there is to prevent many educated blind persons from
occupying, with advantage to themselves and society,
those situations, where the possession of a good intellect and a well cultivated mind is of more consequence
than mere physical sight. Now, if we are right, we
maintain that establishments where blind persons are
collected together, and are compelled to labor at some
handicraft work, from which at most they can only
hope to obtain a scanty pittance, barely sufficient to
sutpply their physical wants, and not even this much,
without the aid of charity, to be, to say the least, very
unwise. It would be manifestly an act of injustice to
those who go forth into the world unaided and alone
to meet with and manfully contend against the obstacles
that everywhere surround them. If the blind must
receive aid from society, it is far better that it should
be direct. It will then be more commensurate with





CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS UPON THE BLIND.  429
the merits and the wants of each individual. Asylums,
houses of refuge, retreats, work-houses, whatever you
may please' to call them, usually generate two evils
where th ey mitigate one. What the blind man most
needs is a good education. As soon, therefore, as he,
has completed the course of instruction at the institutions established for the purpose, instead of being
immured for the rest of his days in an asylum, and
required with his fingers to compete with those who
bring to their aid steaml and machinery, and do as
much in an hour aý he can possibly do in a week, -
instead of this, we say, the blind man should be sent
forth. into the world to test the value of his education,
and if it be worth anything at all, it will enable him
to achieve his success. It seems to us there is something cruel in requiring one, for whom physical
objects present no attraction, to labor the livelong day
for barely a sufficient sum  to feed and clothe him.
Society ought not to require this of any human being,
much less of the blind man. He, at least, ought to
be allowed some portion of time for the cultivation of
the mind, since from it comes all his enjoyment.
We would like to say much more upon this subject,
did our space permit. We will only add, that when a
blind man is thoroughly educated, he is fitted to contend successfully with the evils incidental to his condition. And that before the well-directed efforts of -a
cultivated mind, mere physical obstacles must disappear as the darkness of midnight before the light of
the noon-day sun.





430
THE FAIRY WALTZ,
Composed and affectionately Dedicated to MARIA L.
BOWEN, by her Father.
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