First Visit to New York
In the present era, with its many modes of rapid transit, one is quite liable to forget that most of them have come into being within less than fifty years, and I am sometimes amazed at the thought that not until after I was born did the first locomotive turn a wheel on this Western Continent. When I ride in the mighty express trains that fly across the country, how marvellous it seems! But do not think that I belong to that class of people who looking back over many years, think the old times better than our own. It is only the memory of the past that I cherish and that memory thrills me with a pathos which I cannot, nor do I wish to forget. As I am writing, the horse-back journeys of our old postman seem to have been but last week, so well do I remember how horse and rider used to flit across the landscape like the shuttle in an ancient loom, and I see again the tall, well-built kindly man (which the sound of his voice told me he was) when he came to our door the first time. WTe were staunch friends in a few days, for one of my household duties was to get the mail from him each Thursday. I was greatly interested to know that he had a little girl about my own age and size, and in my fond day-dreams I hoped for a meeting with her some time when both of us became a little older. But I never met her, although
her father continued his weekly visits for a number of years, until one morning a younger man came with the mail and announced himself as the son and successor of our old post-rider. But he did not succeed to the place in my affections occupied by his father.
A few weeks after my fifth birthday, one balmy morning in early April, mother called me to her side and said,
“We are going to New York to consult Dr. Valentine Mott regarding your eyes.”
That announcement pleased me, not so much on account of the purpose of the visit, for I was contented with my lot, as the mere fact that I was to learn something of the world outside. The best that we could do in those early days was to take a sailing-vessel from Sing-Sing, and a common market-wagon was the only available conveyance to get us to this town. We were glad of even this, however, and so the next morning about eight o’clock we began the momentous journey. At three in the afternoon we arrived at Sing-Sing, where we went on board the vessel and one hour later the white sails began to take the wind and we were again on our way to the city at the mouth of the great Hudson River.
My mother became quite ill from the motion of the boat before we were many miles from Sing-Sing, and retired below, leaving me in charge of Captain Green and a cousin of ours who was also going down the river. To me everything about the sloop was as interesting as it was new, especially the “sea” yarns the captain told to me, and in return for his kindness, I was only too glad to sing for him the few songs that I knew. “Hail Columbia, Happy Land” was one of them; I have forgotten most of the others excepting one sad piece in which a poor wretch told a bit of his own experience. He had been convicted for beating his adopted daughter to death, and on the way* to prison wrote some verses called “A Prisoner for Life.” The words had no tune of their own, but I managed to find one for them among those which my friends had taught me. The first stanza is all that I remember,
“Adieu, ye green fields; ye soft meadows, adieu; Ye hills and ye mountains, I hasten from you. No more shall my eyes with your beauty be blest, No more shall ye soothe my sad bosom to rest.”
This fragment illustrates the nondescript character of the songs that I committed to memory. One of them that I remember to this day had nearly fifty stanzas, a complete novel in verse. Some were patriotic; some humorous and not a few sentimental. One ditty told the story of
“Four score and ten of us, poor old bachelors, Four score and ten of us, poor old bachelors, Four score and ten of us, and not a penny in
our purse,
Something must be done for us poor old
bachelors.”
Whether anyone was good enough to relieve them of their poverty I do not know, but I suspect that they may have finally married rich widows, for their mournful plaint has been hushed these many years.
But our sail down the Hudson was full of other incidents, one of the best being connected with a fellow passenger, who was taking a cow to the city; and the cow, I am sorry to say, was better behaved than her owner. He was somewhat under the influence of liquor; and, when Captain Green suggested that the cow ought to be milked, he was very angry. But at length while he was engaged in another part of the vessel someone relieved the cow of her milk, and my mother, who during the interval had recovered, was commissioned to make a custard. She did so; and even the morose owner of the cow was obliged to pronounce her a good cook.
After what seemed to me a very long trip we arrived at New York; but for a few days we remained with friends in the city. I was much perplexed at the noise, which was indeed a great contrast to the quietness of our rural home. How well I recall every detail of our visit to Dr. Valentine Mott. When we arrived at his office, the famous physician was engaged wich a patient, and gave me some toys for my amusement. Before I was weary cf them, Dr. Mott said he was ready to make the examination, and you may be sure those were anxious moments to my dear mother. She had come what was then considered a long distance to consult the best eye specialist in America, and the result of his examination would bring her either the greatest joy or the most intense grief.
After what seemed a very long time for the consideration of my case, Dr. Mott asked me,
“Would you like to have me do something for your eyes that will make you see?”
“No sir,” I replied promptly, moving nearer to my mother, for I was afraid that might mean he would need to hurt me. After a long pause the kind physician put his hand on my head and said,
“Poor child, I am afraid you will never see again.” With these words the last ray of hope died in my dear mother’s heart. She knew she had done everything in her power for me and she could not help feeling sad because the object of her journey had failed, and now nothing remained for her except to return home. I could not understand why she should be so anxious concerning me. It was a beautiful afternoon in late April, for under the gentle wooing of the sun all nature was springing into life and fragrance. My sight was not totally destroyed and I could distinguish, though very faintly, any vivid color placed on the right kind of background. We had tea at five o’clock, after which I wanted to go on deck, so mother took me out and left me there while she went back and finished her supper. It was near sunset, and as there was but little air stirring the vessel rested quietly on the water. Fancy came to me and whispered that I might get a glimpse of color from the shifting waves of the Hudson.
Just as the sun was sinking slowly behind the cliffs that line the west bank the light was magnified in the mirror of the waters; and I was enabled to distinguish a few of the most brilliant of the golden hues; and as I sat there on the deck, amid the glories of departing day, the low murmur of the waves soothed my soul into a delightful peace. Their music was translated into tones that were like a human voice, and for many years their melody suggested to my imagination the call of Genius as she was struggling to be heard from her prison house in some tiny shell lying perchance on the bottom of the river. When I finally went to New York to school the noble lines of Byron became familiar; and now, whether I listen to the mighty billows of the ocean or to the smallest ripple on the bosom of some inland lake, the language of each to me is the same, and the appeal is irresistible. For
“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar.”
After the visit to Dr. Valentine Mott my life went on as before until I was eight years old, when we moved to Ridgefield, Connecticut; and there we remained until I was fourteen. During these years my greatest anxiety centered itself in the constant thought that I would not be able to get an education; but, in the meantime, I was determined to be as content as circumstances would allow, and to hope for any good fortune that the future might have in store. To express my trust that all would be well, when I was eight or nine years old, I composed the following lines:
“Oh, what a happy soul I am,
Although I cannot see,
I am resolved that in this world
Contented I will be.
“How many blessings I enjoy
That other people don’t!
To weep and sigh because I’m blind
I cannot nor I won’t.”
I am sure that my sentiment in these verses is more worthy than the poetic form. My dear mother at times became very sad because I was blind; and then grandmother would quote the lines of the grand old hymn of Christian faith:
“Though troubles assail and dangers affright, Though friends should all fail and foes all unite; Yet one thing assures us, whatever betide, The Scripture assures us the Lord will provide.”
When I used to hear our Presbyterian Church choir sing some of the beautiful old hymns my heart was deeply moved. Seventy-five years ago there were few hymn-books; and my earliest knowledge of sacred songs came from a tailor, who belonged to the Methodist Church. All of my own friends were Presbyterians of the primitive stock; and it was not until I was twelve years old that I attended a service in the Methodist meeting-house in Ridgefield. For the services in our own church it was the custom for one of the deacons to compose a hymn to be sung to some standard tune; frequently two deacons
were required for a single hymn, and that not a very good one. Yet many of these homely productions possessed some genuine poetic merit. One of them I remember contained the following stanzas:
“Kind Father, condescend to bless
Thy sacred word to me,
That, aided by Thy heavenly grace,
I may remember Thee.
“And when life’s journey shall be o’er,
Thy glory may we see;
Dear Saviour, I will ask no more
Than this, Remember me.”
Mrs. Hawley, a kind Christian lady, in whose house we resided, and who had no children of her own, became deeply interested in me, and under her supervision I acquired a thorough knowledge of the Bible. She gave me a number of chapters each week to learn, sometimes as many as five, if they were short ones, and so at the end of the first twelve months I could repeat a large portion of the first four books of the Old Testament and the four Gospels. At Sunday-school the children would stand in the aisles and repeat some of the passages that they had committed during the previous week; and there was considerable rivalry in trying to recite the largest number. I often hunted among the records of my memory for the longest and most involved verses with the idea of showing my elders what a little blind girl could do and they, in turn, flattered me with compliments and presented me with a fine Bible for reciting more verses than any other scholar. Had my growing pride been unchecked by my friends at home, it might have proven a stumbling block in after years; and yet the habit of thoroughly learning my lessons helped me many times when I was obliged to commit long passages as a pupil, and afterwards as a teacher, in the New York Institution for the Blind.
As I have said before, our people were Calvinistic Presbyterians, and yet the most of my friends appreciated all of the pleasures and joys of life. The good Mrs. Hawley was kind in every respect and sought to teach me many practical lessons that I now remember with gratitude and affection. Of course, the story of George Washington and his little hatchet was not forgotten, for it was new in those days and was emphasized even more than at present; and it was one of the mysteries of my young life how he could have been so very good while the rest of us tried so hard and often failed to attain the standard of truthfulness that the Father of Our Country had set for us.
But I had occasion to learn my own lesson from positive experience. It happened that Mrs. Hawley had several beautiful rose-bushes in her front garden; and it was understood that I might pick from any of them whenever I chose, excepting one from which grew a choice white variety. One afternoon a playmate was determined to have one of the forbidden flowers. I said, “Mrs. Hawley doesn’t wish us to pick them.” But my companion would not be satisfied with such a reason, and I eventually yielded and gave him one of the coveted roses. At the time Mrs. Hawley was sitting by the window and, therefore, saw the whole affair; and during the afternoon she called me to her and said, “Fanny, do you know who picked the pretty white rose from the bush yonder?” “No, madam,” I answered meekly. She said no more and I thought she had forgotten the incident, when she called me to her side and read the story of Ananias and Sapphira; and, from that hour, I told no more falsehoods to my good friend.
To a young and imaginative person there is nothing more inspiring than life in the country. Existence becomes a perpetual dream of delight; and there are no pangs to sadden the buoyant spirit. The sunny hours of my childhood flowed onward as placidly as the waters of the Hudson, not many miles distant from our home. Through the secular and religious papers our town was in communication with the great world outside. To be sure, the news sometimes came several days after it had happened, but it was new to us. I used to sigh and wonder if I would ever be able to gain very much of the great store of human knowledge, but I hoped some day at least to travel and visit a few of the places of which we constantly heard. Before many years this desire for information quickened all my senses until I was eager and alert to the smallest chance of learning something. My heart sank within me, however, when I realized that there was no way for me to learn; and thus, not being satisfied, my longing for knowledge became a passion from which there was seldom any rest. A great barrier seemed to rise before me, shutting away from me some of the best things of which I dreamed in my sleeping and waking hours. I was somewhat impatient, still hopeful; but as the years succeeded each other in their usual round, what frequently seemed to me an oasis, sooner or later, faded like a mirage farther and farther into the dim and distant future.
I often went to visit my grandmother, who lived in the house where I was born; and it was a great pleasure to report the progress that I was making in the study of the Holy Scriptures My desire for knowledge was increasing, but I found that the teacher in the village school, to which I often went with the children of my own age, was too busy to give me the personal help that I needed. Grandmother was very patient with me and did all that she possibly could for my happiness. When I went to see her she always gave me the room that I liked best; and I shall never forget one night that I spent there. Toward twilight she called me to her and both of us sat for a time talking in the old rocking chair. Then we knelt down by its side and repeated a petition to the kind Father, after which she went quietly down stairs, leaving me alone with my own thoughts. The night was beautiful. I crept toward the window; and through the branches of a giant oak that stood just outside, the soft moonlight fell upon my head like the benediction of an angel, while I knelt there and repeated over and over these simple words, g
“Dear Lord, please show me how I can learn like other children.”
At this moment the weight of anxiety that had burdened my heart was changed to the sweet consciousness that my prayer would be answered in due time. If I had been restless and impatient before, from that time forth I was still eager, but confident that God would point a way for me to gain the education which I craved. As I have already said, I felt no resentment against the poor physician who destroyed my eyes, but I was not content always to live in ignorance; and, in the course of time, in a way of which I had no previous intimation, my wish was to be granted in fullest measure.