The Promise of an Education

I occasionally went to school with the children of our neighborhood and one afternoon in November, 1834, mother met me at the gate and I heard a paper rustling in her hand. My first thought was that she had a letter announcing the death or illness of some friend. Instead of that, she produced a circular from the New York Institution for the Blind, sent her by an acquaintance, in fact by the same man who had given me the little book describing the rainbow already mentioned. As she read the announcement, I clapped my hands and exclaimed,

“O, thank God, he has answered my prayer, just as I knew He would.”

That was the happiest day of my life; for the dark intellectual maze in which I had been living seemed to yield to hope and the promise of the light that was about to dawn. Not that I craved physical vision, for it was mental enlightenment that I sought; and now my quest seemed almost actually rewarded. The New York Institution was a foreign name to me, but it was enough to know that some place existed where I might be taught; and my star of promise even then was becoming a great orb of light.

MOTHER OF FANNY CROSBY.

My mother was fully conscious of my joy, but to test me she said,

“What will you do without me? You have never been away from home more than two weeks at one time in your whole life.”

This presented a new idea: I had not thought of the separation from her; and for a moment I wavered. Then I answered as bravely as I could,

“Much as I love you, mother, I am willing to make any sacrifice to acquire an education.” And she replied,

“You are right, my child, and I am very glad you have the chance to go.” But her voice betrayed the tremor in her heart. How wonderful is a mother’s love.

Nearly a month before I was fifteen years old, on March 3rd, 1835, I made another journey to New York, one that was more pleasant and fruitful than the first had been. On the morning that I was to leave home mother wakened me from a sound sleep and told me the stage was at the door. The thought of going away thoroughly unnerved me; I dressed with trembling fingers; hastily ate a few mouthfuls of breakfast; swallowed my sobs; and then quickly hurried from the house lest I might break down completely if I waited to bid mother good-bye. You can imagine my feelings as the stage rumbled on and on toward Norwalk, where we were to take the steamboat for New York. For more than an hour I uttered not a word, although the kind lady by whom I was accompanied tried her best to cheer me and to draw me into conversation. My suffering was indeed intense, and I would have given half my kingdom at that moment, could the gift have bought me the power to shed a few tears.

Finally, my companion turned to me and said, “Fanny, if you don’t want to go to New York, we will get out at the next station, and take the returning stage home. Your mother will be lonesome without you, anyway.”

It was a sore temptation to return. I hesitated for a time, but, after a good cry, I felt better and said,

“No, I will go on to New York.”

That decision I never for a moment regretted, for, had I returned to my mother that morning I would have cast away my pearl of great price, for it is not probable that I should ever have been brave enough to start again for the Institution.

We took the steamboat at Norwalk, and its quiet motion helped to soothe my mind after the distracting experiences of the morning; and so later in the afternoon we floated gently into the harbor of the great city, my adopted home.

For three days we remained with friends; and on Saturday morning March 7, 1835, we were driven to the New York Institution for the Blind on Ninth Avenue. There everyone treated me as though I was kith and kin to them; but I missed the companions of my childhood, the dear lady, who had accompanied me, and most of all my mother, who seemed to be far away, a thousand miles or more. When evening came they took me to the little room in which I was to sleep; everything was strange, and nothing in the place where I was accustomed to find it at home, — but I bravely tried to think only of pleasant things. It was no use, however, for I could not keep the curl from coming to my upper lip; I sat there on my trunk, a forlorn being indeed, and sighed heavily. Our matron, a motherly Quaker woman, put her arms about me and said,

“Fanny, I guess thee has never been away from home before.”

I replied meekly, “No ma’am, and please excuse me, I must cry,” and then burst forth the flood of tears that I had tried so hard to restrain. When the fit of weeping had passed, one of my fellow pupils came and sat down with me on the trunk; and for a whole hour we talked about everything but home.

By the next morning the worst homesickness had passed, and I was very much interested in all that was going on in the Institution. At breakfast our beloved superintendent, Dr. John D. Russ, spoke kind words of encouragement to me. Later in the day he taught a class of us children the Scripture lesson for the week; and when he had finished that, invited us to remain while he read from the poems of Lord Byron.

Our superintendent was a great benefactor of the blind. He invented the phonetic alphabet and methods of printing raised characters and maps that are used by the blind to this day. He came to the Institution just after it was founded, and gave his services without any pay for two years. It was very difficult to make the people think that those who could not see might be educated; and Mr. Samuel Wood, who was the founder of our school, had to prove by actual tests that it could really be done. He was so successful that several wealthy men, who had before refused to help, now generously came to his aid.

Fortunately for me, our teachers read us some of the best of modern poets; and they inspired me to more determined efforts to improve whatever little gift I possessed by nature. Some of my schoolmates, however, took my crude efforts as models to be imitated; and two or three of them actually tried to compose poetry on their own account. From time to time they would make sorry work of meters and rhymes; and almost invariably, sooner or later, they would come to me for aid with the careful injunction, “You musn’t tell anyone for all the world.” Thus I was sworn to secrecy; they were admitted to the poetic workshop, and actual labor began. We fitted and joined; smoothed and planed; measured and moulded, until by the joint effort of three or four people something was produced that our childish fancy took to be good verses. They were not; and years afterward all of us had many a hearty laugh over these youthful experiments.

A few of our teachers at the New York Institution were very strict with us and saw to it that no unnecessary conversation occurred between boys and girls. This we did not like, — and I was one of the first to revolt. We knew that one of the faculty of the Institution was taking some notice of one of the lady teachers; and to even accounts with them I wrote the following lines:

“Say, dearest, wilt thou roam with me
To Scotland’s bonny bowers,
Where purest fountains gently glide,
And bloom the sweetest flowers.

“Ah, Martha, may we soon retire
Unto some pleasant cot,
Where love and joy forever dwell
And sorrow is forgot.

“There in the gentle summer eve

We’ll watch the murmuring streams;
The moon shall fondly cheer our hearts
With its majestic beams.

“Then, let the wintry blasts appear,
And all the flowers decay;
We’ll sit beside the cheerful fire,
And sing dull care away.”

Not many months after my verses were written the unpopular teacher and his Martha did as I above suggested, and we were rid of their unwelcome attentions.

We used to read the Bible, “Pilgrim’s Progress,” “The Ancient Mariner” and other literary classics in the raised letters; but our daily lessons were received directly from our teachers, and: they had an excellent plan of instruction. Selections would be read to us two or three times, and then we were all expected to be able to answer minute questions about them in the language of the original. The following morning we were required to tell the story again, this time, however, in our own words. By this means our memory and our power of thinking were both cultivated to such an extent that I I can recite verbatim most of “Brown’s Grammar” as well now as the day I left school. My favorite studies were English, history, philosophy, and the small portion of science that was then taught.

In the study of arithmetic three types were used, and by placing them in a wooden frame in different positions they represented certain figures. My first lesson consisted of the multiplication tables; but you may be sure I was a very dull pupil; and two days after this assignment, Dr. Russ came in and said to the girl who was appointed to instruct me,

“Well, Anna, has your pupil learned the multiplication tables yet?”

“Not quite,” she replied.

“Well, then,” said the superintendent, “I shall come again tomorrow; and if Fanny Crosby does not know them at that time, I shall put her on the mantle.” I took his jest in earnest; and the next day all of the tables were learned. Then we went on as far as long division and there my patience failed. I simply could not learn arithmetic, although I tried my best; finally, in utter despair, I said to my teacher,

“I suppose you regard me as a very inattentive pupil.” To my surprise, she replied,

“No, I do not, for you can never learn mathematics. Let us go to the superintendent and tell him so!” He was glad to excuse me from other requirements, and it was arranged that I should take an extra study. From that hour I was a new creature: what a nightmare I was escaping! I thoroughly appreciated a parody in one of our arithmetics, which runs as follows:

“Multiplication is vexation,
Division is as bad;
The rule of three puzzles me,
And fractions make me mad.”

As a pleasant contrast I delight to recall our singing classes. A few months after my arrival at the Institution Mr. Anthony Reiff became our teacher; and he remained there for more than forty years as a faithful, efficient and earnest instructor. We loved him dearly, and to him many of his former pupils looked back and called him the master of their youth.

One beautiful, crisp November morning in 1837 we laid the corner stone of the new Institution building. The mayor, common council, and many prominent citizens came to attend the exercises, as they always did on special occasions. Mr. Reiff composed a march to some words I had written, part of which I now recall, —

“This day may every bosom feel
A thrill of pleasure and delight;
Its scenes will in our memories dwell,
When Time shall wing his rapid flight.

“May the great Being who surveys
The countless acts by mortals done,
Behold with an approving eye
The structure which is now begun.”

Before 1840 my friends had nearly spoiled me with their praises. At least I began to feel my own importance as a poet a little too much; and so the superintendent, Mr. Jones, thought something ought to be done to curb such rising vanity. One morning after breakfast I was summoned to the office; and, thinking he would ask me for a poem, or perhaps give me a word of commendation, as he sometimes did, I obeyed at once, — but instead of more praise and a new commission to write verses I found a plain talk awaiting me.

It was an impressive occasion, and I remember what Mr. Jones said almost word for word:

“Fanny, I am sorry you have allowed yourself to be carried away by what others have said about your verses. True, you have written a number of poems of real merit; but how far do they fall short of the standard that you might attain. Shun a flatterer, Fanny, as you wv,uld a viper; for no true friend would deceive you with words of flattery. Remember that whatever talent you possess belongs wholly to God; and that you ought to give Him the credit for all that you do.”

Mr. Jones was a fine teacher of the young; and he knew just what was best in my particular case. After giving me a little more advice, he said,

“Now, we will reconstruct the fabric, — but on a different plan. You have real poetic talent; yet it is crude and undeveloped; and if your talent ever amounts to much, you must polish and smooth your verses so that they may be of more value. Store your mind with useful knowledge; and the time may come, sooner or later, when you will yet attain the goal toward which you have already made some progress.”

Then the dear man said to me, “Fanny, have I wounded your feelings?” Something within me bore witness that Mr. Jones spoke the truth; and so I answered,

“No, sir. On the contrary, you have talked to me like a father, and I thank you very much for it.”

In years afterward I gradually came to realize that his advice was worth more than the price of rubies; and if I am justified in drawing any analogy from my own experience, I would say that a little kindly advice is better than a great deal of scolding. For a single word, if spoken in a friendly spirit, may be sufficient to turn one from a dangerous error. In the same way, a single syllable, if spoken from a hard heart, may be just enough to drive another from the true path. This principle has been the foundation of my work among the missions of New York. I find that the confidence of the sinner is all that one needs for the beginning of the work of grace. A man can be won if he knows that somebody trusts him; and I firmly believe that faith and love go hand in hand through the dark places of this world, seeking the lost, and we not infrequently find them where we least expect them to be.