The Daily Task

‘EW York City has grown wonderfully in many ways since 1835, and the advance in knowledge and education has been no less rapid than its material prosperity. I well remember the time when Kipp and Brown’s stages were the sole means of “rapid transit” in the city; and they only went up as far as Twenty-sixth Street unless by special order. Our buildings were situated on Thirty-fourth Street and Ninth Avenue in the midst of a delightful suburban district in plain view of the Hudson River and the lawns and fields which gently sloped towards the river.

The rising hour at the Institution was half-past five o’clock during the summer when I first went there; but about 1837 it was changed to six, and some of us found even that hour too early to suit our inclinations. But unless we were able to give a sufficient excuse for being late at morning prayers we were denied our breakfast as a penalty for our tardiness. After breakfast at seven o’clock we enjoyed a lecture on mental and moral philosophy, and the rest of the morning and afternoon was taken up with recitations and singing classes until half-past four. The evening was passed in listening to selections from standard authors.

Sometimes during the breakfast hour they read to us from the newspapers, or we talked over the daring exploit of one of our own number, such as the killing of a mouse by a timid girl; in fact, if any one of us did an act out of the ordinary we heard of it at the breakfast table, and I must confess that I was concerned in many of the practical jokes.

We had a book in the Institution, generally called “a shoe-book,” but I called it after the name of our shoemaker, “Simpson on the Understanding.” In the evening various books were read to us by students from a theological seminary in the city; and after they had finished “Stevens’ Travels in the Holy Land” one morning a girl came to me and asked what I thought would be read next. I replied, “Very likely they will read ‘Simpson on the Understanding,’ which is a fine book; but you had better go and ask the superintendent.” This she did, and with a merry laugh he showed her the shoe-book, adding, “That is some of Fanny’s work, I know.”

We had a postman whom I used to tease in every possible manner. I had never spoken with him in my life; but I would hide the pen and ink and his letter book, which annoyed him so much that he was anxious to see what sort of a being could be so mischievous. Once, while it was raining tremendously, I wrote the following lines, and placed them where he would be sure to find them:

“Postman, come not yet,

Wait till the storm is past,
Or you’ll a ducking get;
The rain is falling fast.

You have a new white hat,
As I have heard them say;

Then, postman, think of that!
Don’t venture out today!

“Presumptuous man, in vain

To stay your course I sing;
In spite of wind or rain

The letters you will bring;
Though you are such a dunce

I will not cruel be,
But ask our nurse at once

To make some flax-seed tea.”

To even scores with me, they sometimes returned a joke at my expense. For example, the superintendent one evening, when I returned home late from a lecture, informed me that there was a “Bridgeport Farmer” in the house, who had come to visit me. Thinking one of my friends had actually arrived during my absence, I went to bed, joyful with the expectation of seeing him early the following morning. To this end I arranged my toilet with unusual care; I went to the office to inquire after my guest; and to my vexation the superintendent handed me a copy of the “Farmer,” a newspaper published in Bridgeport, exclaiming, “Here he is; bid him good-morning.”

Once when I had infringed upon a rule the superintendent called me to him, and said that I must retire to
my room. I went up stairs singing,
“My glad soul mounted higher
In a chariot of fire;
And the moon was under my feet.”

He at once called me back, saying, “You are too willing. Don’t break any more rules!”

Nor did my daring stop short of the Governor of New York, William H. Seward, who came to inspect our buildings. I thought it would be a capital idea to get him to pick up my ball of yarn, for I happened to be knitting when he called; and so when he was just a little way from me, I managed to drop the ball on the floor. The gracious man picked it up and gave it to me with a good word of encouragement. But one of the teachers saw what I had done and laughingly told Mr. Chamberlain, who remarked, “Oh, don’t say anything about it to Fanny, for we never know what she will do next.” Yet I must have been more prompt at playing jokes than at learning my lessons, for Mr. Hamilton Murray very often waited several days before I would give him the piece of verse I had promised him. Once when his patience was exhausted by a long delay, he came to me and said,

“Fanny, I am coming up in the morning. Will you have that blank verse ready?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, but it was not ready when he came for it.

“Well,” said Mr. Murray, “now we will come to business, no blank verse, no dinner.” His threat had the desired effect; the verse was ready in less than an hour.

Thus these trivial incidents helped to make up the joy of life; and I think the poet Keble was certainly right, when he wrote,

“The triviaj round, the common task.
Will furnish all we ought to ask,
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To bring us daily nearer God.”

We had many important days, when famous visitors honored us by coming to see our work. One of the first of these that I remember was Count Henri Gratien Bertrand, the faithful field-marshal of the great Napoleon, and his constant companion during his exile at Saint Helena. After the death of his general, Marshal Bertrand accompanied his remains to France, where he was forgiven by the party which had come into power.

A part of the poem which I recited in honor of Marshal Bertrand contained a reference to the death of Napoleon at Saint Helena,

“When by those he loved deserted,
Thine was still a faithful heart;
Thou wert proud to share the exile
Of the hapless Bonaparte.

“Like an angel, whispering comfort,
Still in sickness thou wert nigh;
And when life’s last scenes were over,
Tears of anguish dimmed thine eye.”

“Oh,” he exclaimed, “how did you know that I sat with my head in my hands and wept as the life of the great general slowly ebbed away?”

“I did not know it,” I replied, “but described the circumstance from imagination.” Then he gave me a box containing a piece of the willow that grew above Napoleon’s grave. “God bless you,” he said in a husky voice, “how I wish you could have known the Emperor!”

I always admired the courage of Napoleon, though I could not love him as a man; and so the devotion of his faithful marshal touched my heart. Personally the visit of Ole Bull was more pleasing to me, for I love music better than the red deeds of war. For an hour the noted Norwegian violinist played from the great masters, and held everyone of us spellbound while he rendered with marvellous sympathy and power all of the selections he loved so dearly.

The general instruction of the blind was a new idea to most persons previous to 1850, and, on this account, we had many curious visitors, but we were always glad to show everyone who came what we could do. As it was one of my duties to conduct them through the buildings, a good many peculiar questions were asked me. Once a lady said,

“There is one place I would like so much to see.”

“What is that?” I asked, for we had been the round of all that I thought of interest to strangers.

“Why I am very anxious to see your children eat; how do they find the way to their mouths?”

“O well,” I replied quickly, “if that is all, you shall see; send out and get me a piece of cake and I will show you.” The same question was put to one of our boys; and he answered it as follows:

“We take a string, tie one end of it to the table leg; the other to our tongue; and then we take the food in our left hand, and feel up the string with our right until we come to our mouth.”

Mr. Anthony Reiff, our music teacher, could see perfectly; but, on a certain occasion, while a party of us from the Institution were staying at a hotel, the clerk of the place asked how long he had been “that way.” For a joke, the teacher answered, “All my life”; and the mistaken clerk carefully led him up to his room.

But we were also favored with scores of delightful visitors whom we loved to recall in later years. One afternoon the superintendent said to me, “There is a gentleman waiting below, and will you be so kind as to show him through the Institution?” I was only too glad to do so; and we went the rounds of the buildings, until finally the stranger picked up a copy of my book, “The Blind Girl and Other Poems.” Not knowing me, he said,

“Oh, here is Miss Crosby’s book. You know her well, I suppose.” I admitted that I was acquainted with such a person and decided to have a little sport.

“And is she not very amiable?” was the next question.

“Oh, no; far from it,” was my reply.

“Well, I am very sorry to hear that,” he said, “but I will take one of her books; and will you please tell her?”

When he was leaving, he handed me his card, and

I learned to my utter astonishment that the visitor was the celebrated Professor Tellcamp of Columbia College. The incident immediately brought to mind the scriptural advice, “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

I never saw Professor Tellcamp again, and I suppose he did not learn of the joke that I played on him. Not long after his visit I entertained a young student of Columbia College under similar circumstances. The superintendent came up to the room, where several of us were enjoying a delightful book, in no mood to be disturbed; and when he called for volunteers to conduct a stranger through the building there was a silence. Finally I said carelessly, “I will take him through, if I like him.” When we were introduced I did indeed like him; and we conversed for more than three hours unconscious of the flight of time. He had bright hopes for future usefulness, and I also had my own dreams, so we compared notes together. We did not meet again until sixty years afterward, but both of us were able to recall the minute details of our conversation on that day. He was Dr. Israel Parsons and became a successful physician in one of the beautiful towns of central New York. After our second meeting, we saw each other yearly for several summers at Assembly Park, until the white-robed angel summoned him to the Celestial City.