Summer Vacations
‘N the summer of 1842 it was decided that about twenty of our pupils, accompanied by a few of the Board of Managers, should make a tour into the central part of the state, with the purpose of showing the public to what extent the blind could be educated; and also to induce parents to send their children to our school. This journey took us by way of the “raging canal”; and travel by water before 1850 was very popular. The Erie suited our purpose very well; for we could charter a boat, and tie it up at any town along the way until we were ready to proceed on the following morning, after the exhibition the night before in the town-hall. So we had a veritable moving “hotel” at our service.
A few slight inconveniences in our accommodations did not in the least dishearten us, as the novelty of the trip by water made up for whatever household articles were lacking. We had one wash-basin for twenty-three faces; and there was much rivalry in the morning to see who would be the first to get the basin. In the beginning of our journey the captain of our boat did not appreciate some of our practical jokes; before many days had passed, however, we became better acquainted, and then he could not do enough for our comfort.
Whenever we stopped at a town scores of curious visitors came to visit us at our “hotel”; consequently by evening the news of our arrival had been so noised abroad that the town-hall was usually well filled for our evening exhibition. The program usually included an address of welcome to us, delivered by some clergyman or other representative citizen. At Little Falls the duty of introducing us fell to a lawyer, who referred eloquently to our visit and to the grand act of the Legislature of the state in “instituting such a wonderful Institution” as ours in New York City. This became a favorite phrase at our floating hotel.
My beloved teacher, Mr. Hamilton Murray, used to introduce me in a beautiful manner; but, when he was absent, his namesake, Mr. Robert I. Murray, always, without one single variation, used the following form, — “This young woman will now repeat a piece of her own composition. It has never been revised or corrected by any of the managers we know of.” There was a perceptible titter among the audience whenever this form of introduction was used, but Mr. Murray thought it very strange that I did not like his method.
“Thee wants Hamilton Murray to introduce thee,” he would often say, and I always replied,
“Yes, Mr. Murray, I do.”
The pupils’ part of the program consisted in reading from the raised letters, geography, history, arithmetic and singing, and last of all came my poetical address. Skeptical members of the audience often sent involved sentences to the platform to be parsed. At Schenectady someone sent up the following passage from Pope’s “Universal Prayer”:
“What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do,
This, teach me more than hell to shun,
That, more than heaven pursue.”
There was a flurry behind the scenes. Some of the managers said that I ought not to try to parse it; but Mr. Murray urged me on; and so I went out upon the platform. The sentence was read: I had never heard it before and for a few moments was completely confused. I suppose the managers thought “I told you so.” I began by saying “’ what’ is an interjection,” but I realized at once that I had made a mistake, and, forgetting that there was a single person present besides Mr. Murray, I cried, “No it isn’t any such thing; wait a minute and I will tell you what it is.” The audience laughed and, of course, added to my confusion, but, after thinking a few moments, I transposed the sentence correctly, and then was able to parse it without any trouble. When the program was finished, a gentleman came up to me, spoke kindly of my success in being able to unravel the knotty syntax of Pope’s lines, and then placed a five-dollar gold piece in my hand. Before I could inquire his name he had vanished, but I always thought that he was a teacher in Union College.
A restless mortal like myself had to be doing something continually while we were away on these long journeys. One morning we stopped at a town near which the grandmother of one of our pupils lived; so he and I thought it would be a capital idea to make the matron of our children believe that the old lady had come to visit him. Mr. Murray had taught me to disguise my voice so well that the matron was completely deceived. When we knew that she had retired to take her usual afternoon nap, we stationed ourselves where she could overhear what was said. “O Charlie, you had your grandmother to see you,” said the matron when she came out; and we managed to restrain our mirth, until later in the day we could keep the secret no longer.
While we were passing through the lovely valley in which the Mohawk River flows, one of the teachers asked me to sing Tom Moore’s “Meeting of the Waters”; and Mr. Chamberlain described the beautiful scenery that lay on every hand, and I changed the first line of the Irish bard’s poem
“Sweet vale of Avoka,”
into
“Sweet vale of the Mohawk,”
and then continued the quotation
“How calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade with the friend I love best,
Where the storms which we feel in this cold world shall
cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”
At last we arrived at Niagara where Nature has composed her mightiest poem. The grandeur of the surroundings inspired within my heart a reverence such as nothing else in the world has ever awakened; and when we again visited the enchanted spot in the following summer my joy was increased. I could picture it all in my imagination. Across the gorge were the woods and fields of the Canadian shore; almost at our feet was that tremendous mass of water plunging directly downward and dashing itself on the rocks one hundred and sixty feet below; and above the falls hung a delicate mist in the sunlight that reflected the countless colors of both earth and sky. While I stood there, completely lost amid the marvellous works of God, Mr. Murray requested me to repeat a poem that had been composed during the previous summer; and while I said over my humble lines we lifted our hearts in thankfulness to the kind Father of us all,
‘’Who spread’st the azure vault above,
Whose hand controls the boisterous sea.”
At evening we went down to Lewiston and from there crossed to the Canadian shore to visit the beautiful city of Toronto. Once again during this trip, as during the return journey from New York, I saw some of the colors of the golden sunlight glowing on the waters.
After the summer vacation of 1843 my health began to decline to such an extent that my teachers became alarmed. They were not aware that most of the nights in the previous spring did not find me in bed until twelve, sometimes two o’clock; and when we returned from the trip through central New York I renewed my midnight vigils with the inevitable result: my strength gradually failed. It was not many weeks, however, before the cause of my trouble became known to Dr. Clements. At first he said that I must not work out of school hours; then he refused to allow me to hear any classes; and finally decided to send me into the country to rest awhile during the summer of 1844.
Meanwhile I had been working on my book, and it was issued just before the final mandate not to do any work at all. As a preliminary to publishing a volume of poems, they told me I must have my daguerreotype taken for the frontispiece. In those days no less than four minutes were required for an exposure; and the idea that I, the restless Fanny Crosby, as they all knew me, would be obliged to sit still so long, — well that was indeed very funny. As a result I burst into a laugh right in the midst of my “sitting”; and, of course, spoiled a plate for the photographer. Then the tedious process began again; a veritable inquisition it was for me, but finally I endured to the length of five whole minutes and secured a fine picture.
It was with great reluctance that I consented to have my poems published; for I realized only too well that they were unfinished productions; and I hoped to improve upon them in time. But a few of the teachers and managers at the Institution would not take no for an answer; and, consequently, the work went forward. Mr. Hamilton Murray wrote the introduction and Dr.
J. W. G. Clements did the compiling, which was all the more kind of him since he had a large practice and could spare but a moment now and then to listen to my dictation.
Many of the verses in “The Blind Girl and Other Poems” were autobiographic, such, for instance, as the opening lines of the book:
“Her home was near an ancient wood,
Where many an oak gigantic stood;
And fragrant flowers of every hue
In that sequestered valley grew.
“A church there reared its little spire,
And in their neat and plain attire,
The humble farmers would repair
On Sabbath morn to worship there.”
My schoolmates were also pictured:
“With their laugh the woodland rang,
Or if some rustic air they sang,
These rural notes of music sweet
The woodland echoes would repeat.”
But the labor in publishing a book was too great for my strength; and when I went into the country in the summer of 1844, many of my companions thought that they were certainly bidding me good-bye for the last time. Dr. Clements also feared that my health would not improve; he said that I needed rest and petting more than medicine; and when I was ready to start for home he said, “Can you get plenty of pure milk at your mother’s home?” I assured him that I could; and he added,
“Well, drink as much as you can.” His good advice was followed and at the beginning of the next term I returned to the Institution in perfect health.
Four years after I first went to New York a little sister came to gladden our home, but the angel of death soon called her away to that other home above. The letter that I wrote to my mother and my step-father enclosing a poem, is still preserved as it was originally copied by Mr. Chamberlain. Concerning the death of my little sister, I said: “The impression that her death has made upon my mind is a deep one; but this event teaches me a lesson, which, I trust, I never shall forget. Once I looked forward to future years, when she would be not only a comfort to you but also to myself; but these fond hopes are blighted. Let us not repine, but cheerfully submit to the will of Heaven.”
The poem that I sent to mother is as follows:
“She’s gone, ah yes, her lovely form
Too soon has ceased to bloom,
An emblem of the fragile flower
That blossoms for the tomb.
“Yet, mother, check that starting tear,
That trembles in thine eye;
And thou, kind father, cease to mourn,
Suppress that heaving sigh.
THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
A3TJK, LSKOX,
TIl.DKN KOlJNO*T!
“She’s gone, and thou, dear aunt, no more
Wilt watch her cradle bed,
She slumbers in the peaceful tomb,
But weep not for the dead.
“Kind uncle, thou art grieving too,
Thy tears in thought I see;
Ah, never will her infant hand
Be stretched again to thee.
“She’s gone, yet why should we repine,
Our darling is at rest;
Her cherub spirit now reclines
On her Redeemer’s breast.”
Sometimes two or three of my associates would accompany me when I went home for the summer vacation; and mother liked them to come as often as possible for she loved the society of young people. A humorous incident happened during one of these visits that is good enough to relate here. Among my friends came a young man who wore a wig, but mother did not know it; and one evening, when there were several present, he complained of a severe cold in his head.
“0 1 think I can cure that,” said my mother. He replied,
“Never mind; I’ll get over it.” But she was evidently bent upon working a cure; and despite the remonstrance of the young man, proceeded to rub some salt on his scalp, whereupon the fact of the wig became known to the company. The young man was considerably embarrassed; and mother of course heartily wished she had let him alone.
My two little sisters were always in ecstasy whenever I came home. They saved up their pennies for weeks that they might buy me some sweetmeats. And such chattering: there was so much important news to be told and so many questions, on both sides, that required immediate answers. Too soon would come the end of these summer outings; and my heart always trembled when the hour of parting arrived; for I could hear in the distance, as the carriage bore me away, the plaintive voices crying, “Fanny, Fanny, come back!” More than once the old homesickness returned; and I was again sorely tempted to turn back from the journey to New York.
But it is a rare blessing that these dear sisters have been spared, so that the reality of the present is no less gracious than the memory of the past. The days of childhood are recalled as a benediction; and the daily ministry of the present is a true manifestation of the love between those who are near and dear to me.
While our precious mother lived, her birthdays were occasions of festive gatherings; and almost yearly I wrote her a poem. That which was written for her eighty-second birthday follows:
‘How pleasant to look on a brow like hers,
With hardly a trace of care;
How cheerful the light of her beaming eye,
As she sits in her easy chair.
“So little the change in her dear, kind face We scarce can believe it true That she numbers today her four score years, Her four score years and two.
“Her winter of age, though the snowflake3 fell,
Has never been dark and drear,
She moves with the vigor of younger feet,
And her mind is bright and clear.
“She merrily talks of the olden time,
Of the friends in youth she knew;
She is sprightly and gay, though she numbers today
Her four score years and two.
“And now as we come with our birthday gifts, When she views them o’er and o’er, And the earnest God bless you, my children dear, Is breathed from her lips once more.
“We think how devoted our mother’s love,
What a sunshine of joy she gives,
And we feel as we tenderly kiss her cheek,
What a comfort that still she lives 1”