Farrow writes:

If the manager of the Agricultural Hall had given us a better position in the body of the hall no doubt we should have done more than we did. The sales amounted to about 110. The donation boxes yielded 15. The cost of the undertaking about 29. The profits of the sale and [contents of] boxes included came to 50, leaving a balance of 21. I superintended the arrangements of the benches as two years ago. The workpeople who represented the different branches are as follows.... I visited the hall several times for the purpose of examining the machinery, to see if there was anything to be learnt for the benefit of the a.s.sociation.... This year we have the whole of the work of the L. S. W. Railway, and we have also obtained that of St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington. For the future I will not send in any tender unless I see the samples first, as it was often done before without my seeing them.

This blind man who "examined the machinery" and must "see the samples"

is one after Bessie's own heart, and there was always a merry laugh of approval when she spoke of his letters.

A conference was held at York in 1883 on the condition of the blind. It was followed in 1884 by a meeting at Sheffield on the same subject, and presided over by Lord Wharncliffe.

Bessie had, at Lord Wharncliffe's request, furnished suggestions and information. He writes as follows:

WORTLEY HALL, SHEFFIELD, _12th January 1884_.

MADAM--I have taken the liberty of sending to you a copy of the _Sheffield Daily Telegraph_ containing the report of our meeting on Thursday last, and have to express to you my warm thanks for the kindness with which you answered my letter, and for the valuable suggestions contained in your reply. I can only hope that you will be interested with the report of our proceedings, and will approve of what was then said.--I remain, yrs. faithfully, WHARNCLIFFE.

Miss Gilbert.

The paper of suggestions referred to, travels over much of the ground familiar to Bessie for so many years, and never, as she thought, adequately explored by those who were working for the blind.

She writes to Lord Wharncliffe:

"It is almost impossible for a blind man, singlehanded, to cope with all the difficulties with which he has to contend, and the result has often been begging or the workhouse. Happily there are many more industrial inst.i.tutions than there were."

One can imagine with what a thrill of satisfaction she would write this, as she remembered the little cellar in Holborn and the humble origin of all her subsequent work. She continues:

It would be most desirable that the ordinary schools and such inst.i.tutions should play into one another's hands, so as to shorten as far as possible the interval between the pupils leaving [school]

and their being employed. Sometimes the blind might be taught some special branch of a trade, and might perhaps even be employed by masters among their sighted workpeople. This would answer the double purpose of lightening the work of the Inst.i.tution, and also of drawing attention to the blind and to what they are able to do, which is a very important point.

As industrial inst.i.tutions must depend to a very great extent upon custom for their support, it is well to bear in mind that some persons without sight can both help themselves and the inst.i.tution employing them by acting as travellers. People are often very much interested by this means, and look forward to the regular recurring calls of the blind travellers. Besides which it saves people trouble in dealing with an inst.i.tution if they happen to live at some distance.

It is almost needless to say that all the capabilities of the blind should be brought out as much as possible, as the more this is done and the more their highest interests are cared for, the more will their whole condition be elevated and improved. The problem of enabling the blind to earn their own living is by no means an easy one, and is well worthy of the attention of loving hearts and wise intellects for its solution.

The whole tone of these wise and thoughtful remarks shows that Bessie had never lost touch with her work. Her interest is as fresh, her expectation as vigorous as ever. She throws out a new suggestion--that of the employment of the blind in special branches of a trade--which may even yet bear fruit. She pleads for "the elevation of the whole condition of the blind," in contradistinction to the administration of charitable doles to degrade them. She had a wide experience of both systems, and could now speak with authority. The letter indeed marks a recrudescence, and has a ring of hope about it. It is not the utterance of one who speaks on the other side of a closed door. You feel that the door is open and she may enter and resume work. There was, in fact, throughout 1884 an indefinable improvement and amelioration in her condition which led her, not perhaps to hope, but to entertain a thought of the possibility of such a measure of recovery as might once more enable her to take an active share in the work of the Inst.i.tution. It is not likely that this expectation was entertained either by her doctors or nurses; but Bessie had a distinct feeling that a change, an improvement, was before her. "Would it not be wonderful," she said to the present writer in the early summer of 1884, "if I should recover?"

And in reply to a question suggested by this remark, she added, "I feel as if there would be a change."

CHAPTER XXII

TWILIGHT

"The n.o.ble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful images it retains of beings pa.s.sed away; and so is the n.o.ble mind."

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Fifteen years of suffering had left Bessie Gilbert unchanged as to the aims and work of her life. Long lonely hours of thought had shown her the need that the blind have of help and sympathy, the impossibility of independence and self-supporting work for them unless through the active charity of individuals and the co-operation of the State.

And it was the "General Welfare of the Blind" that engrossed her, and not merely their trades. She knew, no one better, how much need they have of resources from within, the pleasures of memory, the courage given by hope and aspiration. Her long years of illness enlarged her ideas of what could be done and ought to be done for them. She contrasted her own condition with that of the poor and untaught, and forgave them all their faults when she remembered their sad state.

Bessie had been carefully prepared for the inevitable solitude of her lot. Her mind was richly stored and her memory so carefully trained, that it seemed to allow no escape of anything that interested her.

During the long weary days and nights of illness, when deafness isolated her even more than blindness, she would go over the whole story of a book read to her years before. She would recall the symphonies and sonatas she had listened to in early days, and find exceeding great enjoyment in the memory of her music. Indeed, towards the end she had but little pleasure in music heard through the outward ear, for her nerves were not able to endure the shock of a sudden or unexpected outburst of sound. But the music which she could call from out the chambers of memory was soft and tender, and its most impa.s.sioned pa.s.sages gave her no pain. The soul of the music spoke to her soul, and silence brought to her the rapture of spiritual communion.

In early youth she had been accustomed, in the daily family prayers, to read in turn her verse of the Lessons and the Psalms. In later years she always read them to herself or had them read aloud to her. During her illness she scarcely ever failed to hear them; and the evening Psalms ended her day. She knew very many of the Psalms by heart, and "specially delighted in the glorious ascriptions of praise and thanksgiving in those for the thirtieth evening of the month." She liked to think that every month and every year at its close was accompanied by praise and thanksgiving. "It pleased and touched her greatly," writes her sister N., "that in the New Lectionary the miracle of restoring sight to the two blind men at Jericho, came as the second lesson for the evening of her birthday, 7th August.

"One of her most favourite verses in the Psalms was, 'Thou hast given me the defence of thy salvation. Thy right hand also shall hold me up, and thy loving correction shall make me great.'"

Two poems from the _Lyra Germanica_ gave her constant comfort, and were in her heart and on her lips. She found in them the embodiment of her faith, and could use them not only as expressing her own feelings, but as bringing comfort and help, because they were the utterance of the ardent faith and devotion of others.

These two hymns really open to us the inner life of Bessie Gilbert. They show from whence she derived the strength and courage that supported her in the efforts and trials of her early life, and they reveal the source of the patient endurance of fifteen years of isolation and suffering.

Pa.s.sION WEEK.[9]

I.

IN THE GARDEN.

Whene'er again thou sinkest, My heart, beneath thy load, Or from the battle shrinkest, And murmurest at thy G.o.d; Then will I lead thee hither, To watch thy Saviour's prayer, And learn from His endurance How thou shouldst also bear.

Oh come, wouldst thou be like Him, Thy Lord Divine, and mark What sharpest sorrows strike Him, What anguish deep and dark,-- That earnest cry to spare Him, The trial scarce begun?

Yet still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Oh wherefore doth His spirit Such bitter conflict know?

What sins, what crimes could merit Such deep and awful woe?

So pure are not the heavens, So clear the noonday sun, And yet He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Oh mark that night of sorrow, That agony of prayer; No friend can watch till morrow His grief to soothe and share; Oh where shall He find comfort?

With G.o.d, with G.o.d alone, And still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Hath life for Him no gladness, No joy the light of day?

Can He then feel no sadness, When heart and hope give way?

That cup of mortal anguish One bitter cry hath won, That it might pa.s.s: "Yet, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!"

And who the cup prepared Him, And who the poison gave?

'Twas one He loved ensnared Him, 'Twas those He came to save.

Oh sharpest pain, to suffer Betray'd and mock'd--alone; Yet still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!"

But what is joy or living, What treachery or death, When all His work, His striving, Seems hanging on His breath?

Oh can it stand without Him, That work but just begun?

Yet still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!"

He speaks; no more He shrinketh, Himself He offers up; He sees it all, yet drinketh For us that bitter cup, He goes to meet the traitor, The cross He will not shun,-- He saith: "I come, My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!"