Library Collections: Document: Full Text

Oh my dear Augusta, is it possible I am never to read any more? I forgot to bring a volume in raised print from the Institution, but passing one's fingers over the pages of a book is very unlike the glance of the eye. Last summer quite in the verge of autumn, my friend Mrs. Snow came with her ponies to take me riding. We crossed twice the Genesee then pursued its windings, till we came where the sun's rays were turned away by the forest trees; and the sharp quick noise of the carriage wheels, changed to a muffled rumbling; and as we rode slowly over the winding roads, all was so sacredly silent there, the hushed breeze that stirred the leaves seemed the breath of prayer. It was Mount Hope, our beautiful home for the dead; and as we wandered among the tombs and monuments, my fingers read their inscriptions in grooved and raised letters.

"The most beloved of earth not long survive to-day."

My dear Franky lies there, and her darling babe is sleeping by her side; so quick sorrow treads upon the heels of joy. Grave-yards are solemn volumes, in which even the blind may read upon their marble pages the records of hopes all departed. Dear Augusta, mine hour of loneliness is passing now, and I feel reluctant to close this letter as I would an interview with yourself. When the flowers unfold their leaves, and the birds come back again, I shall return to the Institution, and resume my music. There I shall be far, far away from my Rochester friends, who are so kind, so very kind. I often think the world must have grown better since I could see. But, friend of my heart, you will come often to see me, and I shall love you well.

Institution for the Blind,

MY DEAR PARENTS FAR AWAY: -- When I left your cottage home, the sleety winds of early Spring were blowing high, and the Crocuses were hardly yet above the ground. At your little threshold, you kissed me good-by, and I felt your tears warm on my cheeks. You pressed my hands, and father said, God bless you, my child, and I rode away. Words are not feelings, so I can never make you know the strange sensations that nestled in my soul, while I crossed the hills that windy day. Sometimes I fell into mysterious reveries, and fancied my journey home, my stay with you, and my departure, all an unfinished dream, and thought soon to awaken and find it so. Then I changed my position, and tried to open my eyes to see if the morning had not come. Then I heard distinctly the rumbling of the stage wheels, the rattling of the harness, and the tread of the horses, and cracking of the driver's whip, and the frequent passing of farmers' teams; no I said this is real, I am not dreaming. Then I turned my face to the stage window, and felt the biting wind as it whistled by, but all around and above I could see nothing but clouds of folding darkness. Then I sank back, and my spirit reeled beneath the awful weight of conscious blindness, which like a mountain seemed falling on me, and hiding me from the world for ever. Still I did not weep. I have no longer any tears to shed. My heart has known a grief so burning, that dews and moisture never more gather there. Like a seared forest its blossoms are all faded, and its leaves are withered and fallen *****. I remain two weeks by the banks of the Guenaugua.

The night before my departure, some favored ones of Apollo sang under my window that sweetest of songs,

"We will welcome thee back again,"

and another, only one couplet of which I remember,

"'Tis needful we watch thee by day,
But the Angels will keep thee by night."

Professions of love and friendship cost us nothing. Words are wind, and feelings are only natural swellings of the heart; but acts are living things, like facts they are stubborn and everlasting, and good deeds are footsteps in the ladder which reaches heaven. I cannot count the days of my stay at Geneva, for happiness keeps no dial, and always forgets to number the hours. If the scenery of a place ever gives tone to the minds and hearts of its inhabitants, I am sure the beautiful Seneca has lent its look of love to those who dwell by its shore. On their homes may the rains and dews never cease to fall, and the light of health and peace never leave their brows. Eliza read to me nearly two volumes of Littell's Living Age. In one of the back numbers, Father, you will find a review of Swedenborg. I wish you would read it, and write me what you think of it. I send with this a volume of Macaulay's Miscellanies. I know you will be pleased with what he says of the life and times of Milton and Cromwell. But in order to enjoy his reviews generally, one must divest his mind of all prejudice, and harbor only a spirit of liberal Christianity and free toleration, for such is certainly the spirit of the great author. The type is very fine, but I think, by the aid of your new glasses, you will be able to read it. But you must remember, Father, that your physical energies are not what they were twenty, or even ten years ago; besides, eyes both younger and stronger than yours are often materially injured by lamp light. Mary must read for you evenings; that will relieve you and improve her. Nin writes that she has nearly completed the works of Hannah More, and the poems of Mrs. Hemans. Though she may never possess the elegance and varied learning of the one, nor the beautiful genius of the other, still like them both, I hope, she will try to live such a life only as woman should live, adorned by every virtue, and marred by no error. Brother must not think he has completed all of Parley's tales, because he has read one little book through. I do not know how many volumes there are, but they altogether make quite a library, and they contain a vast deal of excellent reading, both for old and young.