Part 9

“FOLLOW that pathway till you come to some arches, and turn under them, and you will find the Blind School,” was the answer given whenever we stopped in our bewildered pilgrimage to inquire: but no arches were visible, save one disreputable old bridge, under which no self-respecting school seemed likely to find shelter; so we went on hopelessly, asking the way from waggoners and countrymen, who all seemed interested in the question, but were unable to give us any guidance. A pitiless hailstorm rattled on our umbrellas and splashed the mud upon our boots: while the path, it was evident, was leading us on towards the river, not the school; so at last in despair we turned, and flying before the storm sought refuge under the despised railway bridge, where a group of children were playing dry and comfortable, while we were wet and muddy. Once again we inquired for the Blind School, and were told to go on. The path led under a succession of iron girders which apparently stand for arches in those regions, and we tramped on discontentedly, feeling we had been deceived, and that we too might have been dry and safe like the children, if only our misinformants had called a spade a spade, and a row of iron girders something else than arches. But the path took a turn, and we saw cottages and green fields, and we reached a house which had two doors, on one of which we read, “Mr. Wallis,” and on the other nothing: so we chanced the second door, knocked, and were soon among a group of children, all neat, healthy, and cheerful—but blind. In this blind school there were but two people who could see, and these were not the only teachers, for here the blind helped the blind, as the rich helped the poor.

For this school began with a blind man. Five years ago, near the banks of the Severn, a cart containing vitriol was overturned; and of four people who were there, only two were left alive, and one of these was blind. Childless and blind, this man had to begin life again—to learn to live in darkness, and in darkness to work for others. For as soon as he had learned to grope his way, he learned to read in the books provided for the blind, and went from village to village to find other blind persons, and teach them how to read also. Then a noble-hearted woman came forward to help him, and founded the school; where blind children are trained to work as well as read, and blind men and women come every day to be taught trades. These latter come daily to the school, groping their way along the path that had been so tedious to our impatience; and learn to work, and also to read, helped sometimes by the teachers, sometimes by the blind man: who also still goes as before, from village to village, teaching and comforting those in the same straits as himself.

We were guided through a back way, intricate and uneven, where our blind guide warned us carefully of every step—though he said the children ran about everywhere and never fell—till we went through the school and entered his little house alongside, and found ourselves in a bright little parlour upstairs, full of books, and tastefully furnished, with a woman’s taste; for the woman who survived the accident which left her childless and crippled, had still the sight of one eye. There was an harmonium in the room, and one of the children came to play it. He was called Abraham; but this old name belonged to an intelligent, bright-faced English lad of twelve, well dressed and handsome but for his sad dim eyes. He is the son of a well-to-do farmer, and in education and intelligence far removed from some of his companions. He handled the harmonium with his small, delicate fingers as only a real musician can, and while the music lasted I nearly forgot all the sadness of the scene, and the hopeless life of the musician and the other children, who, one by one, guided by the sound, crept up the narrow stairs and came noiselessly into the room, and stood listening spell-bound till he finished. “And now, Lizzie, play,” said some one, and a girl came to the harmonium. She knew far less of music than Abraham, and had as yet little execution, but the sweet, true feeling which she gave to the old hymn tunes stirred the heart and brought tears to my eyes. “And would you like to hear us sing the hymn we sang when she was buried?” they asked. For their benefactress and friend, the woman whose untiring energy had begun and carried on this work among them, rousing sympathy for them among her townspeople, and begging for them when her own means were insufficient, died a few weeks ago, and the children of the school had seen her laid in the churchyard. The harmonium was hushed, Lizzie only struck the keynote, and they all sang, as they had all sung at the grave in the cold February morning when they saw her lowered into the cold earth,

“I know there is a land where all is bright,”

and they turned their poor sightless eyes to the light, as if that were to them the symbol of the heaven they longed to reach. It was too sad. The singing ceased, and we all tried to speak of something else. “How did you get that Indian picture?” I asked, looking round, and as the words left my lips, I reproached myself for speaking to one who could not see it, of a thing that could have no present interest to him. But I had made no mistake, as it chanced. “Ay, my brother brought it me,” he answered. “I know what you mean.” “It is painted on ivory, is it not?” “Oh no! this is a picture; my sister wears the one on ivory for a brooch, though it is rather large for that, maybe; but my brother brought them. He was at Agra during the mutiny, and he brought a ball in his shoulder, too, back—that’s what he brought; but I’d forgotten the picture till you mentioned it. But will you hear the children read now? Read the history of England, Abraham.” And Abraham read, opening the book at hazard, and reading clearly and distinctly the death of Cœur de Lion, his forgiveness of his enemy, and his burial in Fontevrault in token of his deep repentance. The children all listened with pleasure till one little one, the pet of the flock, whimpered because “Bessie” did not read; so Bessie, whose fingers were busy with her knitting, was compelled to read, although coming after Abraham it was rather a trying ordeal. Still the pet had to be satisfied, and then every one went on with their straw work, for the funds of the home are dependent on charity or the sale of work, as friends visiting Worcester will do wisely to remember. Straw mats, baskets, and balls were the work of the little ones, and they took the keenest interest in the question whether I preferred blue and white mats, or purple and white. I bought both, and shook hands all round, and in a few minutes was retreading my way towards the broad rolling Severn. Never did I feel how intense the joy of sight was as I did when I stood by its silver stream, and thought of those I had just left in the little house near the railway bridge.

THE FOOTPATH.

OUT at the doorway with shrill delight Ringing, clear of alloy, After a butterfly flashing so white As it wheels and floats in the soft sunlight, He darts, O adventurous joy!

Away! the fields are waving, the wheat Stands proudly over the path, The path winds onward, winning his feet Through avenues arched and shady and sweet,— Sweet vista that childhood hath.

But stay: the butterfly has upflown High in the stainless blue; Under the shadowing wheat alone, He stands and wonders, still as a stone, For all the world is new.

He sees each beautiful stem, blue-green, Standing alone in its grace, Great pendulous poppies aflame between, And little convolvulus climbing to screen That dim forest world from his face.

He sees overhead as they dance to its tune The ears flash white in the wind, But that musical laugh before mid-noon Ripples far and faint in the heat, and soon Leaves silence only behind.

And the silence falls on his fresh young soul, Like the far sound of the sea, Infinite, solemn; its strange control Possesses him quite; quick fancies roll Through his brain; half fearfully

He looks; and the long path seems to strain His tremulous lips apart; Some sudden trouble his eyes sustain; For so the folded blossom of pain Has broke in his childish heart.

What is it?—some swift intuitive glance, Half-shapen only in thought, Of stranger worlds, of wide mischance? Some intimate sense of severance Or loss?—I know not what.

He turns and leaps; for his mother’s arms Out of the doorway lean; She folds him safely from all alarms, And rallies his courage with rhythmical charms,— Yet knows not what he has seen.

FOOTPATH.

ONWARD, where through dewy grass Slowly wading footsteps pass; Where the daisy’s peaceful eye Gazes trustful to the sky; Where the river rippling by Makes scarce heeded harmony With the deep bell’s distant chime, And the wandering waifs of rhyme, Flung at random from the mind, While the thought still lags behind, Held in check by idle musing Born of chance, not wilful choosing. Now, more clear on either side, See the meadows green divide; Clearer lies the path before us; Varied sounds are floating o’er us; All the stirring noise of life, All the ceaseless daily strife; The larger world breaks strongly in Where footpaths end and roads begin.

THE FOOTPATH.

I.

REMEMBER how, the winter through, While all the ways were choked with mire, Half-maddened at the rain, we two Have nestled closer to the fire, And talk’d of all that should be done When April brought us back the sun, What gardens white with butterflies, What soft green nooks of budded heather, What moorlands open to the skies, We two would scour together!

II.

And now the month comes round again! Cool interchange of genial hours, Soft gleams of sunlight, streams of rain, Have starred the meadow-lands with flowers, And in the orchards on the hills The grass is gold with daffodils, And we have wander’d, hand in hand, Where sea below and sky above Seem narrowing to a strip of land The pathway that we love!

III.

Our path looks out on the wide sea, And knows not of the land; we sit For hours in silent reverie, To watch the sea, and pulse with it; Its deep monotonous refrain Brings melancholy, almost pain: We scarcely wish to speak or move, But just to feel each other there, And sense of presence is like love, And silence more than prayer.

IV.

Sharp round the steep hill’s utmost line It winds, and, just below, the grass Sinks with tumultuous incline To where the rock-pools shine like glass; The tufts of thrift can drink their fill Of sea-wind on this rugged hill, And all the herbage, toss’d and blown, Is stain’d with salt and crush’d with wind, Save where behind some boulder-stone A harbour flowers may find.

V.

The bright sea sparkles, sunbeam-kiss’d, And o’er its face such breezes float As lightly turn to amethyst The pearl-grey of a ring-dove’s throat; Thus stirr’d and ruffled, shines anew The radiant plain of changing hue, So gentle, that the eye divines No reason why the foam should fall So loudly, in such serried lines, Against the dark rock-wall.

VI.

The wind is low now; even here, Where all the breezes congregate, The softest warbler need not fear To linger with its downy mate; And here where you have long’d to be So many weeks and months with me, Sit silently, or softly speak Or sing some air of pensive mood, Not loud enough to mar or break This delicate solitude.

VII.

Are we not happy? Sun-lit air, Soft colour, floods of dewy light, A flowery perfume everywhere Pour out their wealth for our delight; Through dreary hours of snow and sleet The hope of these wing’d winter’s feet; We have them now! The very breath Of Nature seems an altar-fire That wakes the bright world’s heart from death To satiate our desire!

VIII.

Sing to me, therefore, sing or speak! Wake my dull heart to happiness; Perchance my pulses are too weak To stir with all this sweet excess! Perhaps the sudden spring has come Too soon, and found my spirit dumb! Howe’er it be, my heart is cold, No echo stirs within my brain, To me, too suddenly grown old, This beauty speaks in vain!

IX.

Why are you silent? Lo! to-day It is not as it once hath been; I cannot sit the old sweet way, Absorbed, contented, and serene; I cannot feel my heart rejoice, I crave the comfort of your voice! Speak, speak! remind me of the past! Let my spent embers at your fire Revive and kindle, till at last Delight surpass desire!

X.

Yea! are you silent, only press My hand, and turn your face away; You wince, too, from the fierce caress That April flings on us to-day? O human heart, too weak to bear The whole fulfilment of a prayer! This sudden summer strikes us dumb; The wild hope, realized, but scares! The substances of dreams become A burden unawares.

XI.

How can we sit here and not thrill With but the pleasure of past time? This footpath winding round the hill Should stir us like remember’d rhyme Nay! for the dull and sluggish brain Is spurred to action all in vain, And when the spirit cannot rise Through natural feeling into light, No perfumed air, no splendid skies, Can lend it wings for flight.

XII.

Come, then, and leave the sovereign sea To sparkle in the laughing air; Another day its face will be No less refulgent, no less fair, And we by custom be made strong To bear what we desired so long; To-day the slackening nerves demand A milder light, a sadder air, Some corner of forgotten land, Still winter-like and bare.

XIII.

Come! leave our pathway for to-day, And turning inland, seek the woods, Where last year’s sombre leaves decay In brown sonorous solitudes; The murmurous voice of those dark trees Will teach us more than sun or seas, And in that twilight we may find Some golden flower of strange perfume, A blossom hidden from the wind, A flame within the tomb.

THE FOOTPATH.

YOU gave your hand to me, as through The low scrub-growth that spanned The Danes’ old tower, we caught anew The sharp salt-burdened breeze that blew Across the reach of sand.

Too proud! the grace you scorned to do, Where scarce your foot could stand;— ’Twas but from sheer fatigue, I knew, You gave your hand!

How well that scene comes back to view! Your cheeks’ faint roses fanned,— The gorge,—the twinkling seaward blue, The black boats on the strand; I gave you all my heart, and you— You gave your hand.

A TURN OF THE TIDE.

ONLY a turn of the tide! I was sitting here, by myself alone On this rock, now hardly three hours agone, With my book on my knees, and my eyes on the sea, And my thoughts still further adrift, when he So suddenly stood by my side.

The sun shone white on the sails, The waves were dimpling and sparkling in light; And I, my visions were almost as bright. But a mist is now creeping along the shore, And I shiver with cold—it is nothing more; If it were—what now avails?

Only one turn of the tide! He told me his love was so deep and strong, That in saying him nay, I did him wrong, That I had not the right his life to break, And before I half knew the words I spake I had promised to be his bride.

I can see his footprints yet; Though the stealthy waves have almost effaced From the sand’s dry bed the track they traced, But I feel as if years had gone over my head, As if I had died, and been raised from the dead, Since those sands were glistening wet.

Only a turn of the tide! Is it always so when our dreams come true? Is the present so grey, and the future so blue? Is the rainbow we chased nought but drizzling mist? And the hope we hugged to our hearts and kiss’d, Delusion, and nought beside?

I had liked him truly for years, I know he is greater and nobler than I, With a larger brain and a clearer eye; That my life is of small account, if it give Him comfort; but shall I, so long as I live, Feel these half-unreasoning fears?

Ah me! one turn of the tide! This morning I was a careless child, So gay, so petted, so thoughtless and wild; I’m content with my fate, but one more year Of freedom would have been very dear. Was it I, or the wind that sigh’d?

I thought so—here comes the rain, The mist grows dense, and the clouds gather fast, And the tide has covered the sands at last; I must hasten, and think of regrets no more, But—could all things be as they were before, I would not promise again.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

FAR up the shingle crept the cruel wave, With seeming coy reluctance to his feet, Which—faint with toiling in the noonday heat— He let his foe with flattering murmur lave, Nor sought to flee the cool and pleasant grave Its soft arms laid about him, nor to cheat The patient billow of its victim meet, For he had lost all power himself to save. When, while he waited, thinking death was slow, Eyesight and hearing dim with tired despair, The whisper of the sea grew faint and low, And, waked by stirring of the evening air, He rose, and saw the waves in sunset glow, Gleaming far off in beauty new and rare.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

I.

THE harbour lights are dim with smoke Which hangs about the under sky, And wraps the simple fisher-folk In lurid mist as they go by. Along the shore the wind blows free, Keen twilight kisses the wan sea Far out; steer thither, watch with me The tender stars come out on high.

II.

The sky is deepening overhead: The sail flaps loose: the wind has died: The water laps the boat like lead: Faint ripples plash against the side, And shimmer with unearthly light, The harbour lamps are out of sight; We drift into a starless night Together on the ebbing tide.

III.

How still—how strange—the tide is slack, We eddy round—we drift no more. What swell is this which sweeps us back To where the gathering breakers roar? About the pale unlighted land? Can any tell if we shall stand Safe in the morning hand in hand Upon the steep and rock-bound shore?

COMPROMISE.

“COME, promise, dear,” I whispered low, “That you will take my name.” I never said I’d give it, but They swore ’twas all the same.

They brought an action to extort Four thousand pounds from me— The Judge said “compromise,” and so I had to give her three.

By my hard fate, unwary youth, Take warning, and be wise: Once with “_come promise_” you begin, The end is _compromise_.

FAREWELL.

FAR through the vista of receding years I dimly catch a glimpse through falling tears, Of faces bending o’er some pictured glory Or—brightly list’ning to some magic story, Told by a gifted wielder of the Pen Whose power and pathos touch’d the hearts of men. But when the pathos ’gan to sadden all, A comic writer would our smiles recall: And by his clever travesty and fable Excite a merry laughter round the table. Then some philosopher with voice sonorous Would read an essay—not too long, to bore us. The papers read, around the board we press’d, To scan the pictures of each artist-guest. Then to discussion of a slight repast Of fish and rolls, and velvet cream we’d haste, Ere Pens and Pencils all would speed away, To meet again some happy future day. That day, alas! has pass’d, the night has come, And witty Pens and Pencils all are dumb.

FOOTNOTES

{43} Although Mazzini was not a member of Pen and Pencil, he wrote this letter at the request of the President.