Silent People

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Title:     Silent People
Author: Lydia H. Sigourney [More Titles by Sigourney]

It was supposed in ancient times, that those who were deprived of hearing and speech, were shut out from knowledge. The ear was considered as the only avenue to the mind. One of the early classic poets has said.

"To instruct the deaf, no art could ever reach,
No care improve them, and no wisdom teach."

But the benevolence of our own days has achieved this difficult work. Asylums for the education of mute children are multiplying among us, and men of talents and learning labour to discover the best modes of adding to their dialect of pantomime the power of written language. The neighbourhood of one of these Institutions has furnished the opportunity of knowing the progress of many interesting pupils of that class. Their ideas, especially on religious subjects, are generally very confused at their arrival there, even when much care has been bestowed upon them at home.

A little deaf and dumb boy, who had the misfortune early to lose his father, received tender care and love from his mother and a younger sister, with whom it was his chief delight to play, from morning till night. After a few years, the village where they resided was visited with a dangerous fever, and this family all lay sick at the same time. The mother and daughter died, but the poor little deaf and dumb orphan recovered. He had an aged grandmother who took him to her home, and seemed to love him better for his infirmities. She fed him carefully, and laid him in his bed with tenderness; and in her lonely situation, he was all the world to her. Every day she laboured to understand his signs, and to communicate some new idea to his imprisoned mind. She endeavoured to instruct him that there was a Great Being, who caused the sun to shine, and the grass to grow; who sent forth the lightning and the rain, and was the Maker of man and beast. She taught him the three letters G O and D; and when he saw in a book this name of the Almighty, he was accustomed to bow down his head with the deepest reverence. But when she sought to inform him that he had a soul, accountable, and immortal when the body died, she was grieved that he seemed not to comprehend her. The little silent boy loved his kind grandmother, and would sit for hours looking earnestly in her wrinkled face, smiling, and endeavouring to sustain the conversation. He was anxious to perform any service for her that might testify his affection; he would fly to pick up her knitting-bag or her snuff-box when they fell, and traverse the neighbouring meadows and woods, to gather such flowers and plants as pleased her. Yet he was sometimes pensive and wept; she knew not why. She supposed he might be grieving for the relatives he had lost, and redoubled her marks of tenderness. She often perused with great interest, accounts of the intelligence and happiness of the deaf and dumb, who enjoy a system of education, adapted to their necessities, and thought if any thing could separate her from her beloved charge, it would be that he might share such an inestimable privilege.

At length, the eyes of this benevolent lady grew dim through age, and when the little suppliant, by his dialect of gestures, besought her attention, she was unable to distinguish the movements of his hands, or scarcely the form of his features. It was then her earnest request that he might be placed at the American Asylum in Hartford, for the education of the deaf and dumb. There, when his first regrets at separation had subsided, he began to make rapid improvement. He became attached to his companions and teachers, and both in his studies and sports, was happy. When he had nearly completed the period allotted for a full course of instruction, a conversation like the following took place one evening, between him and a preceptor whom he loved:

"I have frequently desired to ask what were some of your opinions, before you became a pupil in this Institution. What, for instance, were your ideas of the sun and moon?"

"I supposed that the sun was a king and a warrior, who ruled over, and slew the people, as he pleased. When I saw brightness in the west, at closing day, I thought it was the flame and smoke of cities which he had destroyed in his wrath. The moon, I much disliked. I considered her prying and officious, because she looked into my chamber when I wished to sleep. One evening, I walked in the garden, and the half-moon seemed to follow me. I sought the shade of some large trees, but found she was there before me. I turned to go into the house, and advised her not to come, because I hated her. But when I lay down in my bed, she was there. I arose and closed the blinds. Still there were crevices through which she peeped. I bade her go away, and wept with passion, because she disregarded my wishes. I suspected that she gazed at me, more than at others, because I was deaf and dumb, and that she would tell strangers of it, for I felt ashamed of being different from other children."

"What did you think of the stars?"

"They were more agreeable to me. I imagined that they were fair and well-dressed ladies, who gave brilliant parties in the sky; and that they sometimes rode for amusement, on beautiful horses, carrying large candles in their hands."

"Had you any conception of death?"

"When my little sister died, I wondered why she lay still so long. I thought she was lazy to be sleeping when the sun had arisen. I gathered violets, and threw them in her face, and said in my dialect of signs, "Wake up; wake up!" And I was displeased at her, and went so far as to say, "What a fool you are!" when she permitted them to put her in a box, and carry her away, instead of getting up to play with me.

"Afterwards, when my mother died, they told me repeatedly, that she was dead, dead; and tried to explain to me what death meant. But I was distressed when I asked her for bread, that she did not give it to me; and when she was buried, I went every day where they had laid her, waiting, and expecting that she would rise. Sometimes I grew impatient, and rolled upon the turf that covered her, striking my forehead against it, weeping and saying, "Mother, get up! get up! why do you sleep there so long with the child? I am sick, and hungry, and alone. Oh, Mother! mother! get up!" When I was taken to my grandmother's house, I could no longer visit the grave, and it grieved me; for I believed if I continued to go and cry there, she would at length hear me and come up."

"I know that more pains were taken to instil religious principles into your mind, than are commonly bestowed upon the deaf and dumb. Will you tell me what was your opinion of the Supreme Being?"

"My kind grandmother laboured without ceasing, to impress me with reverence for the Almighty. Through her efforts I obtained some idea of the power and goodness which are visible in creation; but of HIM, who wrought in the storm and in the sunshine, I was doubtful whether it were a strong man, a huge animal, or a vast machine. I was in all the ignorance of heathen sin, until by patient attendance on your judicious course of instruction, knowledge entered into my soul."

He then expressed to his teacher, the gratitude he felt for the blessings of education, and affectionately wishing him a good night, retired to repose.

Instances of the development of kind affections and religious hopes, are often touchingly displayed among the children who share in the privation of hearing and speech. This was peculiarly the case with two little silent sisters, beautiful in person and of gentle dispositions. Their names were Phebe and Frances Hammond. The eldest was a very fair, interesting child. She was deaf and dumb from her birth, but from infancy showed quick perceptions and a lively attention to every object that passed before the eye. She seemed perfectly happy, when the little sister, two and a half years younger, and like herself mute, was old enough to play with her. She would lead her with the greatest gentleness, keeping watch lest she should get hurt, with a tender, continual care. When they were permitted to amuse themselves out of doors, if she saw any thing approaching which she feared, she thought not of herself, but encircled the little one in her arms, and by cries sought for her relief and protection. If they wished to climb a fence, she would proceed at first, alone, trying every part, to be sure of its safety, ere she returned to aid her darling sister, keeping a firm hold on her as she ascended, and jumping over on the other side, to extend her little arm and lift her tenderly down. It was a touching sight, to view these silent children, at their healthful sports upon the smooth green lawn, or beneath the shade of spreading trees, supplying as it were, the deficiency of Nature, by an increased exercise of the sweetest, most sustaining affections.

Ere long, they expressed their desire to attend school, that they might "learn to do, like other children." Here they were very diligent, and by great attention from the instructress were taught to sew, to write, and to spell many words. Visitants of the school expressed surprise at the neatness of their needle-work, and chirography.

When they were brought by their father, from their home in Massachusetts, to the Asylum for the deaf and dumb, in Hartford, Phebe was ten, and Frances seven and a half years old. There was at that time a regulation in force, that no pupil under the age of ten years, could be received, being supposed unable to derive full benefit from their system of instruction.

Yet these little silent sisters, who had been together night and day, whose features and garb were the same, the smile or the sadness of one face being suddenly reflected on the other, as if but one soul animated two bodies, how could they be parted? The idea of a separate existence, a divided pleasure, had never entered their minds. Now, they gazed on each other with an expression of the deepest anguish. They folded each other in their arms. No power of speech was so eloquent as their imploring looks. The law relaxed its prohibition in their case. They were permitted to remain together.

Phebe took her seat immediately among the one hundred and forty pupils, forgetting in her desire to learn, the embarrassment of a stranger. Little Frances was more diffident, and clung to her as to a mother, never for a moment disappointed in finding the tenderest sympathy and love. Soon they became cheerful and happy. Their affectionate hearts were open to every innocent pleasure. Though the youngest in school, they were so docile and industrious as to obtain a rank among the best scholars; and when the lessons of each day were over, they comforted themselves with their sweet, sisterly love. If one received the simplest gift, it was instantly shared; if it could not be divided it was considered as the property of both.

Phebe taught the little one to keep her clothes without spot or stain, and to put every article in its proper place. She led her by the hand wherever she went, and if there was a tear on her cheek she kissed it away. Little Frances looked up to her, with the most endearing and perfect confidence. When they went home, at the vacations in spring and autumn, the affectionate deportment of these beautiful mute children, and their progress in the dialect of signs, as well as in written speech, was admired by all. After they had enjoyed the benefit of instruction somewhat more than two years, Phebe was observed to have a slight cough, and being taken ill, was obliged to return to her parents. Symptoms of consumption were too plainly revealed to be mistaken. As she became more emaciated and feeble, she desired to be carried every day at a certain hour, into an unoccupied room, and left for a while, by herself. On being asked why she wished this, she answered that she might better lift up her thoughts to Him who heareth prayer.

"In heaven," she said, "there are babes, and children, and persons of every age. I think I have seen this in my mind, in a bright dream. I am so weak, I shall die. I pray that I may go to heaven. Oh! I wish Frances to love God. She is my good sister."

She was asked if it was her wish to live and be restored to health. She replied,

"No, I would see Jesus."

So, in quietness and peace, the voiceless spirit of the loving child departed, to rejoice, we trust, amid the melodies of heaven. Sweet, sisterly affection seemed to have been her principal solace, here below. And if it was capable of imparting such happiness to these deaf mutes, surely the children who are blessed with hearing and speech, might still more fully enjoy, and exemplify it. All who have brothers and sisters should perform their duty tenderly towards them, with constant gratitude to Him who has vouchsafed them the comfort of such relations.

Any little departure from kindness, will cause painful remembrances in a time of bereavement. A boy was seen often at the grave of a brother, younger than himself. He hid his face upon the grassy mound and wept bitterly. A friend who once saw him there, said, "How much you loved your brother." But he replied through his tears, "My grief is because I did not love him more."

We have spoken of silent people. I can tell you of one who suffers a still heavier calamity. At the same Institution for the deaf and dumb, is a girl, to whom noonday and midnight are the same, who takes no pleasure in the summer landscape or the fair changes of nature, hears not the sound of brooks bursting loose in spring, nor the song of birds, nor the laughter of the young child, neither looks upon the face of mother or of friend. She is not only deaf and dumb, but blind. Her name is Julia Brace. Her earliest years were spent in the home of her parents, who were poor, and had several younger children. Of all their movements she was observant, as far as her state would allow; and when the weather was cold, would sometimes kneel on the floor of their humble dwelling, to feel if their little feet were naked as well as her own. If she ascertained that others, and not herself, were furnished with shoes and stockings, she would express uneasiness at the contrast. Her perception, with regard to articles of dress, was more accurate than could have been expected, and when any gifts were presented her, soon ascertained and preferred those which were of the most delicate texture. Seated on her little block, weaving thin strips of bark with bits of leather, which her father who was a shoemaker threw away, she constructed for her cat, strange bonnets, or other ornaments, equally rude, and yet not wholly discordant with the principles of taste.

Sometimes, when the mother went out to a day's work of washing, she left Julia, notwithstanding her peculiar helplessness, with the care of the younger children. On such occasions, she evinced more of maternal solicitude, and even of skill in domestic legislation than could have been rationally expected.

Once, when a dish had been broken, she imitated what she supposed might be her mother's discipline, and shook the little careless offender with some force. Then placing her hand upon its eyes, and discovering that it wept, and considering the act of discipline complete, she hastened to take it in her arms and press it to her bosom, and by preserving tenderness, soothe it into good-humour and confidence.

While yet a child, her parents were relieved from the expense of her maintenance, by some charitable ladies, who placed her in the family of an elderly matron who kept a small day-school. Her curiosity was now called forth into great activity, to search out the employments of the scholars, and try to imitate them. She observed that much of their time was occupied with books. So she held a book long before her own sightless eyes. But no knowledge visited her imprisoned mind. Then, she held an open book before the face of her favourite kitten, feeling its mouth at the same time, and perceiving that its lips did not move, shook its shoulder and rapped its ear, to quicken its imitation of the studious children.

Trifling as these circumstances are in themselves, they show perception, and perseverance, struggling against the barriers that Nature had interposed. Needle-work and knitting had been taught her, and from these employments she drew her principal solace. With these she would busy herself for hours, until it became necessary to prompt her to the exercise that health required. Counterpanes, patiently constructed by her, of small pieces of calico, were sold to aid in supplying her wardrobe, and specimens of her work were distributed by her patrons, to prove of what nicety and industry the poor, blind, and silent girl was capable.

It was sometimes an amusement to her visitants to give into her hand their watches, and test a peculiar sagacity which she possessed, in restoring each to its owner. Though their position with regard to her, or to each other, was frequently and studiously varied, and though she might hold at the same time, two or three watches, neither stratagem nor persuasion could induce her to yield either, except to the person from whom she received it. This tenacity of principle, to give every one his own, might be resolved into that moral honesty which has ever formed a conspicuous part of her character. Though nurtured in poverty, and after her removal from the parental roof, in the constant habit of being in contact with articles of dress or food which strongly tempted her desires, she has never been known to appropriate to herself, without permission, the most trifling object. In a well-educated child, this might be no remarkable virtue; but in one, whose sealed ear can receive no explanation of the rights of property, and whose perfect blindness must often render it difficult even to define them, the incorruptible firmness of this innate principle is truly laudable. There is also connected with it a delicacy of feeling, or scrupulousness of conscience, which renders it necessary, in presenting her any gift, to assure her repeatedly, by a sign which she understands, that it is for her, ere she will consent to accept it.

After her admission into the Asylum for the deaf and dumb, in Hartford, her native place, efforts were made by one of the benevolent instructors in that Institution to teach her the alphabet. For this purpose raised letters, as well as those indented beneath a smooth surface, were put in requisition. Punctually she repaired to the school-room, with the seeing pupils, and spent hour after hour in imitating with pins upon a cushion, the forms of each separate letter. But all in vain. However accurate her delineations might sometimes be, they conveyed no idea to the mind, sitting in thick darkness. It was therefore deemed best that it should pursue those occupations which more immediately ministered to its comfort and satisfaction.

It has been observed that persons who are deprived any one sense, have additional vigour infused into those that remain. Thus blind persons are distinguished by exquisite delicacy of touch, and the deaf and dumb concentrate their whole souls in the eye, their only avenue to knowledge. But with her, whose ear, eye, and tongue, are alike dead to action, the power of the olfactory organs is so heightened, as almost to form a new and peculiar sense. It almost transcends the sagacity of the spaniel.

As the abodes which from her earliest recollection she had inhabited, were circumscribed and humble, it was supposed that at her first reception into the Asylum, she might testify surprise. But she immediately busied herself in quietly exploring the size of the apartments, and smelled at the thresholds, and then, as if by the union of a mysterious geometry with a powerful memory, never made a false step upon a flight of stairs, or entered a wrong door, or mistook her seat at the table. At the tea-table with the whole family, on sending her cup to be replenished, if one is accidentally returned to her, which has been used by another person, she perceives it in a moment, and pushes it from her with some slight appearance of disgust, as if her sense of propriety had been invaded. There is not the slightest difference in the cups, and in this instance she seems endowed by a sense of penetration not possessed by those in the full enjoyment of sight.

Among her various excellencies, neatness and love of order are conspicuous. Her simple wardrobe is systematically arranged, and it is impossible to displace a single article in her drawers, without her perceiving and reinstating it. When the large baskets of clean linen are weekly brought from the laundress, she selects her own garments without hesitation, however widely they may be dispersed among the mass. If any part of her dress requires mending, she is prompt and skilful in repairing it, and her perseverance in this branch of economy greatly diminishes the expense of her clothing.

The donations of charitable visitants are deposited in a box with an inscription, and she has been made to understand that the contents are devoted to her benefit. This box she frequently poises in her hand, and expresses pleasure when it testifies an increase of weight, for she has long since ascertained that money is the medium for the supply of her wants, and attaches to it a proportionable value.

Though her habits are perfectly regular and consistent, yet occasionally, some action occurs which it is difficult to explain. One summer morning, while employed with her needle, she found herself incommoded by the warmth of the sun. She arose, opened the window, closed the blinds, and again resumed her work. This movement, though perfectly simple in a young child, who had seen it performed by others, must in her case have required a more complex train of reasoning. How did she know that the heat which she felt was caused by the sun, or that by interposing an opaque body she might exclude his rays?

Persons most intimately acquainted with her habits assert, that she constantly regards the recurrence of the Sabbath, and composes herself to a deeper quietness of meditation. Her needle-work, from which she will not consent to be debarred on other days, she never attempts to resort to, and this wholly without influence from those around her. Who can have impressed upon her benighted mind the sacredness of that day? and by what art does she, who is ignorant of all numerical calculation, compute without error the period of its rotation? A philosopher who should make this mysterious being his study, might find much to astonish him, and perhaps something to throw light upon the structure of the human mind.

Before her entrance at the Asylum, it was one of her sources of satisfaction to be permitted to lay her hand upon the persons who visited her, and thus to scrutinize with some minuteness, their features, or the nature of their apparel. It seemed to constitute one mode of intercourse with her fellow-beings, which was soothing to her lonely heart, and sometimes gave rise to degrees of admiration or dislike, not always to be accounted for by those whose judgment rested upon the combined evidence of all their senses. But since her removal to this noble institution, where the visits of strangers are so numerous as to cease to be a novelty, she has discontinued this species of attention, and is not pleased with any long interruption to her established system of industry.

The genial influences of spring wake her lone heart to gladness, and she gathers the first flowers, and even the young blades of grass, and inhales their freshness with a delight bordering on transport. Sometimes, when apparently in deep thought, she is observed to burst into laughter, as if her associations of ideas were favourable, not only to cheerfulness, but to mirth. The society of the female pupils at the Asylum is soothing to her feelings, and their habitual kind offices, their guiding arm in her walks, or the affectionate pressure of their hands, awaken in her demonstrations of gratitude and friendship. One of them was sick, but it was not supposed that amid the multitude that surrounded her, the blind girl would be conscious of her absence. A physician was called, and she was made to understand his profession by placing a finger upon her pulse. She immediately arose, and led him with the earnest solicitude of friendship to the bedside of the invalid, placing her hand in his with an affecting confidence in the power of healing. As she has herself never been sick, it is the more surprising that she should so readily comprehend the efficacy and benevolence of the medical profession.

Julia Brace is still an inmate of the Asylum at Hartford. She leads a life of quiet industry, and apparent contentment. Some slight services in the domestic department supply the exercise that health requires, and the remainder of the time she chooses to be employed in sewing or knitting. Visitants often linger by her side, to witness the mystical process of threading her needle, which is accomplished rapidly by the aid of her tongue. So, the tongue that hath never spoken is still in continual use.

Her youth is now past, and she seems to make few, if any, new mental acquisitions. Her sister in calamity, Laura Bridgman, of the Institution for the Blind in Boston, has far surpassed her in intellectual attainments, and excites the wondering admiration of every beholder. The felicity of her position, the untiring philanthropy of her patron, Dr. Howe, and the constant devotion of an accomplished teacher, have probably produced this difference of result, more than any original disparity of talents or capacity.

Julia, in her life of patient regularity, affords as strong a lesson as can be given of the power of industry to soothe privation and to confer content. While employed she is satisfied, but if at any time unprovided with work, her mind preys upon itself, not being able to gather ideas from surrounding objects, and having but a limited stock of knowledge to furnish material for meditation. If this poor heart which is never to thrill at the sound of a human voice, or be lifted up with joy at the fair scenery of earth, and sky and waters, finds in willing diligence a source of happiness, with how much more gladness should we turn to the pursuits of industry, who are impelled by motives and repaid by results which she must never enjoy!

Dear young friends, who can see the smile on the faces of those whom you love, who can hear their approving voices, who can utter the words of knowledge, and rejoice in the glorious charms of nature, who know also that life is short, and that you must give strict account of it to God, how faithfully and earnestly should you improve your time! You who have the great, blessed gift of speech, be careful to make a right use of it. Yes: speak kind, and sweet, and true words, and so help your own souls on their way to Heaven.

[The end]
Lydia H. Sigourney's essay: Silent People

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