Deaf, Dumb and Blind Intercourse. 1841

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The Friend. A Religious and Literary Journal. 1841, July 31

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For “The Friend.”

THE VERMONT MUTE.

It may be recollected by the readers of “The Friend,” that a little girl, a native of Vermont, like Laura Bridgman, deaf, dumb and blind, was, about six months ago, taken into the Perkins' Institute, at Boston, by Dr. Howe, with the intention of educating her, if practicable. She was then a most unpromising subject, her intellectual powers appearing to be quite dormant, while her unamiable propensities were in full activity. So bent was she on doing mischief to all who approached her, that it was exceedingly difficult to hold any intercourse with her, and the worthy doctor in his efforts to soothe her turbulent nature, even found it expedient to protect his face with a mask. Perseverance, guided by benevolence, and a happy art which the doctor possesses of winning the affections of those placed under his care, have at length been attended with success; the unruly spirit has grown gentle, and the first glimmerings of light are breaking upon the darkness in which it has hitherto been enveloped.

The following account of her progress is from the pen of Dr. Howe. Some farther particulars promised by him to his correspondent will be looked for with much interest.

“I am happy to tell you, that after nearly six months apparently vain efforts, we have at last opened the means of communication with the mind of an unfortunate deaf and blind girl from Vermont.

“You know that she was very wild—almost savage when she was brought here, and that she wore her head in a bag. For a long time she not only was sullen and unsocial, but she furiously repulsed all attempts to teach her, and would not submit to any endearments. So intractable was she that I feared she might be insane. When she grew more docile, she submitted indeed to the attempts to teach her arbitrary signs, but was entirely passive, and utterly unconscious of the process to which she submitted. Her mind, entirely unused to reflection, seemed enshrouded in darkness and stillness, as profound as that of the tomb, and only at times manifested mute amazement; but at last it seemed to seize upon the clue which was offered to it, and by that clue is now guiding itself out into the light.

“She is now manifestly aware of the nature of the process to which she is subjected; her countenance is alive with a human expression; she comprehends the signs and names of several things, and begins to ask for more. The most delightful part of it is, that little Laura is a most ardent and useful coadjutor in the work of enlightening Lucy.”

THE BLIND BOY. 1833 [poetry]

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The Harbinger; A May-Gift. Boston. 1833

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From Google+

THE BLIND BOY. LINES SPOKEN BY A BLIND BOY AT THE EXHIBITION OF THE PUPILS OF THE NEW ENGLAND INSTITUTION FOR THE BLIND. The bird that never tried his wing, Can blithely hop and sweetly sing; Though prisoned in a narrow cage, Till his bright feathers droop with age. So I, while never blest with sight, Shut out from heaven's surrounding light, Life's hours and days and years enjoy, Though blind, a merry-hearted boy. That captive bird may never float Through heaven, or pour his thrilling note 'Mid shady groves, by pleasant streams, That sparkle in the soft moonbeams; But he may gaily flutter round, Within his prison's scanty bound, And give his soul to song—for he Ne'er longs to taste sweet liberty. Oh! may I not as happy dwell Within my unillumined cell? May I not leap and sing and play, And turn my constant night to day? I never saw the sky, the sea, The earth was never green to me; Then why, oh! why should I repine For blessings that were never mine? Think not that blindness makes me sad, My thoughts, like yours, are often glad. Parents I have, who love me well— Their different voices I can tell, Though far and absent, I can hear, In dreams, their music meet my ear. Is there a star so dear above, As the low voice of one you love? I never saw my father's face; Yet, on his forehead when I place My hand, and feel the wrinkles there, Left less by time than anxious care, I fear the world has sights of wo, To knit the brows of manhood so. I sit upon my father's knee— He'd love me less if I could see. I never saw my mother's smile; Her gentle tones my heart beguile— They fall, like distant melody, They are so mild and sweet to me. She murmurs not—my mother dear! Though sometimes I have kissed the tear From her soft cheek, to tell the joy One smiling word would give her boy. Right merry was I every day! Fearless to run about and play With sisters, brothers, friends, and all, To answer to their sudden call, To join the ring, to speed the chase, To find each playmate's hiding-place, And pass my hand across his brow, To tell him—I could do it now! Yet, though delightful flew the hours, So passed in childhood's peaceful bowers. When all were gone to school but I, I used to sit at home and sigh; And though I never longed to view The earth so green, the sky so blue, I thought I'd give the world to look Along the pages of a book. Now, since I've learned to read and write, My heart is filled with new delight. And music too—can there be found A sight so beautiful as sound? Tell me, kind friends, in one short word— Am I not like that captive bird? I live in song and peace and joy, Though blind, a merry-hearted boy! ——————————————————— Also, a version in The Religious Intelligencer. New-Haven, August 24, 1833