We might add greatly to this list, but we select the above merely as examples, to show how, when the acquisition of knowledge is debarred at the entrance of the eye, the mind will collect it through the inlet of other senses. Of the numerous schools of instruction for the blind, of which our country may well be proud--of the systems of training pursued in them--of the labours of pious individuals, some themselves blind--it is not our place here to speak. We devoutly pray that the blessing of the all-seeing God may be with them and upon them!
Blindness is sometimes, but, we are happy to say, not very often, accompanied by deafness--utter deafness. Blindness is a sad calamity; but when blindness and deafness meet in the same object, what a deplorable picture presents itself to every feeling heart! Blind, deaf, mute! Christian reader, reflect--by what means, by what process, shall access be gained to the undying mind? How can we, by human means, instil into the soul the glad tidings of salvation, demonstrate the corruptness of human nature, the necessity of a new birth, the efficacy of prayer, and the perfections of the triune Jehovah? Think of an immortal soul imprisoned in such a rayless, silent tenement, debarred from all acquaintance with the world around, except as far as feeling may go, and taste and smell. But God often works in a mysterious way, and perhaps communicates light to the mind, when the visual orbs are sealed up in darkness, and the invitations of Christ cannot be heard from the lips of his pious minister--the good shepherd, who is commanded to care for the little ones of the fold. Oh! how thankful to our gracious God ought we to be, for the full use of all our senses--those inlets to the knowledge either of good or of evil, nay, of both; but let us say, "I and my house will serve the Lord!"
The following account is condensed from the "American Annals of Education," and from captain Basil Hall's "Travels in North America." It refers to the deeply touching and most interesting case of Julia Brace, a deaf, dumb, and blind American girl, who resides in the Institution for the Deaf and Dumb at Hertford, Connecticut: "Julia Brace was seized with typhus fever at four years of age; during the first week of her illness she became blind and deaf; she retained her speech for about a year, (the tongue acting mechanically, according to acquired muscular habit,) frequently repeating her letters, and spelling the names of her acquaintance; but she gradually lost it, and seems now condemned to perpetual silence. For three years she continued to utter a few words; one of the last was 'mother' (that word clung to her tongue; it was the earliest she heard and spoke, and the last that died on her lips!) At first she was unconscious of her misfortune, and imagined that a long night had come upon the world. At length, in passing a window, she felt the sun shining warm upon her hand, and she made signs indicating she was aware of it; she was governed by her mother, by means similar to those employed in the case of Mitchell. At first she was exceedingly irritable, but she became at length habitually mild, obedient, and affectionate. At nine years of age she was taught to sew, (wonderful the conjunct operation of the nerves of sensibility and muscular sense!) and since that time to knit. Julia Brace, who is now nearly thirty years of age, is supported in the Hertford Asylum, in part by the contributions of visitors, and in part by her own labours in sewing and knitting. A language of palpable signs was early established as a means of communication with her friends; this has been much improved by her intercourse with the deaf and dumb, and is now sufficient for all ordinary purposes. It is obvious, that her means of perceiving external objects are the smell, the taste, and the touch. The touch is her chief reliance, and enables her to distinguish every object with which she has been familiar, sometimes by the aid of her lips and tongue; but her smell also is surprisingly acute, and often enables her to ascertain facts which are beyond the reach of other persons. Her countenance as she sits at work exhibits the strongest evidence of an active mind and a feeling heart, and thoughts and feelings seem to flit across it like the clouds in a summer sky. A shade of pensiveness will be followed by a cloud of anxiety or gloom; a peaceful look will perhaps succeed; and not unfrequently a smile lights up her countenance, which seems to make one forget her misfortunes. But no one yet has penetrated the darkness of her prison house, or found an avenue for moral or intellectual light." Blindness alone is a great calamity. Milton most affectingly deplores his deprivation:--