CHAPTER XXII

TWILIGHT

"The noble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful images it retains of beings passed away; and so is the noble mind.” WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

FIFTEEN years of suffering had left Bessie Gilbert unchanged as to the aims and work of her life. Long lonely hours of thought had shown her the need that the blind have of help and sympathy, the impossibility of independence and self-supporting work for them unless through the active charity of individuals and the co-operation of the State.

And it was the "General Welfare of the Blind" that engrossed her, and not merely their trades. She knew, no one better, how much need they have of resources from within, the pleasures of memory, the courage given by hope and aspiration. Her long years of illness enlarged her ideas of what could be done and ought to be done for them. She contrasted her own condition with that of the poor and untaught, and forgave them all their faults when she remembered their sad state.

Bessie had been carefully prepared for the inevitable solitude of her lot. Her mind was richly stored and her memory so carefully trained, that it seemed to allow no escape of anything that interested her. During the long weary days and nights of illness, when deafness isolated her even more than blindness, she would go over the whole story of a book read to her years before. She would recall the symphonies and sonatas she had listened to in early days, and find exceeding great enjoyment in the memory of her music. Indeed, towards the end she had but little pleasure in music heard through the outward ear, for her nerves were not able to endure the shock of a sudden or unexpected outburst of sound. But the music which she could call from out the chambers of memory was soft and tender, and its most impassioned passages gave her no pain. The soul of the music spoke to her soul, and silence brought to her the rapture of spiritual communion.

In early youth she had been accustomed, in the daily family prayers, to read in turn her verse of the Lessons and the Psalms. In later years she always read them to herself or had them read aloud to her. During her illness she scarcely ever failed to hear them; and the evening Psalms ended her day. She knew very many of the Psalms by heart, and "specially delighted in the glorious ascriptions of praise and thanksgiving in those for the thirtieth evening of the month." She liked to think that every month and every year at its close was accompanied by praise and thanksgiving.

"It pleased and touched her greatly," writes her sister N., “that in the New Lectionary the miracle of restoring sight to the two blind men at Jericho, came as the second lesson for the evening of her birthday, 7th August.

“One of her most favourite verses in the Psalms was, 'Thou hast given me the defence of thy salvation. Thy right hand also shall hold me up, and thy loving correction shall make me great.'"

Two poems from the Lyra Germanica gave her constant comfort, and were in her heart and on her lips. She found in them the embodiment of her faith, and could use them not only as expressing her own feelings, but as bringing comfort and help, because they were the utterance of the ardent faith and devotion of others.

These two hymns really open to us the inner life of Bessie Gilbert. They show from whence she derived the strength and courage that supported her in the efforts and trials of her early life, and they reveal the source of the patient endurance of fifteen years of isolation and suffering.

PASSION WEEK.1

I.

IN THE GARDEN.
Whene'er again thou sinkest,
My heart, beneath thy load,
Or from the battle shrinkest,
And murmurest at thy God;

1 From Lyra Germanica, second series.

Then will I lead thee hither,
To watch thy Saviour's prayer,
And learn from His endurance
How thou shouldst also bear.

Oh come, wouldst thou be like Him,
Thy Lord Divine, and mark
What sharpest sorrows strike Him,
What anguish deep and dark,—
That earnest cry to spare Him,
The trial scarce begun?

Yet still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Oh wherefore doth His spirit
Such bitter conflict know?
What sins, what crimes could merit
Such deep and awful woe?
So pure are not the heavens,
So clear the noonday sun,
And yet He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Oh mark that night of sorrow,
That agony of prayer ;

No friend can watch till morrow

His grief to soothe and share ;
Oh where shall He find comfort?
With God, with God alone,
And still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Hath life for Him no gladness,
No joy the light of day?
Can He then feel no sadness,

When heart and hope give way?

That cup of mortal anguish

One bitter cry hath won,

That it might pass: "Yet, Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

And who the cup prepared Him,
And who the poison gave?
'Twas one He loved ensnared Him,
"Twas those He came to save.
Oh sharpest pain, to suffer

Betray'd and mock'd-alone;

Yet still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!
But what is joy or living,

What treachery or death,
When all His work, His striving,
Seems hanging on His breath?
Oh can it stand without Him,
That work but just begun?
Yet still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

He speaks; no more He shrinketh,
Himself He offers up;

He sees it all, yet drinketh

For us that bitter cup,

He goes to meet the traitor,

The cross He will not shun,—

He saith: "I come, My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

My Saviour, I will never

Forget Thy word of grace, But still repeat it ever,

Through good and evil days;

And looking up to heaven,
Till all my race is run,

I'll humbly say: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"

W. HEY, 1828.