6

ADELE M. JEWEL

(1834–?)

Adele M. Jewel’s work provides a rare glimpse into the life of a lower-class deaf woman before the Civil War. Jewel (née George), a homeless woman in Michigan, wrote primarily to earn money to support herself and her mother. Her pamphlet, A Brief Narrative of the Life of Mrs. Adele M. Jewel (Being Deaf and Dumb), was printed for her by a local publisher, and she apparently sold it herself on the streets to passersby.1 Despite undergoing hardships, Jewel displays vivacity, faith, and determination in her writing. Her account of growing up apart from other deaf people, attending a residential school for the deaf, and learning American Sign Language gives us concrete illustrations of some of the general trends that other writers discuss in this collection. Moreover, Jewel provides the only reference to deaf African Americans in these pages, pointing to the existence of that overlooked group.

We do not have much information about Jewel beyond what appears in her pamphlet. She was born deaf in Cincinnati in 1834. Her parents doted on her, their only child. When she was three, Jewel and her family moved to Michigan, where they eventually acquired a farm. About nine years later, her father suddenly became ill and died. Jewel and her mother sold the farm to pay off debts and moved to Jackson, Michigan, where they eked out a living by sewing and performing any other work they could find. In Jackson, Jewel met another deaf person for the first time. Almena Knight not only became Jewel’s friend, but also taught her ASL and inspired her to attend the state’s residential school for the deaf in Flint. With financial assistance from some local citizens, Jewel was able to enroll. She flourished at the school, learning to read and write and becoming part of the community she found there. In a preface to A Brief Narrative, a “friend” describes Jewel as an accomplished young woman after she gained an education: “[She is] interesting and communicative … conversing rapidly, in the sign language, to those who understood that method of speaking, or writing in a clear and graceful hand with a pencil, to others.”

Despite such progress, Jewel was compelled to withdraw from school when she caught a severe illness that ruined the sight in one of her eyes and damaged her health. Since her mother was now an invalid, the two had trouble supporting themselves; they lost their property and became homeless. In these critical circumstances, Jewel came up with the idea of writing her story and selling it to the public. The plan worked, and she evidently was able to earn enough money to secure a living and a home for herself and her mother. Jewel most likely published this first version of her narrative in the late 1850s, when she was in her mid-twenties. She added to the work and sold slightly expanded editions in subsequent years.

After publishing the material excerpted here, Jewel married and had three children: a deaf son and two hearing daughters. However, the marriage ended unhappily. We do not have any details. We do not even know if her husband was hearing or deaf. In the preface, the “friend” calls it only “an unfortunate marriage.”Jewel herself says “I have drank bitterly of the cup of sorrow, since my marriage; but I cannot here speak of the trials that have fallen my lot.” We can only speculate about the events that so distressed her. As a single mother, Jewel again relied on her pamphlet to raise funds to support her family. She earned enough money to send her deaf son to the Michigan school in Flint, which she had attended herself. Unfortunately, we have no record of what became of Jewel in her later years.

A Brief Narrative of the Life of Mrs. Adele M. Jewel

The history of my life is made up more of thought and feeling than of incidents and events. It is brief and simple, and yet may be interesting to those who are curious enough to know how the world and its experiences are regarded by one who can neither hear nor speak. … I was born deaf, on the 15th of November 1834, in the city of Cincinnati, though I do not remember much before our removal to Detroit, in the year 1838. Among my early acquaintances was a little girl nearly my own age, Charlotte Monroe. We became warm friends from the first, and were seldom separated from morning till night. Our plays, our toys, everything we had, was shared in common; and by the use of our own signs—a language taught by nature—we understood each other very well. They tell me that she ran in to her mother, saying, in a voice of gladness, “Ma, I can talk deaf and dumb as good as Dellie.”

My father had a tame black bear chained up in the yard. He was harmless, at least, we believed him so, and were not afraid to play near him, and even sometimes to pat him on the head—I and my little friend Lottie. But he soon taught us not to be quite so familiar. We used to feed him apples and cake, and were delighted when we could make him show his teeth, or climb the pole, or rear upon his hind legs. One day (I shall never forget that) I had a piece of cake in my hand, which I held temptingly before him, though I had no intention of dividing with him, and frequently disappointed him by drawing it back. He became enraged at last, and seizing me in his arms, he tore my clothes off in an instant, and would have killed me had not my shrieks brought me instant relief. My father dared not keep so dangerous a pet, and soon disposed of him. …

When a few years older, my parents removed from Detroit to Grass Lake, on the Central Railroad. There I found myself among strangers, and longed for the friends of my other home. It seemed as if no one would ever understand me as Lottie did, and I missed her sadly. But I was not long left to pine in solitude. Dear Polly Ann Osgood, I soon learned to love her as well. We grew up together like sisters. How many delightful rambles we had about the fields and forest, gathering berries and other fruits, and weaving the sweet wild flowers into garlands to crown our heads; and although I could not hear the warbling of birds, my little friend did, and she tried to make me understand it. …

My young mind was filled with thoughts all unexpressed and inexpressible. Deep, fervent and glowing, I longed to worship something, I knew not who or what. My dear mother was constantly importuned with questions, who made the grass and the flowers and all the living creatures that throng the earth? …

Oh how I yearned for the knowledge to illumine my darkened mind. My mother, as well as she was able, explained to me that One who dwells above made them all; and that I must kneel and raised my eyes, hands and heart in adoration. Oh, I thought “If I could only see him.” But since I have been able to read His Holy Word, I have learned more of Him. I have learned to worship Him in spirit and in truth. …

While dwelling in Grass Lake an event took place that I shall never forget, the remembrance of it even now fills me with horror. My father used sometimes to pour powder upon the hearth to make it flash for my amusement. I think he did not know what a mad-cap I was, or he would hardly have thought it prudent to set me such an example.

One day I was left at home alone, and I got the powder, and sprinkling it about the floor set it on fire. It flashed in earnest, setting fire to everything. I had on a flannel dress, fortunately, or I might have flashed with the rest. But I caught my little dog in my arms, and drew my father’s trunk to the door. It was very heavy, and I could not lift it over the sill. So I was obliged to leave it and run more than a quarter of a mile to the house of the nearest neighbor to give the alarm.

When they reached the house the roof had fallen in, and the house with all its contents was consumed. When my mother and father came home, there was no home to receive them. My dear father had taught his foolish little dumb girl a trick that had robbed him of it; though they did not know it then. I could not explain the cause of the fire, and they were so happy to find that I had not also perished in the flames, they thought little of their great loss in the house, though many valuable papers and other articles were destroyed which were never replaced. After I learned to write, however, I gave my mother a faithful account of my part in the affair.

When about twelve years of age I was sent to a common school. I tried as hard as I could to learn, but it was a dry, tedious process, as my teacher was not qualified to instruct the dumb, and I gave it up in despair; feeling, oh how bitterly, that I was not like the rest and could never hope to acquire much knowledge.

I had an uncle who wished to take me to the Deaf and Dumb Asylum in New York; but my father’s health was fast failing, and as I am an only child, my mother could not endure the thought of separation and that project was also relinquished. And I, much as I longed for a more enlarged and cultivated sphere, much as I hungered and thirsted for a high knowledge of the world in which I lived, was brought up wild and wayward, with no definite understanding of my relation to the world, or the duties required of me. …

About this time it became evident to all—all but me—that my father’s days on earth were numbered. I had never seen a person die, and death to me was a subject upon which I had never thought. To die! what was it? I saw the change upon his face. I saw the last dying glance of his eyes as the film gathered o’er them. I felt the last grasp of his icy fingers—then he lay cold and motionless. It was a sight so terrible that I clung frightened to my mother. And yet I could not believe that I must give him up. I believed that change only temporary. It seemed to me that he would rise up again, and speak to us, and live as before. But long hours and days passed away and the change came not. Then they placed his rigid body in a long box, and screwed the lid down tightly, and buried him up in the earth.

What did it all mean? … They tried to explain to me that some part of him was still alive and gone to God. But I shook my head. No, God lives up in the sky, and I saw him buried in the ground, I said. … That was my first sorrow. But after a little while my dearest friend, Polly Ann, sickened and died also. She was taken away and buried, and I became so hopeless and disconsolate that I hardly cared to live myself. I was sullen, gloomy and resentful. I refused to look upon the lovely face of nature and take heart for the future. All things had ceased to charm me—“what are they all good for if we must die and leave them?” I thought. It seemed to me that if God could do as he pleased with all the world, he could not be good to deprive the poor little mute of some of her dearest friends, rendering her life so dark and cheerless. …

After my father’s death, my mother and myself were left quite alone and found it hard to get along on the farm. So we sold it, and after paying all the debts contracted during his long sickness, there was little left for ourselves, and we moved to Jackson, where we endeavored to obtain sewing or any kind of work that would enable us to get an honest living. We lived in that city three years and during that time found several good, true friends who did all they could to aid us. Here I formed the acquaintance of a young lady also deaf and dumb, who had been educated at an Asylum in Ohio. She was the first mute I ever saw and the mysterious ties of sympathy immediately established a friendly feeling between us. I was surprised and delighted at her superior attainments.

She could write a beautiful hand on her slate to those who knew not the use of signs, and in a little while taught me the sign language by which we conversed very easily together. We enjoyed many pleasant seasons together, and I shall always count among my dearest friends, Miss Almena Knight, the name of this young lady. …

After I saw Miss Knight I grew very anxious to become a pupil at Flint.2 Some friends who felt interested in my welfare, obtained my mother’s consent and assisted me to go. Thanks for the instructions received of Miss Knight, I succeeded in making myself understood, and from being an entire stranger, soon became as a member of one large family. My instructors found me an “apt scholar,” and when I had been there ten weeks, I sent home a written article of my own composition. My friends were surprised and pleased at the rapid progress I had made.

Elsie Fairbairn was my especial friend among the pupils; we became warmly attached and seldom separated. The parents of friend “Eppy,” as I called her, were also true friends to me, and did many things to show their kindness to myself and mother. …

During my stay at Flint I was taken with inflammation in my eyes, causing me great suffering and destroying the sight of one. My health became poor, and I was obliged to withdraw from the school. I resigned my place with much regret, as I still felt greatly deficient in useful knowledge. The loss of my sight is a great loss to me, still I am thankful for the blessings I do enjoy; for though poor and with slender means of support, I have laid up my treasures in Heaven; looking forward to that glorious time when the mute tongue shall burst forth in strains of love and praise to its Creator in a world of peace and joy. When the lame can walk, the blind shall see, the deaf hear, and the dumb shall speak. All will be right there—no aching heart, no saddened countenance. What a comfort it is for me to believe thus!

Part Second

Dear Reader:

Let me add a few more pages to the brief sketch you have just read of my life, which was written over four years ago. It was a great undertaking for me to publish for perusal by the public a history of my life, and then offer it for sale. I shrunk from it, and could never have done so, had it not been really necessary for me to do something for my own maintenance. But though sometimes chilled by averted looks and want of sympathy, I have found many ready and willing to extend the helping hand; many earnest, true friends who have aided and encouraged me. The son of Mr. Barns, my former publisher (who is a true gentleman, has also been afflicted with deafness, though not mute), and the printers in the Tribune office, made me a present of the first thousand copies of my little book and a few dollars in money to help me on. Words fail to express my gratitude for this kindness, but I shall ever cherish for them the most grateful remembrance. By this means I was enabled to secure a home for myself and mother. …

And now I will tell you what I have seen in my travels. …3 Thank Heaven for sight, precious sight! To the deaf it is both hearing and speech. I have only the full enjoyment of one eye—the other is still so dim that I cannot distinguish objects with it. But the sight I do have is invaluable to me. Some of my blind friends seem very cheerful, and even happy. Yet pleasures which sight secures can never be theirs. The faces of beloved friends, beaming with smiles of affection—the green fields—the beautiful flowers—the trees waving in the summer winds, white with blossoms or laden with ripe fruits—the broad, winding river sparkling in the sun, while boats of every shape and size glide over its bosom. … The most wonderful sight I ever beheld, a sight that made me tremble and worship God, was the Falls of Niagara. Such a great river, pouring over such a descent! It made me dizzy to look at it; and it shook the earth far and near. …

At the Suspension Bridge we found an Asylum for the deaf, dumb, and blind.4 It was a private school kept by Dr. Skinner and his wife. The Doctor had been blind two years—his wife, though she could see, was a mute. This worthy couple, though white themselves, were deeply interested in the poor colored children afflicted like themselves, and their pupils are all colored.5 Those who could see had bright sparkling eyes, and were quiet and respectful. The blind were very tidy and attentive. They all seemed very contented and happy, and it was interesting to see the dumb scholars converse with their blind associates.

The institution is supported partly by donations and contributions from those who sympathize in the good work, and partly by the publication of a paper—the work is done by the pupils who are printers and compositors.

We came away much pleased with our visit and praying for success and prosperity of the Asylum, and for the welfare of the generous instructors and founders.

[Editor’s Note: Jewel goes on to relate her other travels, describing Wyoming, the Allegheny Mountains, Seneca Falls, etc.]

Arriving in Genoa, we went to visit uncle’s family, who received us with much joy, and my young cousins did all they could to make our visit pleasant. We remained a week, and when we set out on our return my aged grandfather and his wife accompanied us and spent the winter with us. … [Now] my mother and myself are left alone again.

Two years ago the Principal of the Indiana Asylum sent me an invitation to visit the institution and remain a pupil.

Miss Almena Knight accompanied me. We had a very pleasant visit, and were treated with great respect by the teachers. The process of teaching is similar to that of Flint; and the exercises in the school were very interesting. We remained, however, but a few days, for I was not able to meet the expenses of tuition there.

And now for the present, dear readers, adieu. At some future time I may tell you more. My home is not yet free from incumbrance, and could I emerge from indebtedness, I shall be forever grateful to all who, by purchasing my little book, enable me to do so. It is still a great trial for me to offer my book for sale, for though on one hand I meet with sympathy and kindness, on the other, coldness, slight, and discouragement chill me. Still I will hope for the best. May the dear Lord, who was ever a friend to the poor, bless ever the tender, generous heart, is the sincere and constant prayer of

Adele M. George6

1. Because the only existing copies of the pamphlet use her married name, we do not know the original title of her autobiography.

2. The Michigan school was established by an act of the state legislature in 1848, but it did not open until six years later, in 1854, in a rented house in Flint, Michigan. Jewel, then close to twenty years old, must have been in one of the school’s first classes.

3. We are left to wonder how Jewel, who was evidently quite poor, managed to afford such trips.

4. A celebrated suspension bridge spanned the Niagara River near the Niagara Falls. Constructed by John Roebling between 1852 and 1855, it is no longer extant today. We unfortunately have no further information on the Skinners or their school.

5. This comment is the only mention of deaf African Americans that I could find in deaf writing before 1864. As this gap suggests, people who were black and deaf were frequently neglected in antebellum America. In the South, teaching an African American (deaf or hearing) to read and write was illegal in every state except Maryland and Kentucky. In the North, when deaf African Americans did receive an education, it was usually in a segregated school, such as the private one that Jewel describes here.

6. Somewhat curiously, Jewel signed her maiden name, Adele M. George, at the end of this account, even though she retained “Adele M. Jewel” in the narrative’s title. Perhaps she went back to her maiden name following her separation from her husband.