Library Collections: Document: Full Text

A friend of mine, who has been quite interested in my book, has asked me to allow her permission to give the following pen-picture of my personal appearance on the evening of my birthday at the reception: "Miss Crosby wore a most becoming dress of brocaded satin, ashes of roses I believe they call the color, with a white chiffon front and a narrow piping on each side of the vest of pink and black velvet, which was very dainty and pretty. As she walked up the aisle, it was suggested that the audience wave their handkerchiefs; and the effect thus produced was as if a white cloud of doves was fluttering over the heads of all, suggesting to those who know Miss Crosby the peace and good will she sheds abroad upon our hearts by her life of song and of good cheer." The dress above described was also a birthday gift, presented to me by my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. R. B. Currier.

Certain rumors have been circulated among some of the good people who do not know me to the effect that my health is fast declining. About fifteen years ago there was a gentleman in New York, who, hearing that I was dead, took the occasion to preach a funeral sermon; at another time my publishers received a telegram, while I was in the act of dictating a hymn that I had just written, asking at what hour Fanny Crosby passed away; and at still another time a great New York paper, while I was sitting at home in perfect health, published the intelligence that my death was momentarily expected, -- but none of these things moved me. Nor do I myself believe any of the recent reports as to the declining state of my health; where they originated I do not care. To the good Lord be the praise that they are not true; and I patiently await the time when He himself shall come to write my obituary in the Book of Life, until when I hope to continue to labor with all the energy that I can com-mand.

Not long ago, while I was visiting in Metuchen, New Jersey, a friend came to me and said, "I think we have your old organ at our church." She spoke of a favorite instrument upon which I used to play at the Institution; but at first I could not believe that it was really in existence, for I had understood that it had been destroyed many years ago. They led me to it and said I might finger the beloved keys again, as I had done so many times. It was a rare opportunity, and I confess that I shed tears of joy, yet a very sweet feeling took possession of me as I played some of the old melodies that we loved and sang more than sixty years ago. I fancied that time bad turned backward and had borne me to those halls again, where I could hear the familiar voices of our pupils singing the classic melodies. There was Mr. Reiff speaking kind words to his scholars; there was our quartet singing before Henry Clay and General Scott; there was Jenny Lind again pouring forth her soul in some Swedish or American patriotic air; and Ole Bull again held us spellbound by the touching melodies of his beloved violin; and I thanked the good Father for permitting me to enjoy that happy hour which was indeed the earnest of a happy life.

Most of the beloved voices of our Institution chorus are now blending with the grand anthem of the Choir Invisible in the great Tuneful City. But to me they are not hushed forevermore, because I sometimes fancy that I can hear the sweet, low notes of the celestial melodies. Meanwhile the music of the voices around me here upon this beautiful earth is just as cheerful and inspiring as that I heard in years gone by. Thus life becomes one grand choral song, sweetest at its close; and the tender acts of kindness, strewn all along the way, are the peren-nial flowers that I have been transplanting and gleaning in the garden of memory for more than eighty summers.

CHAPTER XX
INCIDENTS OF HYMNS

THE most enduring hymns are born in the silences of the soul, and nothing must be allowed to intrude while they are being framed into language. Some of the sweetest melo-dies of the heart never see the light of the printed page. Sometimes the song without words has a deeper meaning than the more elaborate combinations of words and music. But in the majority of instances these two must be joined in marriage; and unless they are mutually complementary the resulting hymn will not please. The mere fitting of words to a melody is by no means all that is necessary; it must be so well done as to have the effect of having been written especially for that melody. The poet, therefore, must put into metrical form his thoughts, aspirations and emotions, in such a manner that the composer of the music may readily grasp the spirit of the poem and compose notes that will perfect the expression of the poet's meaning. And a similar harmony of thought must exist between the composer of the melody and the poet when the music is written first.

That some of my hymns have been dictated by the blessed Holy Spirit I have no doubt; and that others have been the result of deep meditation I know to be true; but that the poet has any right to claim special merit for himself is certainly presumptuous. I have sometimes felt that there was a deep and clear well of inspiration from which one may draw the sparkling draughts that are so essential to good poetry. At times the burden of inspiration is so heavy that the author himself cannot find words beautiful enough, or thoughts deep enough, for its expression.