In Memoriam

Fbom various sources we select a few of the many good things which have been said of Mr. and Mrs. Bliss since the sad event of their death. None knew them but to love them; none spoke but tor praise them.”

The editorial columns of the Chicago Liter- Ocean contained the following glowing tribute to our friend, written while it was still supposed that Mr. Bliss’ children were among the lost at Ashtabula:

P. P. Bliss, the song writer, the author of “Hold the Fort,” “The Armor Bearer,” “Almost Persuaded,” and scores of other popular songs, was on the train that went down with a crash to terrible destruction at Ashtabula. He was coming from the holiday meeting at his old home, with its tender memories clinging to him, to hold a grand praise meeting in Chicago, to which he was looking forward with all the wholesome enthusiam of his stalwart. Christian manhood. Moving along a line leading from joyous scene to pleasant duty, he was stopped midway to die with wife and children; to die in an attempt to save those he loved from a terrible fate.

This horror of a railroad disaster has darkened many a home; in the case of Mr. Bliss it destroyed one — blotted it out as with a thunder crash. The catastrophe has depressed the public, a public already sore to the heart’s core over the Brooklyn theater disaster; but in the death of Mr. Bliss it touches chords that bring it home as a family grief to every church and Sabbath School in America and England.

Mr. Bliss was the song writer of the church and Sabbath School. He stood prominent among those earnest workers who have invested Sabbath School music with the cheerfulness, lightness, brightness and briskness that were wanting in the old hymns, and who have added to them new pathos and tenderness. His works were songs rather than hymns, and they were written cinder the inspiration of the ideal song writer. In words and music his compositions were adapted to the longings and wants of those he desired to reach. The illustrations were familiar, the methods were striking, the sentiment was an echo of the feeling in his own heart. He seized quickly upon incident or figure, or story, and turned it to good account. Catching suggestions from tlia actual life of the people, his songs and his musical compositions came to the masses as revelations. The relation of an army incident suggested “Hold the Fort.” It was written on the impulse of the moment, and it has traveled the world over. It )ias been translated into not only nearly all the European languages, but into Chinese and the native languages of India, It is not too much to say that it is popular beyond any other Sabbath School song of the age. And with it travel others almost as popular; “What Will the Harvest Be?” “Almost Persuaded,” “Only an Armor- Bearer,” etc., etc.

When we remember that every child, from the lisping four- year-old to the youth of fifteen or eighteen, is singing in Sabbath School and home, “Only an armor-bearer proudly I stand,” and that not only in home and Sabbath School, but at political meetings, people have been shouting “Hold the fort, for I am coming,” then, and not till then, do we realize how near this man, whom we of Chicago knew so well, was to the people at large. And when we read these songs and hear the simple music, we go further, and realize how much he has helped all people, but particularly the young, toward a better life.

Mr. Bliss was a fine specimen of the vigorous and robust man. S.e was gifted with a sweet voice and an attractive manner. He carried into his musical work the martial bearing and movement of the commander in a great crusade. This spirit breathes along his lines and swells in all his music. Children caught quickly this heroic spirit. His military figures found the nation responsive. He is never, in any composition, at a halt. He is always marching forward or struggling upward. There is always the suggestion of the leader’s plume to the front; there is always a purpose, a hope, a promise, a resolve, at the heart; there is always present the spirit that moves masses to responsive or heroic moods, or that pathos that calls out the best there is in man. Hence the popularity of Mr. Bliss’ compositions, and, more important, the good influence they have exerted.

As with Mr. Moody, the people of Chicago have watched the course of Mr. Bliss with peculiar interest. Those earnest in Christian work observed with pleasure his growing toward the conviction that he must enter a wider field. They were familiar with the doubts in his own mind, which went down one by one under the resolve that he must do his whole duty, and they have rejoiced over the good results of his work. And this class of earnest workers, numbering in its ranks Mr. Moody and many of the ministers of the city, have seen with clearer vision than the masses the spirit and purpose of Mr. Bliss. They have known him better and have understood him better than have the people at large. But to all he has spoken as a friend; and standing appalled before the Ashtabula horror, many will turn shivering to the picture of the song-maker struggling to save his wife and children. And then will come that vivid picture of his own:

On, like a fiend in its towering wrath, On, and destruction alone points the path; Mercy 1 O heaven 1 the suflferers wail-Feeble humanity, naught can avail

REV. DR. SEMPLE’s SERMOlf- 299

o he went down to death. And of this sudden coming of death he has £aid:

1 know not the hour when my Lord will come

To take me away to His own dear home;
But I know that His presence will lighten the gloom.
And that will be glory for me.

Jf eople think and speak in formula furnished by this man now dead, and manj will recall remlDiscences of his home life that make very touching this picture of his terrible death. One of his intimate friends relates how many of his compositions, now famous, first found shape in his own home; of how, with wife and children and a few chosen friends about him, he first sung the songs that were to be given to the world. And this friend tells of how the singer and his family rejoiced over the perfecting of some work that reflected an experience or trial or struggle or rejoicing that they themselves had lived through. The man spoke from the heart of his home, and no wonder he touched the popular heart.

In a sermon preached at Minneapolis, Minnesota, on the 6th of January, Rev. R. F. Semple, D. D., expressed himself as follows respecting Mr. Bliss and his work. Want of space alone prevents our publishing the sermon in full:

There are many stricken households, widely scattered, greatly mourning the disaster at Ashtabula bridge. Some of our number lost near kindred on that dreadful night: the joy of the marriage succeeded by the wail of death. And there was one widely known and greatly beloved. Hence, thousands in this and in other lands, as the electric wire flashed the sad intelligence of his decease, cried in the bitterness of their grief, “Alas I my brother.”

Wherever the sweet “Gospel Songs” were sung, and especially where the voice of him who wrote them had been heard, there is sorrow such as has seldom been surpassed. With feelings of peculiar sadness, relieved only by the light from beyond, we who linger a little behind now sing,

Down life’s dark vale we wander,
Till Jesus comes.

And hereafter, as we join in the familiar song, there will come to us thoughts of a night dark and stormy; and as we look through the blinding tempest we shall see a noble form moving calmly on, and a manly face turned heavenward, and shall hear a voice of marvelous compass and sweetness singing, in trustful strains, mingling with, and rising above, the moanings of the wintry winds —

Though the pathway he lonely and dangerous, too,
Surely Jesus is able to carry us through;

and then as the weary, blistered feet touch the heavenly shore, we catch the triumphant refrain —

Hallelnjah! ’tis done I I believe on the Son,
I am saved by the blood of the Cracified One.

You all know to whom I refer. I Lave scarcely felt that I could trust myself to speak his name. I had come to know him intimately, and to love him tenderly, and to confide in him implicitly. The brother beloved who had labored with him in Gospel services, and was competent to form a j lodgment of his character, said of him, ‘* He is the purest minded man I ever knew.” There certainly have been few so loving, unselfish and kind. He was singularly artless. He wore no disguise. In presence dignified and commanding as Saul among the children of Israel, he was in spirit simple, and unostentatious, and confiding as a child. His songs were like himself. They were the utterances of his own great heart. They claimed no relation, and had none, to the measured and lofty poetry of the Homeric hymns. They were sweet lyrics rather. The most intellectual were moved by them. The unlearned understood them. They were fragrant with the love of Jesus, and I doubt not led many to Him. Already they are sung in every land. Though born within the last decade, they have overtaken the sacred hymns of Watts, and Newton, and Toplady; and some of them will live as long. It was well said of such songs as ‘’ Hold the Fort,” “Almost Persuaded,” “When Jesus Comes,” and “We’re Going Home To-morrow,” that, “As the ye&rs roll on, like the handsful of seed dropped in the furrow, they shall yield increasing harvests, till from all lands and kindreds and tongues there shall come up a mighty throng to cast their crowns at the feet of that dear Lord whose dying love it was our brother’s highest joy to magnify.” And we fully accord with the judgment of another, that “Evangelical song lost its greatest exponent when Philip P. Bliss staid by the car in Ashtabula Creek,” and burned to death in the fruitless attempt to save his wife — an act characteristic of his affectionate and self-forgetful nature.

This dear brother has sown seeds in the hearts of many whom I now address, which I fervently hope shall yet bring forth immortal fruitage in their salvation. How tenderly did he speak to the young, of Christ, the children’s friend, and urge them to come to Him. How earnestly did he pray that they might know Jesus, and rejoice in His light. The memory of those November days will abide with us down to the winter of life, and we shall always be thankful that our dear brethren in Christ, Whittle and Bliss, came this way; loving evangelists, who pointed us to the wicket gate of Mercy, and bade us hasten to it.

I recall a sweet and solemn service, when our dear brother and his erjually lovely wife sang together a hymn which was prophetic of their end — may it be of our peaceful departure:

Through the valley of the shadow I most go

Where the cold waves of Jordan roll;
But the promise of my Shepherd will, I know,

Be the rod and staflf of my soul.

FROM REV. a. C. WATERMAN”. 30J-Even now down the valley aa I glide,

I can hear my Savior say, “Follow me;”
And with him I’m not afraid to cross the tide,.

There’s a light in the valley for me.

Now the rolling of the hillows I can hear,

As they beat on the turf-bound shore.
Bat the beacon light of love so bright and clear

Guides my bark frail and lone safely o’ci.
I shall find down the valley no alarms,

For my blessed Savior’s smile I can see,
He will bear me in His loving, mighty arms —

There’s a light in the valley for me.

Dear brother and sister, sweet singers in Israel, farewell! There is a strange stillness in the air since you went; a strange sorrow in our hearts. But it is well; for God hath done it. Perchance the day on which you left us was a festal day in heaven, and your voices were needed in the song of the redeemed. Farewell; yet not forever. On some glad day, not afar off, we shall hope to meet you yonder:

Saved through the blood of the Crucified One.

From Kev. G. C. Waterman we have the following words of
loring praise:

Philip Bliss was my friend. I loved him as a brother, and have good reason to believe that the love was returned in full measure. My acquaintance with him began a few years before he went to Chicago, and up to that time was intimate, so that a friendship struck its roots into our hearts which has lived and grown through ten years of separation. In those days he was engaged in teaching singing schools, holding musical conventions and occasionally giving concerts with Mr. John G. Towner, who was his first teacher in music. He was a frequent guest at my house, coming sometimes alone, sometimes with Mr. Towner, and sometimes bringing his wife with him, but always welcome. His personal appearance and bearing were such as to attract and win respect and friendship wherever he went. Nature had lavished upon him a profusion of charms. Not Saul or David was more eminent among his fellows for fine physique and manly beauty. Homer would have put him high among his heroes and described him with his choicest epithets. He was at once dignified and genial; a subtle and peculiar grace, which never degenerated into softness or sickly sentimentality, invested all that he did or said. Behind this there lay, not quite concealed, no small amount of power. These qualities, in combination with the instructive faculties which he possessed in a high degree, fitted him in an admirable manner for the work of teaching in his chosen profession. There was running through his temperament a rich vein of genial humor, bubbling forth in all sorts of unlooked-for ways, in odd conceits and quaint terms of expression, in rhymes and jingles, which made him a most delightful companion and correspondent. In it all there was never a drop of scalding parcasm, biting acidity or turbid foulness; it was always pure, sweet and healthful as the waters from the mountain spring.

After a few years of this pleasant intercourse, our paths diverged from the quiet valley in which they had crossed and recrossed so often, his to lead into the heart of the life of the West, mine to wind along in other humble retreats; but from time to time golden threads were thrown across the intervening space, slender but strong, holding together loving hearts in two circles. When at length the great sorrow of my life came upon me and death quenched the central light of my household, he poured out the wealth of his loving heart in words of tender sympathy, bidding me “lean hard on the great Burden-bearer,” and helped me with a brother’s strong sympathy. I have not seen him since he entered upon his active evangelistic work with Major Whittle, but have followed him with deep interest, and rejoiced in all that Ood hath wrought through ihem. Soon after he begun this work, two years ago this very day, January 13th, he wrote me thus: Do I enjoy this Gospel song singing? What a queer question for a musical minister to ask! There never was anything like it. Certainly the Master blesses us greatly, even now; with greater experience and greater faith we are expecting the increase of blessing. * * * Still there’s more to follow; “to this he subscribed himself. “Gospel Songfully Yours.”

In the Peoria (Illinois) Transcript, we find the following, from Rev. A. R. Thompson, Pastor of the Second Presbyterian Church in that city:

O, thou sweet singer! hast thou passed away
While yet thy voice is lingering on our ear?

Must hearts so full of joy but yesterday
Give place to sorrow and the bitter tear?

Is thy sweet life of love and song no more?

Thy noble manhood scarcely reaching prime;
Yet in its richness fertile with a store

Of sacred melody and heavenly rhyme.

No more, sweet singer I Oh these words “no more** — Thy voice shall thrill and soften every breast;

Thy anthems sung, thy mission now is o’er,
And thou hast gone to thy celestial rest.

Tender and loving, song was but thy prayer —

An inspiration strain from realms above — And in angelic music thou didst bear

The soul’s petition to a God of love.

Thy noble wife 1 of self the counterpart,

Whose voice and being blended with thine own:

In counsel, love, encouraging thy heart.
Till she, so loving, in thy nature shone.

Bright spirits both I your work on earth is done,
Tour memory in sweet song shall ever live —

Tour life of faith and love ere now has won
A crown of Him whose joy it is to give.

K. W. Morgan, editor of The Christian published in London, England, discourses, in a letter to his journal, as follows, respecting the work of Mr. Bliss:

“And devout men carried Stephen to his burial, and made great lamentation over him.” Something of this kind has been repeated here. The lamentation is over two of the sweetest singers in Israel — Mr. and Mrs. P. P. Bliss — without even the mournful satisfaction of carrying them to their burial. I scarcely know how to write the sorrowful tidings which I have to send to-day. I had gone to Canada for Christmas week, and returned on Saturday night (Dec. 30) to meet these friends in Jesus, and make some final arrangements as to their coming to England with Major Whittle in the spring. Though I had heard on the way of a frightful railway accident at Ashtabula, in Ohio, it did not occur to me that they would be traveling by that very train — the Pacific Express. But on arriving at Chicago I was appalled to hear that they had perished on the previous night.

I have already written of my sojourn at Peoria, where I spent a few days with them. Mr. Bliss was a saint indeed, and his wife a true helpmate to him. “A prince and a great man is fallen in Israel,” and of him and his sweet wife it may well be added, “They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided.”

On Saturday night, Major Whittle, Mr. Far well, Mr. Jacobs and others went to the scene of the accident, to endeavor to recover the remains, but a telegram to Mr. Moody says that most of the bodies recovered are quite unrecognizable; and there seems no likelihood of anything being found of this beloved brother and sister whom Chicago mourns, and thousands all over the land and through the world are mourning, and will mourn more deeply, as the ■’hymns he wrote, and which they sang together, are more fully understood. Their bodies have probably been burned to ashes, but they are themselves transfigured, and to us the hymns are transfigured also. We have been saying one to another that, read in the light of this fiery translation, they seem all changed to prophecies. How differently shall we now sing —

I know not the hour when my Lord shall come,
To take mo awuy to Hit* own dear home»
But I know that His presence wjil lighten the gloom,
And that will be glory for me.

I know not the form of my mansion fair,
I know not the name that I then shall bear;
But I know that my Savior will welcome me there,
And that will be heaven for me.

After the Chicago fire he wrote and dedicated to Mr. Moody the words and niusir. “Roll on, O billow of fire I” the chorus of which must have come back with even more vividness in the fire in which he perished than when written in recollection of the fire from which he had escaped.

How much more tenderly shall we now sing that childlike carol which was the one that took the earliest hold of us at home —

I am so glad that our Father in heaven
Tells of His love in the Book He has given.
Wonderful things in the Bible I see;
This is the dearest — that Jesns loves me.

it melts one’s heart to think how, in the agony of that last hour, the husband and wife needed to cling, as to an anchor within the vail, to the assurance that, even in this terrible ordeal, “Jesus loves me.”

After a visit to a beautiful cemetery in Peoria, Illinois, and with his thoughts specially drawn toward the “blessed hope, and the glorious appearing of the great God and our Savior Jesus Christ,” he wrote —

Down life’s dark vale we wander.
Till Jesus comes,

and although the death of the individual is not the coming of the Lord to receive His bride to Himself, yet what a sublime fulfillment did those simple lines receive on that dreadful night I

He’ll know what griefs oppressed me,

When Jesus comes.
Oh, how His arms will rest me,

When Jesus comes.

And now that he is gone how inspiriting will be the war-song, as we thiak how. trusting in the living God, he held the fort in death 1 —

Ho, my comrades, see the signal

Waving in the sky;
Reinforcements now appearing,
Victory is nigh.
“Hold the fort, for I am coming I”
Jesns signals still,
W^ve the answer back to heaven — By thy grace we will.’*

A story was told yesterday of a missionary in South Africa going int» a kraal to rest, and the first sounds he heard were from a Zulu singing this tune So these stirring strains go round the world.

As we remember how our noble brother stood, and how he fell, shall we not mean something more than ever before in singing? —

Dare to be a Daniel I

Dare to Btand alone I
Dare to have a purpose firm!

Dare to make it known 1

To us here, it seems as if his patient and truthful voice was singing out of the darkness and terror of that wintry storm —

Brightly beams our Fathers mercy,

From His lighthouse evermore;
But to us He gives the keeping

Of the lights along the shore;

and that he appeals, with outstretched hands, on behalf of others —

Let the lower lights be burning,

Send the gleam across the wave;
Some poor fainting, straggling seaman

You may rescue, you may save.

For he met his end not far from the very spot (Cleveland harbor) where the catastrophe occurred, which, related by Mr. Moody, was the occasion of his

writing —

Trim your feeble lamp, my brother,

Some poor seaman, tempest-tost.
Trying now to make the harbor.

In the darkness may be lost.

He was a man full of sympathy, and the wisdom of the truest Christian sympathy shows itself in the hymn in which he counsels the burdened one,

Go tell it to Jesus, and all will be right.

Oeutly and lovingly he leads the mourner on:

Go gather the sunshine He sheds on thy way.
He’ll lighten thy burden — go, weary one, pray.

And there is a moral grandeur in the self-sacrifice and generosity which he commends, and which were indeed but the reflection of his own inner life:

Go bury thy sorrow, let others be blest;

Qo give them the sunshine, tell Jesus the rest.

In the same vein of advancing experience is the familiar hymn which was suggested by Mr. Moody’s address on Assurance —

I wished He was mine,

And then began hoping that Jesns was mine.

I’m hoping no longer, I know He is mine.

At the Industrial Exposition at Chicago it was an every-day appointment “Meet me at the Fountain.” Our sweet singer, his mind always set on the things above, caught up the words, and wrote —

Will you meet me at the fountaliif

When I reach the glory-land?
Will you meet me at the fountain?

Shall I clasp yoar friendly hand t
Other friende will give me welcome.

Other loving voices cheer,
There’ll be music at the fountain?

Will you, will you, meet me there?

I spent but a few days in his society, but the impression he has left upon my heart is well expressed in the question and the assurance —

Will yon meet me at the fountain Y

I shall long to have you near,
When I meet my loving Savior,

When His welcome words I hear.

A.nd 80 I might go on, for “StilMhere’s more to follow.”

Oh, the grace the Father shows;
Oh, the love that Jesus shows;
Oh, the power the Spirit shows I

This was his experience, and although the flow of his sweet melodies is stayed on earth, before the throne — drinking of the water of life which proceeds from the throne of God and the Lamb — he will praise on through the long day of his eternal life; and the refrain of the unfinished song through the ages to come will be —

Still theres more to follow.

Perhaps it is well that the stream of song has been diverted to the heavenly land. We might have gone on asking for some new thing, thinking more of the songs than of the salvation of which they speak, and forgetting the Giver in the gift. Therefore the only wise God our Savior has transfigured those we have, and shown us depths of sacred tenderness, and love, and courage that we had only dimly seen before; and, thus enriching the songs we possess, He has caught up the singer to His throne and heart, while we are left to urge them tht are

Almost persuaded now to believe.

Almost persuaded Christ to receive,

to yield, and say-Fully persuaded, Jesus is mine:
Fully persuaded. Lord, I am thine.

And as one by one saved souls confess the Savior’s name, our departed friend will remember that he said, and by the grace of God fulfilled his pledge —

Surely my Captain may depend on mc,
Though but an armor-bearer I may be.

Now he is gone, and his memory is very fragrant. We may write his epitaph in the words of Dr. Bonar’s hymn, which Mr. Bliss had set to music, and the second verse of which is peculiarly suitable and true of his most unselfish life —

So, in the harvest, if others may gather

Sheaves from the fields that in spring I have sown;
Who plowed or sowed matters not to the reaper:
I’m only remembered by what I have done.

And no doubt can remain on any heart that there has been a full and blessed answer to the aspiration, which he had set to sweetest strains —

And when, with my glorified vision, at last

The walls of “that city” I see,
Will any one then at the Beantifnl Gate

Be waiting and watching for me?

“And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.” — Rev. xiv, 13.

George 0. iN’eedham, the evangelist, wrote to a friend, soon after Mr. Bliss’ death:

A great and sore trouble has fallen upon us. Messrs. Moody, Sankey, Whittle, Stebbins and others of us who were identified in work with our departed friend can only weep and mourn to-day, though sorrowing not as those who have no hope.

During the past three years, Mr. Bliss had been identified with Major Whittle in Gospel labors, and both men were the bosom friends of Messrs. Moody and Sankey. In personal appearance he was a fine specimen of a vigorous man. Large, well-proportioned, noble in presence — he never failed to produce an impression on the passer-by. Possessing princely manners, and imbued with a true spirit of the Christian gentleman, a man of rare worth and grace and spiritual attainments has passed from us.

Since the hope of our Lord’s coming dawned upon the heart of our brother, he loved to speak of that prospective day. The last time I talked with him, he said he would interweave that truth into his new hymns, and so teach the peo< pie to look and wait for the Son from heaven. Many of his pieces are full of the gladness and the joyousness of that hope.

A year ago, during Mr. Bliss’ life, Philip Phillips, the singer, wrote:

Mr. P. P. Bliss combines the rare gifts of writing and singing Sacred Song, and like Chicago, his home, has come into public favor rapidly, and while young. He is an excellent Christian man, a member of the PresbTterian Church, and about thirty -two years of age. This present year he has resigned his position as chorister of a large church in Chicago, and cast in his lot as singer with D. W. Whittle, as a lay evangelist. They are at the present time laboring in the Southern States of America. Mr. Bliss has brought out the “Charm” and “Sunshine” of Sacred Song, and goes about literally as an ensample of his book. He is author of “Almost Persuaded,” “Hold the Fort,” “When Jesus comes,” “I am so Glad that Jesus Loves Me,” ‘* Dare to be a Daniel,” “Only an Annor-Bearer,” “What shall the Harvest be?” etc.

The following poem, by Rev. Arthur T. Pierson, D. D., ol Detroit, comes to us with the explanatory words of the author:” I read at an immense mass meeting held here in the Opera House, Sunday afternoon, the following impromptu verses, in memory of P. P. Bliss. A harp draped and adorned with floral decorations was placed on the platform; and knowing that this was to be, I framed these verses after my morning service. If you publish them, please let italics go in, as I have interwoven strains from Bliss’ favorite songs, and the italics indicate them. The haste in which they were written will explain their crude shape, as I could not destroy their impromptu character by attempt at revision.

The harp of Zion’s psalmist now is still.

Ten thousand eyes, in bitter grief, have wept.
Because the hand that, with a master’s skill,.

These silver chords so long, so sweetly swept.
Is turned to ashes in the fatal flames I

Because no more that voice Redemption sings
And sounds the Name above all other names, —

With whose high praises even heaven rings..

The harp is still I the harper is not here!

No more shall that anointed silver tongue
Arouse the dull and inattentive ear.

And teach us how the gospel may be sung;
How poet’s harp and heart, alike devote.

Both words and melodies may consecrate, %

Till Jesus’ call may sound on every note.

And win the wanderer to the narrow gate I. ^.

The earthly harp is still, but up on high,

Where everlasting anthems ceaseless roll,
A golden harp, resounding in the sky, i

Thrills with the triumph of a ransomed soul.

FROM harper’s WilEKLY. 309

There, ‘mid the host of the celestial choir,

His sorrow buried, and his heart at rest.
He has “more holiness” his soul’s desire

Safe in the arms of Jesus — on His breast /

Weep not for him, who now doth fully know

The depth of mercy and the grace divine.
The blood that washed and made him Mite as snow,

And sings with rapture —” Yes, I know H^s mine**
He leadeth him, He guides him with His eye;

Light of the world, He brightly beams on him;
And, brethren, we shall mset Mm by and by

When not a tear the ransomed eye shall dim

Catch up and echo ye his trumpet tone:

Let whosoever heareth shaut the sound;
We’ll tell of Him who sa/oes and saves alone.

Till sinners shall receive — the world around;
Shall shout ’tis done, LiQo,believe the Son —

Till prodigals come home and kiss His feet.
Till hearts emptied of self, by grace are won.

Nothing but vessels, for His use made mset.

He’d bid us, could he speak, from mansions fair,

Rescue the perishing — not mourn the dead.
Bid burdened souls dismiss their load of care.

And know that Jesus loves them — for them bled.
He seems to shout, from over Jordan’s wave.

Hold ye the fort! by help of grace divine.
Let lower lights be burning, you mxiy save

Some struggling sailor — it your light doth shina

We will not weep I when Jesus comes, we’ll fly,

Our weary souls shall rest; we’re going home.
He gave his life for us, why should we sigh?

For soon our weary feet no more shall roam.
We’re coming to the cross, anew to be

With Jesus crucified — that so, ere long
We may the saints and our dear Jesus see,

And join, with harps in hand, in that new song.

Harpsfs Weekly published an excellent partrait of Mr. Bliss, accompanied by the following references to him:

Among the victims of the dreadful railroad calamity at Ashtabula were the evangelist Philip P. Bliss and his wife. Mr. Bliss was the author of the well-known hymn, “Hold the Fort.” He was on hia way to take part in the Gospel meetings at Chicago, where he was highly esteemed. Probably no modern hymn has been more widely sung in England and America than the one just named. According to the statements of those who were in a position to know, Mr. Bliss made a heroic eflFort to save his wife when he might have saved himself, and, failing in this, remained and died with her, the two offering their prayers together as the fatal flames approached them, like the old ’ martyrs at the stake; and thus, united in life, they were not divided in death. Those who remain pursuing the work in which he was engaged have already provided the means for educating his children, two young boys, and bringing them up in the way their father walked, and for erecting an appropriate monument to the memory of this faithful pair. The death of Mr. Bliss has elicited throughout the country many expressions of sorrow. He was but thirty-eight years old at the time of his decease, and had only in the later years of his life become a proficient in niusic. Ten years ago, he entered the music store of Messrs. Root & Cady in Chicago, and remained there until the great fire of 1871. Since then he has been an active evangelist, and with Major Whittle has made long tours through the country. Some of his best-known pieces are, “Hold the Fort,” “Pull for the Shore,” “Jesus loves even Me.” His songs have done much to popularize the religious movement of our day, which has so visibly affected the masses of the population in England, Scotland, Ireland, and the United States.

Simeon Gilbert writes to The Advance as follows:

The telegraphic announcement that Mr. and Mrs. P. P. Bliss were on board the fatal train which plunged into the gulf with that broken bridge at Ashtabula, Ohio, and perished with ine rest, sent a pang of sorrow throughout the country. All who perished in that most appalling disaster left friends to mourn their loss and cherish their memory; but in the case of Mr. Bliss, whose hymns and tunes had made him a favorite in thousands of churches and with millions of Sunday School scholars, his mourners, on both sides of the Atlantic, are innumerable.

The life of Mr. Bliss was a voice — the voice of one singing, with a wonderful persuasiveness, of the “good tidings of great joy for all people.” He wrote his own hymns, composed his own tunes, and sung them,too. During the past three or four years, his Gospel hymns and tunes, popularized partly by himself, and still more by his dear friend, Mr. Sankey, have been used jftener and by larger numbers than those of any other cotemporary composer Being dead, he yet speaketh, and the circumstances of his death will give a peculiar sacredness to the songs and tunes which he has left us. No doubt some of them will, having met a special want in the development of the Christian life of the period, and served their temporary, but not on that account unimportant, use, pass away; but some of them, we are confident, will take their place among those which the church will not let die. Those who shall hereafter pause to trace the distinctive qualities, the timbre, so to speak, of

FROM SIMEON QILB£KT. 311

the Ghrifltlaa life of this time, will note that what Charles Wesley was to John Wesley, Mr. Bliss has been to Mr. Moody.

The best of Mr. Bliss’ hymns and tunes are simple and lucid utterances of the heart of the Gospel and of the Christian experience of those who put complete trust in Christ as a perfect Savior. Not keyed to the same pitch as Luther’s famous battle-hymn, “A strong tower is our God,” he yet gauel the popular temper and want of the churches equally well. The present more particularly aggressive form of evangelistic work owes as much to what Mr. Bliss and his singing co -laborers have contributed as to any other human instrumentality.

In George Herbert’s “Country Parson,” the parson preaching is told that he must first “dip in his own heart” his words before he speaks them. Mr. Bliss had experienced his own songs before he composed them. It is not claimed that he was a great poet, or that he possessed the genius for some of the sublimer strains of music, but he had the sense and the tact which are not often equaled in matching words and tunes, and suiting both to the popular requirement.

Mr. Bliss was only thirty-eight years old. He was born in Rome, Pennsylvania. His parents were very poor, and his early advantages were extremely limited. To the last, his admirable wife was to a singular degree his greatest helper. One of his first instructors in music was Mr. Root. Coming to Chicago some ten years ago, he was employed in the music establishment of Root & Cady. The great fire of 1871 dissolved that connection, and he has been wont to say that the fire was the making of him, setting him at liberty to devote himself to the special kind of work to which he felt himself called of God. His first church connection was the Methodist, but coming to Chicago he united with the First Congregational Church, Dr. Goodwin’s, and was for a number of years both its chorister and Sunday School Superintendent.

Qne of the sweetest of the hymns and tunes composed by him is the one entitled, “When Jesus Comes.” Among those most in use, and which have been most evidently blessed in the using are the “Hallelujah, ’tis Done I “« Calling now for Thee;” “Whosoever Will;” “That will be Heaven for Me;” Hold the Fort; “‘* Once for All;” “We’re going Home To-morrow;” the one so dear to the little ones, Jesus Loves even Me; “‘* More to Follow;” “Where Hast thou Gleaned To-day;” “The Light of the World is Jesus;” “Let the Lower Lights be Burning;” “Pull for the Shore,” and “My Prayer.”

Last Sunday, in some schools, and we presume in many, the hymns ued were exclusively those which Mr. Bliss has left us. The one beginning, “Free from the law, oh, happy condition,” Mr. Moody thinks will live always.

Of late, as is well known, he has been the constant associate in evangelistic work of Major D. W. Whittle. No one can possibly feel his loss more deeply than our friend Major Whittle. They had seemed as necessary to each other as Moody and Sankey. At the time when he met his death he was on his way to Chicago to join Major Whittle in carrying forward the work n this city begun by Messrs. Moody and Sankey. The first report was that Mr. and Mrs. Bliss, with their two little children, were all caught up in an undivided group to their heavenly home. It was since asoertained, however, that the children had been left with their grandmother in Rome, Pa.

Key. W. W. Patton, who knew Mr. Bliss long and intimately, thus speaks of his life and labors:

Among the manj victims of the Ashtabula calamity, none will be more widely and deeply mourned than Mr. P. P. Bliss, who perished with his wife, their remains being entirely consumed by the flames. He was the author of the most popular of the pieces sung in the Moody and Sankey meetings in this country and abroad, such as “Hallelujah,’tis Done;” “What shall the Harvest Be?” “Whosoever Will;” “More to Follow;” “That will be Heaven for Me;” “My Prayer;” “Almost Persuaded;” “How Much Owest Thou?” and many others, both the words and music of which were composed by him. He also wrote the music to many others of the favorite hymns which are sung in those meetings. In addition to this, he was an uncommonly effective singer, having a rich baritone voice, well cultivated and full of expression.

Mr. Bliss was born in the wilds of Northern Pennsylvania, and was of quite humble extraction. He had but few advantages in early life. He married, young, a lady of his own social position, who had much strength of character, who through life was his unfailing good genius. “I owe everything to my wife,” he once remarked to a friend. Mr. Bliss for a time was in the employment of the publishing firm of Root & Gady, Chicago, and held musical conventions at leading points through the Northwest. His early religious connections were with the Methodists; but, on going to Chicago, he united with the First Congregational Church, under the pastoral care of Rev. Dr. Goodwin, and became the leader of the choir and the Superintendent of the Sunday School, during a period of several years. Such was the kindness of his heart, the warmth of his piety, and the personal interest which he took in the members of the choir and school, that he won the aflfection as well as the regard of the whole church which now mourns him with a special sense of bereavement.

When Major Whittle, induced by the example and urgent entreaty of Mr. Moody and other Christian friends, surrendered his business and gave himself to the work of a lay evangelist, Mr. Bliss decided to become his fellow-laborer, and to “sing the Gospel,” while Mr. Whittle preached it. And this he has done for the three past years with great success, visiting not only numerous places in the Western States, but also Louisville, Nashville, Atlanta, Memphis and other points at the South. Being tall and well-developed in his physical frame, with clustering black hair and a handsome face, and possessing easy and polished manners and a very joyous temperament, together with a wealth of sympathy, he impressed most favorably those who saw and heard him, whether in public or in private. His singing, like that of Mr. Sankey’s, often led sinners to Christ, by its touching presentations of Gospel truth. He was not much of a poet, in the high sense, but he had a poetic susceptibility of feeling and an unusual skill in versifying evangelic doctrine in the very phrases of

Scripture, as also in adapting the music to the sentiment so as powerfully to impress the hearer. What multitudes have been thrilled by his lines:

Hallelnjah, ’tis done!
I believe on the Son;
I am saved by the blood of the Crucified One I

At the time of his death, he was announced to lead, at Dr. Goodwin’s church, a “praise meeting” of the Sunday School, on the afternoon of the last Sunday of the year, and also to sing, at a later hour, in the afternoon services of the Tabernacle. It had been arranged that, after the departure of Moody and Sankey for Boston, Whittle and Bliss should take their places, and carry on the glorious work. But, so far as Mr. Bliss was concerned, this was not to be. He had long enough “held the fort,” and was to be relieved from further earthly service. The last piece which he sang at the First Congregational Church, before he went East to spend the holidays with family relatives, began with the lines of his own composition:

I know not the hoar when my Lord will come
To take mc away to His own dear home;
Bat 1 know that His presence will lighten the gloom.
And that will be glory for me I

In the Cumberland Preslyteriaii “Mrs. E. C. D.^’ pays poetical tribute to “The vSweet Singer.”

He came to “sing for Jesus,” his armor shining bright: We knew that we could trust him; the Savior was his light. The weary wanderer, seeking peace, he guided to the throne. And the rich music of his voice was used for God alone.

The willing servant of the Lord is lost to mortal sight; To him, or us, no warning came; God’s will — it must bo right. We shiver in our anguish, and the world’s warm throbbing heart Hath felt the stroke of the angel wing that bore the cruel dart.

We trust that in that bitter hour the struggle soon was o’er; Perhaps he did not know ’twas death till on the other shore, Where with the darling of his heart «»o safely by his side. He only wondered and. rejoiced that they together died.

The pearly gate was open, they saw “the mansion fair,” And found the Savior “waiting, watching” for them there; Waiting to bid them welcome home, to clasp them by the hand, And give them quiet, peaceful rest in the brighter, better land*

The reason why the summona came, oar Father kuoweth well; We only know we miss him here; the rest we cannot tell. But let us to the mercy seat bring all this grief and sorrow, And wait to hear him sing again when we “go home to-morrow.”

A gentleman in St. Paul, who took a deep interest in the meetings of Whittle and Bliss, which were held in St. Paul about a year ago, contributes the following:

The sad death of Mr. Bliss, the evangelist, the preacher of Christ’s Gospel bj song, has come to this city with peculiar force, and burdened many hearts here with the most genuine sorrow. It is, therefore, most fitting that some pen should strive to put into words that which so many hearts feel, and though any written tribute must fall short of adequate expression, still all who knew and loved Mr. Bliss will be thankful that the attempt was made.

We cannot in St. Paul speak of him as we knew him long ago; in other communities he grew up, and in other places had his most intimate associations. But he was nevertheless our fellow-citizen, our friend, our brother. In an emphatic and peculiar sense he had no continuing city; no West, no East, no North, no South could claim him. Wherever souls needed the divine blessing and comfort of the Gospel; wherever there were those whose sensibilities could be touched by the sweetest of music, the glad evangel of salvation by Christ — there was Bliss’ home for the hour, the day, the week, the month. He counted all men for brethren, and his heartfelt desire was that all, like he, should turn their faces to the heavenly Jerusalem and, accepting the Savior, whose love he so sweetly sung, be ready at any moment for the summons which should call them to be its inhabitant.

Those more intimately associated in arranging the details of the work which Messrs. Whittle and Bliss engaged in in St. Paul will call to mind the circumstances under which we first became acquainted with our brother Blisa. It will be remembered how earnestly it was desired by the committee in charge that Whittle should not fail to bring him with him; how circumstances prevented this; how something in the services was missing till he came, and how all realized, after his coming, that Whittle had seemed shorn of a portion of his power till Bliss was present to preach by song the same Gospel he so earnestly spoke to the people.

All will recollect, too, the magnificent presence God had bestowed upon the mat. It was attractive and Impressive, drawing attention at once to the singer, and aiding the effect which his song had upon all who heard it.

How sweet and tender was his voice, like the spirit of the words which he wrote and of the music which he composed. How strong were his notes — like the splendid physique of the singer — like the deep feelings that were in his heart for the souls of those who listened.

Those brought into more familiar contact with Mr. Bliss will gladly join in ascribing to him a nature similar to his voice, both sweet and strong. It was.

many think, in the incidental and less public services that his ch&racter shone out most clearly and appeared to the best advantage.

He has, ere this, greeted those in Heaven whose weary hours he cheered while in St. Paul by singing and praying beside their beds, o invitation to a service of this sort was ever declined; nay, more, he seemed glad of these quiet opportunities to cheer and comfort, and convert, no doubt, in many icstances, his fellow-travelers.

At the County Jail; ai; the County Hospital; at the State Reform School lie held little singing services, always striving to appear at his best and give those who heard him at these places the very sweetest of his efforts.

His modesty about his musical attainments was always apparent, but at no time more so than when in the praise-meeting, which he held while here, though the Opera House was filled by the hope of hearing him sing often, he did not give a single solo piece during the whole two hours cf service.

It is needless that mention be made of his hymns and their music, both words and tunes having been written by him in many instances. In services almost innumerable, on this quiet Sabbath, they are being sung to the praise and glory of the God whom he served, and so is his highest ambition satisfied. So shall he live on earth as well as in heaven; so “being dead, he yet speaketh” in sweetest words.

One characteristic of these hymns in the light of his sad death cannot fail of notice. Take them up to select those appropriate to sing at a memorial ser vice of him, and how fit are they. How often he sang

I know not the hoar when my Ood will come
To take me away to his own dear home;
But I know that His presence will lighten the gloom.
And that will he glory for me.

Truly the call came suddenly, and the gloom was very heavy on that awful night, but he died realizing what he sang while living. His last hymn in St. Paul contained this verse:

For those who sleep,
And those who weep,

Above the portals narrow.
The mansions rise
Beyond the skies.

We’re going home to-morrow.

So it was to him and his wife but “going home.” They were one by all the sacred ties of earth — one in holy purpose of blessing their fellow-men — one in the sad circumstance of death. God will take care of their children, for He never breaks His promises. So, dear brother, to-day in singing your hymns, we bid you farewell in our hearts till we shall meet ‘* over there,” and once more hear your voice still praising the Lord whose Gospel you so faithfully preached to us here in song.

At the session of the Plymouth (Ohio) Musical Convenlion, under the direction of Prof. H. S. Perkins, of Chicago, the following resolutions were passed:

Whbrbas, The dispensation of Providence, in the sad, hearviending ca. lamity at Ashtabula, Ohio, on the evening of December 29, 1876, in which occurred the death of Mr. and Mrs. P. P. Bliss, of Chicago, while in the zenith of their usefulness; and

Whereas, Fully recognizing them as worthy, valuable members of society and of the musical profession; also desiring to condole with the relatives of the deceased in this time of their great affliction, therefore, by the Huron County Musical Convention now in session at Plymouth, Ohio, be it

Resolved That we have been greatly pained by the very sad and untimely death of Mr. and Mrs. P. P. Bliss, of Chicago, for whom we entertained the greatest respect and friendship.

Resolved, That our most heartfelt sympathies and condolence be extended to the widowed mother, sisters, and other relatives in this hour of their great sorrow and affliction; and that a copy of these resolutions be presented to the Chicago papers for publication, and a copy be transmitted to the surviving members of the family.

[Signed by Committee.] H. S. Perkins, Chicago; the Rev. J. H. Gray Attica, Ohio; A. L. Simmons, Steuben, Ohio; H. H. Johnson, Havana, Ohio Thomas Parkison, Mansfield, Ohio.

Bev. J. B. Atchinson, of Detroit, after many warm expressions of his sympathy with the brother left here, writes of Mrs. Bliss as follows:

There is no man, living or dead, that ever exerted such a powerful influence over me for good as did Brother Bliss. My acquaintance with him for the past few years has greatly changed and directed my religious work, and, now that he is gone I feel his influence still. There were many sad tears in our Lome — where he and his wife had a hearty welcome — when the news of his death reached us. Only a short time before he died, I received a letter from him which is so characteristic of his piety, friendship, cheerfulness, wit and pleasantry, and in all such a striking coincidence, when considered in relation to his death, that I can but hope it may find a place in your forthcoming work. The following is a true copy:

Peoria, Illinois, December 1, 1S79.
Bm^B Bbotheb!

^fnatty — AT last — IN CONCLUSION — Here’s your “Open Window.” Scmnw-Aili wa I that I hadn’t one before. Sense me.

Xeetings good — wiih you the tame. Wife is with me. Hope to go home Xnuus.

Truly,

Blittlb & Wmaa.

And it proved to be his “Finally — at last — in conclusion” to me. How literally were his hopes fulfilled, that he should go home Christmas, and what a proof is his signature of his very close relation to you and at the same time 80 characteristic of his pleasantries and cheerful spirit.

Dear Bliss! I almost hear thy bugle voice singing —

O crown of rejoicing.

O wonderful song,
O joy everlasting,

O glorified throng,
O beautiful home,

My home can it be,
O glory reserved for me.

God bless you, my dear Whittle. My feeble prayers shall aid you all

they can.

Yours in glad sorrow,

J. B. Atchinson.

At a conference, held January. 2, 1877 of the pastors of several Evangelical churches of Louisville, Kentucky, representing the Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, Episcopal and Lutheran churches, the distressing intelligence was communicated of the death of Mr. and Mrs. P. P. Bliss in the dreadful railway disaster at Ashtabula, Ohio. Whereupon Rev. Stuart Robinson presented the following memorial minute, which was unanimously adopted:

In view of the peculiar and interesting relations of Christian friendship between Mr. and Mrs. Bliss and our people, growing out of the labors of Messrs. Whittle and Bliss as evangelists, so remarkably blessed of Qod, among us, we deem it eminently appropriate that some formal public expression be given of our profound sorrow and our tender sympathy in the grief of the kindred and friends of Mr. and Mrs. Bliss under this most mysterious Providence.

We desire to bear an affectionate testimony to the signally elevated Christian character of these servants of Christ, so earnest and faithful, yet withal so modest and unauming, and so wise in winning souls. We recall with gratitude to God the marvelous gifts and culture of the sweet Gospel singer whose strains were blessed of God as the means of comforting and edifying God’s people, of encouraging desponding souls, of determining the halting, of directing the inquiring, and of awakening the souls slumbering in sin.

We can only mangle our tears in silence with those of the bereaved who, “with groanjngs that cannot be uttered,” mourn that death should have come to their loved ones in a form so awful and distressing. “We are dumb. We open not our mouth because Thou didst it.” Yet fully assured that this dreadful affliction that was for a moment ‘* wrought out for them an exceeding and eternal weight of glory,” we bless God, and we exhort these ber’^aved friends to bless God for His marvelous loving kindness in preparing them by His grace for so signally useful and blessed, though so brief, a career on earth, and for receiving the welcome plaudit, “Well done, good and faithful servants; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

It is the sweet assurance of God’s word, that not only “Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord,” but also that “their works do follow them.” Tens oi thousands in the church on earth will continue to be blest through the works of Mr. Bliss. They will sing the Gospel songs with ever grateful remembrance of him who put into their mouths these new and beautiful strains, long after he himself, called by his Lord to “come up higher,” shall be singing in strains ineffably more beautiful and glorious in the church above, with the one hundred and forty-four thousand and with “the harpers harping upon their

harps,” the new song before them.

Stuart Robinson,

Chairman of Com.
J. M. MoRKis, Sec’y.

On the day following the memorial services in Chicago, the Tribune said, in its editorial columns:

The intense interest and deep feeling manifest at the various services held yesterday testify to the aflfection and esteem in which P. P. Bliss and wife were held in Chicago, and to the sorrow and grief of this community at their sad fate. At the meetings led by Mr. Moody and Mr. Sankey, at the Chicago Avenue Church and the Tabernacle, tearful tributes were paid by the co-workers of the gifted evangelist so suddenly removed from his chosen sphere of usefulness, and at Racine, Wisconsin, where Messrs. Whittle and Bliss had successfully carried forward the work of revival, memorial services were also held yesterday. It will be a comfort to many sorrowing hearts to learn, through the dispatch sent last evening to the Tribune by Major Whittle from Ashtabula, that the two sons of Mr. Bliss, who were reported as having shared the fate of their parents, are safe at Rome, Pennsylvania, not having been on the doomed train.

Henry Moorhouse, the evangelist, writes as follows:

My first acquaintance with dear Mr. Bliss was some seven years ago, when. accompanied by Mr. Moody and Mr. Herbert Taylor, I called upon him at his room, and was charmed by his sweet simplicity of manner and earnest love for the Lord Jesus Christ. At that time his hymns, which were very sweet, did not contain the same earnest, simple Gospel truths which afterward made them so solemn and so powerful in winning souls to the Lord Jesus. Year by year, as I again and again visited America, I saw him growing rapidly in the blessed truths of the Bible, and was greatly blessed and charmed by his company and conversation. During dear Mr. Sankey’s visit to Englant, how wonderfully the Lord used those sweet hymns eternity alone can tell, as thousands of dear Christians have been cheered as we have sung together “I Know not the Hour my Lord will Come,” and “Down Life’s dark Vale we Wander till Jesus Comes,” and other kindred hymns.

With all my heart and soul I sympathize with the dear bereaved mother and little children, and I joy and rejoice with dear Mr. and Mrs. Bliss, who now are safe within the vail and who to-day are with their blessed Lord who loved them and gave Himself for them.

Wirt Arland, an old school friend of Mr. Bliss, said of “Hold the Fort:”

The best known of his pieces originated in a vivid description by Major Whittle of the signaling from Kenesaw Mountain “over the heads of the rebel host.” It has gone round the world and comes back in the Chinese tongue. It has been issued as a holiday gift book in elegant form by William F. Gill & Co., with appropriate pictures by Miss L. B. Humphrey and Robert Lewis, and finely engraved by John Andrew & Son. When we last saw him he had been to visit, with Major Whittle, the spot from which the message was signaled to the Commander fifteen miles distant — “Hold the Fort I “Picking up a bundle, he showed us three hickory sticks that he had cut on the mountain and said: ‘’You see we still hold the fort. These are some canes that I am going to have mounted for my boys and myself. My boys are darling little fellows, and I have been feeling quite sad to-day, since I left them with their grandfather at Home and have got to leave them behind as I go to Chicago.”

At a later date, Mr. Arland wrote:

The winters are drifting like flakes of snuw.
And the summers like buds between,

since we trudged that long snowy winter, twenty-one years ago, to the same school. The ripe fruit of his manhood was but the generous fulfillment of the early promise of a stalwart and genial boyhood, and that deep hearty voice that was loudest on the play-ground or in the songs of the noontide recess, but needed development to form that which fell with a powerful charm on hearts yearning for the peace that passeth all understanding. We met him for the last time at Elmira in October, and we felt that our friend had not changed.

only ripened, and his fervent “God bless you, A” as the Erie train drew

up to bear him to Chicago, was the blessing of one we knew in the days when the principles of life are tried. His love of music was a prominent trait in his character, and many an evening have we sat and listened to his violin, wondering how he who then knew only how to play by ear could play to touch our feelings so wonderfully. He could not read music at this time. His rich, powerful bass voice was an unfailing help in the school music, and across all these years we can hear it as he sang:

I
Shed not a tear o’er your friends early bier.

When 1 am gone, I am gone
Pansc when the slow tolling bell you shall hear,

When I am gone, I am gone.
Think as yon stand by my half opened grave;
Think who has died His beloved to save;
Think of the crown all the ransomed shall have
When I am gone, I am gone.

Rev. D. W. Morgan, of Griggsville, Illinois, relates the following incident relative to Mrs. Bliss, which may be of interest to our readers:

I think it was during the summer of 1868, shortly after Mr. Bliss had bftgun to turn his attention to writing for our Sunday Schools, that I was in conversation with Mr. George F. Root concerning him. We recalled several of his recent pieces, and I remarked upon his wonderful versatility of talent as a hymn writer, song writer and singer.

Mr. Root replied, with emphasis, “Yes, I consider Mr. Bliss as incomparably the rising musical man of our day. He is destined to more than fill the place made vacant by the death of Mr. Bradbury.”

In Mr. Bliss’ generous and enthusiastic acknowledgment of indebtedness to his noble wife for early encouragement in his musical tastes, he would speak of her selling the two cows which were part of her marriage patrimony to enable him to pursue his musical studies at Geneseo, New York. And that the was moved by a pure, wifely ambition to study and work in the same direction with him, that she might be his peer, or at least his constant sympathizer and support in musical endeavor, of this all are persuaded who have listened to her rich, trained voice in solo or accompanying the stronger voice of him on whom she leaned. But the following incident will illustrate the keen insight which thorough training and close observation had given her in voice culture — that which pertains to the use and abuse of the vocal organs. It was, perhaps, in November, 1869, when I was pastor of the Baptist Church in Gardner, Illinois. I had worked up a musical convention of two weeks for Mr. Bliss, who, with his wife, was conducting a similar convention in Peoria. I wrote them, as they were on the eve of coming to us, saying that I should await their coming and see them safely ensconced in our home, and see the convention started, but that 1 did not expect to sing a note nor preach a sermon for three months; that I was under the doctor’s ban, my throat granulated and bleeding and stubbornly resisting all treatment. My church had voted me leave of absence for the winter, made generous provision for my support, and advised me to spend the winter in the South.

Mr. and Mrs. Bliss came, and the first evening, as we were seated about the fire, Mrs, Bliss said: “Mr. Morgan, I don’t think you need to go South for the recovery of your throat, nor even to give up preaching or singing. I think I can tell what is the diflSculty with your throat, and can point out its remedy. *Tis brought on by a vicious elocution. You are using an assumed tone of voice, and are probably unconsciously imitating some one’s voice that you have admired. The orotund is not your natural voice. By its use you have brought an undue stress on the larynx and vocal chords, and they have yielded to over tension. Your remedy is to adopt, arbitrarily, a more tenor key of voice. Raise it at least two tones in conversation, reading and preaching.” I thanked her, but replied that I thought her remedy altogether impracticable; that I could not take up at once another tone of voice. But she insisted that it could be done; that they would be with us for two weeks, would watch me closely and help to enforce the cure. I tried it, sang in most sessions of the convention, and preached the next Sabbath. My throat toughened and I have never from that day lost a religious or other service from diseased throat. The hint may be worth the attention of other public speakers and singers.

Mr. Morgan adds:” I have long been accustomed to think of Mr. Bliss and speak of him as my ideal Christian gentleman — the most perfect specimen I had ever mef 21