Other Literary and Musical Friendships

‘N general I have been always willing to agree with authors as to the merits of their own poems. That often is the safer plan, and in the end may save a vast deal of ill feeling. One funny instance comes to mind now. Fifty or more years ago I knew a man who thought he had a genius for poetry; and when I was calling at his house he recited one of his own productions, of which I recall only this stanza:

“I am what is called a sinner
By those who think they are right;
But then I hope to go where
The blind receive their sight.”

I said, “Why, Mr. Brown, did you write that?” endeavoring to look as demure as possible. He seemed to be much flattered, and said, “I have been thinking that you and I could write a book together.” Summoning all the gravity I could, I exclaimed, “Wouldn’t that be splendid!” The book, however, was never written.

An irregular line frequently makes a poem unsuited to music. In my work I have seldom undertaken even the slightest revision in the poems of others, without being perfectly sure that it was wished. Once, when I departed from this rule, to gratify the wish of the editor of a certain New York magazine, I repented at leisure. Someone had sent in a piece entitled “Charlie and I”; I revised it; and a few days after the magazine was published the author came down to interview me. Not until some time later did she become fully reconciled and then only through the friendly offices of my colleague, the late Mrs. Mary A. Kidder. Then we became firm friends; but the lesson taught me by such an unpleasant incident has saved me from like repetitions.

Miss Josephine Pollard and Mrs. Kidder also wrote many hymns for Mr. Bradbury, and his successors, the Biglow and Main Company; and the three of us worked together so well that they were in the habit of calling us “the trio.”

Philip P. Bliss was introduced to me in 1874. His talent for music was inherited, though his early advantages were few. When he was ten years of age he heard a piano for the first time; and, becoming enraptured by the music, he sought the source of it which proved to be the parlor of an entire stranger. But the boy was so enchanted that he did not think of that; and so entered; and there found a young lady seated at the piano, but she ordered him out. This same boy, however, mostly through his own efforts, had become so proficient in music, after a very few years that he was asked to lead large chorus classes.

The death of Mr. Bliss at the beginning of what seemed a career of great promise cast a cloud over the spirits of all his friends. The night before that terrible railroad accident at Ashtabula, Ohio, in which he lost his life in a vain attempt to save that of his beloved wife, he said to his audience, “I may not pass this way again”; then he sang a solo, “I’m Going Home To-morrow.” This indeed proved prophetic of his own home going.

His celebrated hymn “Hold the Fort” was born one day in the summer of 1870, while he and Major Whitde were attending a meeting at Rockford, Illinois; and it was first used at the Young Men’s Christian Association in Chicago. Mr. Bliss was inspired to write his hymn by a story told by Major Whittle. My last meeting with the latter seems but yesterday. He was suffering much pain, and I said, “Oh, major, I wish I could give you a part of my good h alth this morning.” The dear, patient man replied, “It is all right. The Lord knows best; and all will result in my good.” Then he spoke pleasantly of some favorite hymns, and added with a smile, “All sorrow will fade away, and all pain depart as the dew before the morning sun.”

There are many other musical men whom I have had the honor of knowing and whom I number among my dearest acquaintances. I met Hart P. Danks and William F. Sherwin about the same year; D. Horatio R. Palmer has entertained us many an afternoon with his delightful reminiscences of the Holy Land; and Mr. George C. Stebbins, who has written the music to “Saved by Grace,” “Eye Hath Not Seen,” “Come

Unto Me, Ye Weary,” “In Perfect Peace,” and other famous hymns, is another of my priceless friends.

Some of those who have already crossed to the other side of the river are Victor H. Benke, William B. Bradbury, Philip P. Bliss, George F. Bristow, Henry Brown, Hart P. Danks, Mary A. Kidder, Robert Lowry, Sylvester Main, Philip Phillips, Josephine Pollard, Henry Tucker, Theodore F. Seward, William F. Shcrwin, John R. Sweney, Silas J. Vail, and Mrs. Clark Wilson; a few of the musical associates who are still spared are James M. Black, John R. Clements, Mrs. Mary Upham Currier, William H. Doane, Caryl Florio, Charles H. Gabriel, Adam Geibel, Mrs. Harriet E. Jones, Miss Eliza E. Hewitt, William J. Kirkpatrick, Mrs. Joseph F. Knapp, Hubert P. Main, James McGranahan, H. R. Palmer, Theodore E. Perkins, W. A. Post, Ira D. Sankey, I. Allan Sankey, Mrs. Lanta Wilson Smith, George C. Stebbins, B. C. Unseld, J. W. Vandeventer, W. S. Weeden, Clark Wilson, Mrs. Agnes Woolston and David D. Wood.

I have visited Mr. Kirkpatrick at his home in Philadelphia several times; and I look back upon these occasions with peculiar pleasure. To some of the melodies that he has sent I have written words that have been largely used for many years in gospel services everywhere. A few of the titles that come to mind now are “He Hideth My Soul,” “He Came to Save Me,” “Redeemed,” “Welcome for Me,” “Meet Me There,” and ‘’ Like a Bird on the Deep “; and my readers will instantly recall many others, equally popular.

Miss Eliza E. Hewitt, who has written many beautiful hymns and poems for Mr. Kirkpatrick and other composers, several years ago called on me while I was in Philadelphia; and her visit was indeed a gracious benediction. At Assembly Park, New York, recently we renewed the friendship then so favorably begun; and there we spent many delightful hours in conversation about subjects dear to both of us. Miss Hewitt’s hymn, entitled “Will There Be Any Stars in My Crown?” is a great favorite of mine. Mrs. Harriet E. Jones, also the author of hundreds of inspiring gospel songs, though I have met her but once, has proved a loving friend in her cheering letters for several years.

How can I fittingly describe my impressions of Ocean Grove? The first evening that I was there was clear and calm; and as we silently rowed across Wesley Lake some music from the camp-grounds was wafted to us with a delightful cadence. Among the lasting friendships formed at Ocean Grove were those of John R. Sweney and William J. Kirkpatrick.

Shortly after my arrival at Ocean Grove in 1877 I was met by a man, whom I had known in the old Norfolk Street Church in New York. Twelve months before I had seen him under totally different circumstances, so different in fact that his story should be of some interest. Then he was disheartened; now he was thrilled with Christian hope; and we were indeed surprised by the complete transformation. On the evening of our previous meeting he arose and said,

“Friends, I know I have done wrong; and many times I have asked your prayers. But tonight I must have your help.”

His manner impressed me exceedingly, and I gave him some words of cheer; but the majority of our membe s had little faith in his leformation, because he had tried so many times and failed. His greeting to me at Ocean Grove was as follows:

“I want to thank you for your kind words in my behalf at the Norfolk Street Church.” Some of the most gratifying memories of my life centre about testimonies of those whom I have been enabled to help by words of cheer towards better things than those of this world.

Dr. StoKes, who conducted the meetings at Ocean Grove, was a sweet, spiritual man; and he wrote several inspiring hymns, including, “Holy Spirit, Fill Me Now,” by which many an audience has been moved to tears as Mr. Sweney sang it as a solo. It was one of the saddest duties of my life to recite a tribute to his memory at a public reception given to Mr. Sweney.

The work of the Christian missionary has always had a fascination for me that all other callings have lacked; and, consequently, it was a rare privilege to sit at the feet of the saintly Bishop William Taylor and hear him tell of the tribes which live where “Afric’s sunny fountains pour down their golden sand,” as Bishop Heber has said in his great missionary hymn. The good bishop Taylor bore the heat of the day until his locks were snowy and his strength ebbing fast. On one occasion when he was starting for Africa he said to me, “Fanny, if you were thirty years younger would you go with me to Africa?”

“Yes indeed, I would,” I answered, “and help you plant missions.” I saw him again a few weeks before his last missionary journey and he said,

“Well, Fanny, I am going once more.”

“Many times yet,” said I, “if it be our Father’s will.” Laying his hand upon my head he gave me his blessing; and as he stood there a vision of the multitudes to whom his ministry hcd been a benediction came before my eyes with a strange power and pathos. My prayer is: May the hour come when we will no longer say of the foreign field, “Lo, the harvest is ripe, but where are the reapers?”

The unique illustrations given by Dr. Talma ge always interested me, one of them in particular. In a Christmas sermon he told the story of a little Swiss girl who was dying; and from her window she could look out to the lofty summit of the mountains amid which she had been reared.

“Papa, carry me to the tcp of the mountain,” she exclaimed. But he replied,

“My child, I cannot carry you, but the angels will.” For a time she was silent and lay with her eyes closed. At length she opened them and looking out of the window exclaimed in her joy,

“They are carrying me, father. I shall soon be at the top.”

With those words Dr. Talmage concluded his sermon. It seemed to his hearers that he had conducted them to a high pinnacle in a lofty range of mountains where they might breath a pure atmosphere. When I reminded him of the beautiful effect that his words had upon us, he said,

“Ah, you are right. I never intended to bring you down from that summit.”

And thus it is with even the humblest fellow-ministers of song; they take us to heights of which the soul often dreams, yet rarely attains, in fact to those mansions of the blest where there are always light and warmth and love; where the thirst of weary pilgrims is quenched by draughts of mountain springs; and where this mortal spirit puts on its immortality.

“Sing on, ye joyful pilgrims,
The way will not be long,
My faith is heavenward rising
With every tuneful song.”