Events of Recent Years
My dear mother, who was so many years a comfort to me, passed peacefully from this world to that brighter home above, September 2, 1890. She had lived to attain the grand old age of ninety-one years; and had always enjoyed good health until a short time before her death. Her last days were calm and beautiful, a blessing to all who knew her. A short time after her death, as a tribute of my devotion to her, I composed the following poem:
“Her voyage of life is ended,
Her anchor firmly cast,
Her bark that many a storm has braved
Is safe in port at last.
Surrounded by her treasured ones,
Our mother passed away
Beneath the golden sunset
Of summer’s brightest day.
“She waited for the summons
That called her to depart,
And heard the voice of Jesus
Like music in her heart.
Not hopeless in our sorrow
We lay her down to sleep,
Where He, our Lord and Saviour,
A hallowed watch will keep.
“We loved our tender mother
Far more than words can tell,
And while with deep emotion
We breathe our fond farewell,
We know her tranquil spirit
Has reached the longed-for shore,
And now with joy is greeting
The loved ones gone before.
“Oh, mother, we are coming;
The time will not be long
Till we shall clasp thy hand again,
And join the blessed song.
The sheaf of wheat is garnered,
The sickle’s work is done,
And everlasting glory
Through Christ her soul has won.”
Besides often making addresses before various religious bodies, such as the Young Men’s Christian Associations, Sabbath schools and churches of many creeds, during the last twenty years, I have been led to write some of my most abiding hymns: “Jesus is Calling,” “My Saviour First of All,” “Blessed Day,” “Resting by the River,” “Never Say Gcod Bye,” “He Hideth My Soul,” “Meet Me There,” “Come with Rejoicing,” “Safe in the Glory Land,” and “Yes, There is Pardon for You.” “How many hymns have you written?” is a question I often hear. The exact number has never been recorded but the Biglow and Main Company inform me that I have written five thousand five hundred for them alone; and I may have composed half as many more for several authors of music. None of the infirmities incident to old age have touched me as yet; and my active labors still continue amid the many kind friends whom God has sent to enrich this earthly life. Among these are I. Allan Sankey, who has set the notes to many of my hymns, Hubert P. Main, Sidney A. Saunders, and George Leonard, all of whom are, or have been, associated with the Biglow and Main Company of New York.
This firm in 1897 issued a volume of my poems, entitled “Bells at Evening and Other Verses,” and containing one hundred twenty-four pages. The initial poem, which gave the title to the book, was inspired by a little reminiscence of the lovely village of Ledyard, New York, where I visited more than fifty years ago; and the incident narrated is partly true and partly imaginative.
The city of Bridgeport has always had peculiar attractions for me, not only because it has long been the home of most of those who are near my heart by ties of blood, but because also of the delightful acquaintance of many of her generous citizens. Prior to 1900, therefore, my sisters had urged me, for some years, to give up my residence in New York; and thus to consider this city my permanent home. To this end they were heartily seconded by my publishers, who wished to relieve me, as much as possible, after a busy life, from the care and anxiety to which my life as a hymn-writer necessarily was subjected; and principally to place me under the immediate care of those who were ready and willing to do everything in their power to render me the happiest mortal in the world. But I did not accede to their request until, in 1900, through a serious illness, the good Lord over-ruled my objection to what seemed like a partial retirement from active labors; and so in May of that year I bade farewell to my many friends in New York, assuring them that I should visit them frequently, as I believed in the enjoyment of perfect health. This has indeed been true; since the fresh and invigorating air did what it had done for me a number of times before, when I came to Bridgeport on visits to my mother. And I need not say that here I found a most cordial welcome from those whom I had loved so long and well. Besides my beloved sisters, Mrs. Julia M. Athington and Mrs. Carrie W. Rider, Mrs. Athington has a daughter, Mrs. Leschon; and I had one brother, William, who died in 1880, leaving three children, Laura Frances, now Mrs. William Tait; Florence, now Mrs. Henry D. Booth; and Albert Morris, who married Miss Clara Hope; all of whom, with their children, live near me, and serve to make my life like a stream without a ripple upon its silver waters, or a sky without a cloud to dim the golden sunlight. Besides I have cousins in Hartford, Bridgeport, Savannah, Georgia, and New York City.
Each summer for seven years I have been making a delightful pilgrimage to the beautiful lake region of New York; and to the Chautauqua Assembly on the shores of Tully Lake. Here I have found, close to Nature’s heart, one of the best things that earth has to offer any mortal; and that is the immortal friendship of kindred spirits. There I have delivered annually a poem before the Chautauqua Round Table, over which Mrs. Elizabeth Snyder Roberts so genially presides, and with Mr. and Mrs. D. H. Cook, makes my visits one round of happy experiences. On the shores of Tully Lake I also renewed my friendship with Dr. Israel Parsons and Miss Eliza E. Hewitt; and with them have passed many happy hours in delightful conversation. Miss Hewitt, by her modest efforts, wins the affectionate regard of all who come to know her; and some of her hymns, I am sure, like “There’s Sunshine in My Soul,” “Will There be Any Stars in My Crown?” “Never Alone,” “Jesus Is Passing By,” and many others equally familiar, will never die. Mr. Will A. Post, who writes a great many sweet melodies, is also a frequent visitor in our sylvan home; and there each summer we meet our dear friends, Mrs. Harriett Blair Bristol, Mrs. Nellie R. Willis and Miss Elizabeth Corey, besides others with whom I delight to hold sweet communion.
It was also at Assembly Park that I first became acquainted, through his own poems, with that modest friend and companion who has, from the beginning, aided me generously and unselfishly, in the writing of this book; but neither of us dreamed at the first meeting that the stream of friendship, touching the lives of both, would flow onward so pleasantly without a ripple to disturb the bosom of its placid waters.
Next to good bandits I have been deeply interested in the Indians; and you may be sure that I was highly delighted, as well as honored, when Albert Cusick, formerly chief of the Six Nations, told me that he would adopt me into the Eel Clan of the Onondagas. The rite of adoption was performed in the summer of 1904; but you need have no fear of me, for the hatchet has been buried these many years.
Being now an Indian myself, it will not be amiss to tell an Indian legend, which has descended from generation to generation among the Onondagas from time immemorial; and it concerns the brave warrior Hiawatha, that young chief of the Onondagas, whose heroic deeds have been so often mentioned in story and in song.
For many moons, the legend tells us, Hiawatha desired to unite the tribes of Central New York into one federation. So he started on a journey to smoke the pipe of peace with the Mohawks; and arriving at the shore of Tully Lake he stopped to gaze on the shining waters as they caught the noonday sun. Suddenly a flock of birds flew over the lake to the northward; and the waters followed them, but Hiawatha could not tell whither the birds or water went. Looking down he saw a quantity of shells; and yet the mystery was not solved. But he gathered some of them, and continued his journey until he arrived at the hunting grounds of the Mohawks. The chief and his people were much delighted to see Hiawatha; his collection of shells attracted much attention. They were willing to exchange blankets and corn for some of the bright trinkets; and, thus, according to the legend of the Onondagas, began the use of shells for Indian money.
As I go about the country I often meet former assodates and not a few friends with whom I review the events of the past. My old home at the New York Institution is still dear to me, although there are few left there to welcome me when I enter its sacred halls. Since the death of Annie Sheridan, a few months ago, there are only two, Hannah Rodney and Alice Hatchman, left there of all those who were my pupils. They were kind and affectionate to me; and although the roses of youth have faded and we are walking along the vale of mature years, our love is unclouded and our friendship unbroken.
There are a few other pupils living in distant cities with whom I often correspond: Ellen Teft and Susan McLean of Syracuse; and now and then I hear of others in various states.
Mr. Stephen Babcock was a teacher in the Institution for more than forty years and is remembered also by me as one of my pupils, and still two other friendships have come down to me as rich legacies from the past: Mr. William B. Wait, who has served as superintendent of the Institution since 1864; and during the last forty years of very faithful and efficient service has endeared himself to both pupils and teachers; and Mr. Harvey Fuller, who has been one of my most intimate friends and whose books have been an inspiration to me. Within a day or two I have received a copy of his last book of poems entitled “Hidden Beauties” and have heard it read with great interest.
I look back with tender emotions and gratitude to the many friends and acquaintances who joined to make the occasion of my eighty-fifth birthday, March 24, 1905, most delightful. Not only America but England and the far-off lands of Indi and Tasmania were lavish in their congratulations; and in the fullness of my heart I exclaimed, “Surely ‘the lines are fallen to me in pleasant places; yea I have a goodly heritage.’” A part of my birthday — as has been my custom for over twenty years — was spent with the Biglow and Main Company in New York; and in the evening the good people of Bridgeport united in giving me a reception at the First Methodist Church, which was followed on the next Sunday evening by an address and impromptu reception at the First Baptist Church. This latter church gave me as a birthday gift a dollar for each year of my life.
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 cousins, 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 command.
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 had 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 perennial flowers that I have been transplanting and gleaning in the garden of memory for more than eighty summers.