Memories of eighty years

Front matter

lEMORiEt

A.NNY J. CR03B\ o

CORNELL

Dedication

Go little book with many a prayer Go on thy pinions light as air The story and the life portray Of her who sends thee forth to-day Go little book, God's goodness tell Whose praise her soul enraptured sings Who gave the harp she loves so well And in her childhood tuned the strings Gc, little book, her years recall With countless friends so richly blest She murmurs not what'er befall But feels the power of perfect rest Go, little book, should some lone heart Forget in thee one throb of pain Shouldst thou but play this humble part Thy author has not toiled in vain

INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT

FOR those friends and acquaintances, who have expressed a wish to read the complete story of my life, from my childhood to the present time, I have undertaken the writing of this book. By including even some incidents that, in themselves, may seem trivial, I have tried to make this account a full and accurate autobiography. In modesty, however, I have also desired to render my story as simple as possible, in fact, to give a vivid picture of my work, my opinions and my aspirations, not only as a teacher but also as a writer of sacred songs; and if I have spoken with a frankness that may seem akin to egotism, I hope that I may be pardoned; for I am fully aware of the immense debt I owe to those nuTiberless friends, only a few of whom I have been able to mention, and especially to that dear Friend of us all, who is our light and life.

Contents

Chapter Page

I riowert that Never Fade ... g

II The Training of the Blind - - - 16

Chapter I Fix>w£rs That Never Fade

MANY of the flowers I planted in the garden of memory during a happy childhood are still blooming sweet and fair after a lapse of more than eighty years. Those that are somewhat faded, because they have not recently been watered, and those which have been crushed in the press of a long and busy life, I will try to revive until I have finished the life story that I am about to tell. Amid

"Giant rocks and hills majestic.

Sunny glade and fertile plain,"

as one of my own poems describes the surroundings among which I was reared, these blossoms of expectant youth, some of them frail promises of futiu^e harvests, were gathered in the good old town of Southeast, Putnam County, New York. In that region the traveller, perhaps to a greater degree than the inhabitant, remembers the country as one of wonderful wildness and grandeur. The scenery is sublime because natural; and more majestic than any handiwork designed by man. During the summer months the neighboring hills are studded with great masses of foliage; and this here and there is touched with small masses of gold and brown; and in winter the same landscape is covered over with spread of virgin snow. These gracious gifts of natural scenery left their own indelible imprint upon my mind; for, although I was deprived of sight at the age of six weeks, my imagination was still receptive to all tlie influences around me; and the surrounding country, in its native beauty, was real enough to me; in one sense, was as real to my mind as to the minds of my little companions. At least the inner meaning of all the objects that they could see with their physical vision, to my mental sight by imagination was made somewhat more plain than may be supposed.

Near the humble cottage in which I lived for the first few years of my childhood ran a tiny brook, one of the branches of the Croton River; and the music of its waters was so sweet in my ears that I fancied it was not to be surpassed by any of the grand melodies in the great world beyond our little valley. During pleasant summer days I used to sit on a large rock, over which a grape-vine and an apple-tree dapsed^hands to make a bower fit indeed for any race of fairies, however ethereal in their tastes. The voices of nature enchanted me; but they all spoke a familiar language. Sometimes it was the liquid note of a solitary songster at eventide in the distant woods; or the industrious hum of a bee at noon, when every creature but himself and the locusts was sleeping in the shade; or the piping of a cricket as night was drawing on; and how could I help thinking, now and then, that the fairies themselves were bringing messages directly to me? In childhood the tender language of the heart is the only familiar speech; and

FLOWERS THAT NEVER FADE 11

imagination the only artist of the beautiful that seems to satisfy the childish soul. In these later years, therefore, I sometimes drink from the springs whose waters were once so cool and inspiring, and then I often think that I have indeed discovered the fountain of perpetual youth, flowing from the heart of nature.

Of the family of my father, John Crosby, we have unfortunately little record; and of him I have no recollection, for he died before I was twelve months old. My mother came of a very hardy race; earnest and devout people; noted for their longevity. She herself lived till past ninety-one; and her great-grandmother attained the goodly age of one hundred and three years, and after she was eighty-two she rode from Putnam County, New York, to Cape Cod and back again, through the half-cleared wilderness.

My mother's maiden name was also Crosby; and her line traces back to Simon and Ann Crosby, who came to Boston in 1635 and settled across the Charles River three miles from town. Simon Crosby was one of the founders of Harvard College; and his son Thomas Crosby graduated from that institution in 1653.

My great-grandfather, Isaac Crosby, was noted for his wit. While in the Revolutionary War, wishing a furlough that he might visit his home to see a child bom during his absence, he told his general that he had nineteen children at home and had never seen one of them. Of course his request was granted. He was the son of Eleazer Crosby and Patience Freeman, the grand-daughter of Elder William Brewster; and through Zachariah Paddock, another ancestor on my mother's side, we are also descended from Thomas Prence and Major John Freeman. When General Warren was killed at Bunker Hill it was a Crosby, I am told, who caught up the flag as it fell from his hands. Enoch Crosby, the spy of the Revolution, was a cousin of my grandfather's; and I have always read, with much interest, the account of him, given by Cooper in his novel, "The Spy," where he passes under the name of Harvey Birch. This daring and brave patriot sleeps near one of the charming little lakes in Putnam County, not many miles from my own birthplace.

My grandmother was a woman of exemplary piety; and from her I learned many useful and abiding lessons. She was a firm believer in prayer; and, when I was very young, taught me to believe that our Father in Heaven will always give us whatever is for our good; and therefore that we should be careful not to ask him anything that is not consistent with His Holy Will. At eveningtime she used to call me to her dear old rocking chair; then we would kneel down together and repeat some simple petition. Many years afterward when grandmother had departed from earth and the rocking chair had passed into other hands, in grateful memory, I wrote a poem entitled, "Grandma's Rocking Chair":

"There are forms that flit before me. There are tones I yet recall; But the voice of gentle grandma I remember best of all.

FLOWERS THAT NEVER FADE 18

"In her loving arms she held me, And beneath her patient care I was borne away to dreamland In her dear old rocking chair."

She was always kind, though firm^ and never punished me for ordinary offenses; on the contrary, she would talk to me very gently, and in this way she would convince me of my fault and bring me into a state of real and heartfelt penitence. My playmates always knew that I was interested in nearly every kind of childish mischief; and they were not in the least hesitant about inviting me to engage in any of their most daring exploits.

On one occasion grandmother slapped my hands for some breach of good behaviour. This grieved me greatly; and at once bitter resentment sprang up in my heart. Thinking to soothe me, a little companion called me out to play with him, but, as I v/ent, something within said, "Yes I will play with you; but I will hurt you, for grandma has hurt me." And so I threw a stone at him, but missed my aim; and the cloud soon passed and all was sunny again. Fifty years later, to my great surprise, when I was lecturing in Yonkers, New York, a man whispered in my ear, "Don't you remember David Ketcham, your early playmate?" Certainly I remembered him and we had a good laugh over the incident that I have just related; and, I am happy to say, over many others of a more pleasing character.

When I was three years of age mother moved to North Salem in the neighboring Westchester County, where we remained five years among a niimber of delightful Quaker families, who taught me to use what they called the "plain language," or the common speech of the Friends. One good man and I became constant companions; and often when he was going to mill he found me a very v/illing passenger, and sometimes an uninvited guest. But whenever I persisted in going he generally gave way after the first feeble resistance.

"No, thee ain't going with me," he would say; and I as surely replied,

"David, I tell thee I am going to mill with thee." "Well, get thy bonnet and come along." When I had exhausted all the methods of entertainment at my command, mother came to me and said,

"I think I have found something that will please you." Then she placed in my arms a tiny lamb, that had lost its mother; and the little orphan at once was received into the warmth of my affections. Through the fields and meadows we romped when the days were warm; occasionally I fell asleep under a great oak tree with my pet by my side. But he soon grew into a strange creature, quite unUke the gentle lamb that I had first known, for he used to throw me to the ground and tear my dress and make me cry. For a time I forgave him, but at last he disappeared, and not many days thereafter the family had mutton for dinner. My pet had not returned; I knew at once what had become of him; so I refused to eat meat that day, and slipped off into

FLOWERS THAT NEVER FADE 15

a comer so as not to betray the tears that I could not restrain. For many weeks I wore mourning in my heart for him, and among those who vainly tried to comfort me was Daniel Drew, who offered to replace my pet from the flocks that he drove by our door, though, much to the surprise of all my friends, I declined his gift. I reasoned, why should I again be deprived of a dear pet? I will have none; then there will be no chance of it.

The old Quaker church still stands about as it did when we worshipped there; and the remembrance of these kind Westchester people is one of the fadekss flowers.

I had a cousin who was fond of writing comic poetry. In our neighborhood there lived an old lady, named Mary Barbor, who was a trouble wherever she went. One time she came to his father's house to remain over Sunday, and asked that he write for her a verse of poetry. At first he declined; but when she persisted a long time he gave her the following:

"Aunt Mary Barb r Has had a good harbor All through this holy Sabbath day; Tomorrow morning I have her take warning, And pack up her duds and march away."

Chapter II The Training Of The Bund

"Hail, holy light, offspring of Heaven, first bom, And of the eternal, co-eternal Being! May I express thee unblamed, since God is Light, So much the rather thou, Celestial light. Shine inward and the mind with all her powers Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight." — Milton.

TO look forth over tlie wide expanse of ocean and behold the white capped billows in their playful moods chasing each other as if impatient for the coming of the pure mom; or to look forth from the highest peak of some gigantic mountain in wonder and astonishment on the endless variety of scenes, arising like a magical forest in the distance, — the ability to do this b a gift the full significance of which thought can scarcely conceive or language picture. This gift of seeing is one that ought to inspire in the heart of him who possesses it many tender emotions of gratitude to the Etemal One, who, amid the splendors that encircled His throne, lifted a mighty voice, and through the

■If e^^S

■P

THE TRAINING OF THE BLIND 17

chaotic gloom that held in midnight darkness the silent deep, uttered the sublime command, "Let there be light."

It has always been my favorite theory that the blind can accomplish nearly everything that may be done by those who can see. Do not think that those who are deprived of physical vision are shut out from the best that earth has to offer her children. There are a few exceptions that instantly come to my mind. For example, through the medium of sight alone, does the astronomer mark the courses, the magnitudes and the varied motions of all the heavenly bodies; and only through the medium of the eye can the sculptor produce a beautiful statue from the rude and uncut marble. His sight must guide him in reproducing the image that is already modelled in his own mind; and so, likewise, of the painter, for he frequently pauses in his busy hours and turns his gaze toward the rich crimson clouds which fall so gracefully amid the glories of the autumnal sunset. He must try to reproduce the vision that he gets from them, and it is only through the eye that the picture of the actual cloud enters.

From attaining high rank in these fine arts the blind of necessity, are debarred; but not so from poetry and music, in which the mind gives us a true image of the reality. Almost every lad at school is able to relate stray bits of legendary lore of ancient and modem artists who have been blind. Indeed, who can forget Euclid, the blind geometrician; or Homer, the blind bard; or

Ig MEMORIES OF EIGHTY YEARS

Milton, the author of that beautiful apostrophe to light which was quoted in the beginning of this chapter.

A great many people fancy that the blind learn music only by ear, never by note; and yet a niunber of musical experts have told me that their blind pupils learn as proficiently as others by the latter method. It is truly wonderful — marvellous — to what a degree the memory can be trained, not only by those who rely upon it for most of their knowledge of the external world, but by all who wish to add to their general intellectual cultiu%.

But why should the blind be regarded as objects of pity? Darkness may indeed throw a shadow over the outer vision; but there is no cloud, however dark, that can keep the sunlight of hope from the trustful soul. One of the earliest resolves that I formed in my young and joyous heart was to leave all care to yesterday and believe that the morrow would bring forth its own peculiar joy ; and, behold, when the morrow dawned, I generally have found that the human spirit can take on the rosy tints of the reddening east. Early and late I played with the children of my own age; and our elders were in the habit of remarking that Fanny Crosby was certain to be interested in any mischief that occurred. With the agility of a squirrel I used to climb trees, and ride horses as fleet as the wind, while I hung on to their mane for dear life; and climb stone fences, in every respect, just like other children. Whenever I tore my dress I managed to keep out of mother's sight until I fancied she would not notice it, which was a very rare occurrence indeed.

THE TRAINING OP THE BLIND 19

When I was six weeks of age a slight cold caused an inflammation of the eyes, which appeared to demand the attention of the family physician; but he not being at home, a stranger was called. He recommended the use of hot poultices, which ultimately destroyed the sense of sight. When this sad misfortune became known throughout our neighborhood, the unfortunate man thought it best to leave; and we never heard of him again. But I have not for a moment, in more than eighty-five years, felt a spark of resentment against him because I have always believed from my youth to this very moment that the good Lord, in His Infinite Mercy, by this means consecrated me to the work that I am still permitted to do. When I remember His mercy and lovingkindness; when I have been blessed above the common lot of mortals; and when happiness has touched the deep places of my soul, — how can I repine ? And I have often thought of the passage of Scripture: "The light of the body is the eye; if, therefore, thine eye be single thy whole body shall be full of Hght. But if thine eye be evil, thy v/hole body shall be full of darkness. If, therefore, the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness! "

Chapter III First Visit To New York

IN the present era, with its many modes of rapid transit, one is quite liable to forget that most of them have come into being within less than fifty years, and I am sometimes amazed at the thought that not until after I was born did the first locomotive turn a wheel on this Western Continent. When I ride in the mighty express trains that fly across the country, how marvellous it seems! But do not think that I belong to that class of people who looking back over many years, think the old times better than our own. It is only the memory of the past that I cherish and that memory thrills me with a pathos which I cannot, nor do I wish to forget. As I am writing, the horse-back journeys of our old postman seem to have been but last week, so well do I remember how horse and rider used to flit across the landscape like the shutde in an ancient loom, and I see again the tall, well-built kindly man (which the sound of his voice told me he was) when he came to our door the first time. We were staunch friends in a few days, for one of my household duties was to get the mail from him each Thursday. I was greatly interested to know that he had a little girl about my ovra age and size, and in my fond day-dreams I hoped for a meeting with her some time when both of us became a little older. But I never met her, although her father continued his weekly visits for a number of years, until one morning a younger man came with the mail and announced himself as the son and successor of our old post-rider. But he did not succeed to the place in my affections occupied by his father.

A few weeks after my fifth birthday, one balmy morning in early April, mother called me to her side and said,

"We are going to New York to consult Dr. Valentine Mott regarding your eyes."

That announcement pleased me, not so much on accoimt of the purpose of the visit, for I was contented with my lot, as the mere fact that I was to learn something of the world outside. The best that we could do in those early days was to take a sailing-vessel from Sing-Sing, and a common market- wagon was the only available conveyance to get us to this town. We were glad of even this, however, and so the next morning about eight o'clock we began the momentous journey. At three in the afternoon we arrived at Sing-Sing, where we went on board the vessel and one hour later the white sails began to take the wind and we were again on our way to the city at the mouth of the great Hudson River.

My mother became quite ill from the motion of the boat before we were many miles from Sing-Sing, and retired below, leaving me in charge of Captain Green and a cousin of ours who was also going down the river. To me everything about the sloop was as interesting as it was new, especially the "sea" yams the captain told to me, and in return for his kindness, I was only too glad to sing for him the few songs that I knew. " Hail Columbia, Happy Land" was one of them; I have forgotten most of the others excepting one sad piece in which a poor wretch told a bit of his own experience. He had been convicted for beating his adopted daughter to death, and on the way to prison wrote some verses called "A Prisoner for Life." The words had no tune of their own, but I managed to find one for them among those which my friends had taught me. The first stanza is all that I remember,

"Adieu, ye green fields; ye soft meadows, adieu; Ye hills and ye mountains, I hasten from you. No more shall my eyes with your beauty be blest, No more shall ye soothe my sad bosom to rest."

This fragment illustrates the nondescript character of the songs that I committed to memory. One of them that I remember to this day had nearly fifty stanzas, a complete novel in verse. Some were patriotic; some humorous and not a few sentimental. One ditty told the story of

"Four score and ten of us, poor old bachelors. Four score and ten of us, poor old bachelors. Four score and ten of us, and not a penny in

our purse, Something must be done for us poor old

bachelors."

Whether anyone was good enough to relieve them of their poverty I do not know, but I suspect that they may have finally married rich widows, for their mournful plaint has been hushed these many years.

But our sail down the Hudson was full of other incidents, one of the best being connected with a fellow passenger, who was taking a cow to the city; and the cow, I am sorry to say, was better behaved than her owner. He v/as somewhat under the influence of liquor; and, when Captain Green suggested that the cow ought to be milked, he was very angry. But at length while he was engaged in another part of the vessel someone relieved the cow of her milk, and my mother, who during the interval had recovered, was commissioned to make a custard. She did so; and even the morose owner of the cow was obliged to pronounce her a good cook.

After v/hat seemed to me a very long trip we arrived at New York; but for a few days we remained with friends in the city. I was much perplexed at the noise, Vv^hich was indeed a great contrast to the quietness of our rural home. How well I recall every detail of our visit to i)r. Valentine Mott. When we arrived at his office, the famous physidan was engaged v/ich a patient, and gave me some toys for my amusement. Before I was v.'eary of them. Dr. Mott said he was ready to make the examination, and you may be sure those were anxious moments to my dear mother. She had come v;hat was then considered a long distance to consult the best eye specialist in America, and the result of his examination would bring her either the greatest joy or the most intense grief.

24 MEMORIES OP EIGHTY YEARS

After what seemed a very long time for the consideration of my case, Dr. Mott asked me,

"Would you like to have me do something for your eyes that will make you see?"

"No sir," I replied promptly, moving nearer to my mother, for I was afraid that might mean he would need to hurt me. After a long pause the kind physician put his hand on my head and said,

"Poor child, I am afraid you will never see again." With these words the last ray of hope died in my dear mother's heart. She knew she had done everything in her power for me and she could not help feeling sad because the object of her journey had failed, and now nothing remained for her except to return home. I could not understand why she should be so anxious concerning me. It was a beautiful afternoon in late April, for under the gentle wooing of the sun all nature was springing into hfe and fragranceT STy sight was not totally destroyed and I could distinguish, though very faintly, any vivid color placed on the right kind of background. We had tea at five o'clock, after which I wanted to go on deck, so mother took me out and left me there while she went back and finished her supper. It was near sunset, and as there was but little air stirring the vessel rested quietly on the water. Fancy came to me and whispered that I might get a glimpse of color from the shifting waves of the Hudson.

Just as the sun was sinking slowly behind the clififs that line the west bank the light was magnified in the mirror of the waters; and I was enabled to distinguish a few of the most brilliant of the golden hues; and as I sat there on the deck, amid the glories of departing day, the low murmur of the waves soothed my soul into a delightful peace. Their music was translated into tones that were like a human voice, and for many years their melody suggested to my imagination the call of Genius as she was struggling to be heard from her prison house in some tiny shell lying perchance on the bottom of the river. When I finally went to New York to school the noble lines of Byron became familiar; and now, whether I listen to the mighty billows of the ocean or to the smallest ripple on the bosom of some inland lake, the language of each to me is the same, and the appeal is irresistible. For

"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar."

After the visit to Dr. Valentine Mott my life went on as before until I was eight years old, when we moved to Ridgefield, Connecticut; and there we remained until I was fourteen. During these years my greatest anxiety centered itself in the constant thought that I would not be able to get an education ; but, in the meantime, I was determined to be as content as circumstances would allow, and to hope for any good fortune that the future might have in store. To express my trust that all would be well, when I was eight or nine years old, I composed the following lines:

"Oh, what a happy soul I am, Although I cannot see, I am resolved that in this world Contented I will be.

"How many blessings I enjoy That other people don't!

To weep and sigh because I'm blind I cannot nor I won't."

I am sure that my sentiment in these verses is more worthy than the poetic form. My dear mother at times became very sad because I was blind ; and then grandmother would quote the lines of the grand old hymn of Christian faith:

"Though troubles assail and dangers affright. Though friends should all fail and foes all unite; Yet one thing assures us, whatever betide, The Scripture assures us the Lord will provide."

When I used to hear our Presbyterian Church choir sing some of the beautiful old hymns my heart was deeply moved. Seventy-five years ago there were few hymnbooks; and my earliest knowledge of sacred songs came from a tailor, who belonged to the Methodist Church. All of my own friends were Presbyterians of the primitive stock; and it was not until I was twelve years old that I attended a service in the Methodist meeting-house in Ridgefield. For the services in our own church it was the custom for one of the deacons to compose a hymn to be sung to some standard tune; frequently two deacons were required for a single hymn, and that not a very good one. Yet many of these homely productions possessed some genuine poetic merit. One of them I remember contained the following stanzas: