Lost in Her Song by J. S. Washburn

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Sep 18, 1913

Lost in Her Song

By J. S. Washburn

J. S. WASHBURN

’Twas a night in June in the year 1896. I stood in the topmost gallery of Royal Albert Hall, the finest concert-hall in England, and looked down upon the many thousands in the vast auditorium. What rare attraction had so filled the great hall that late-comers found only standing room?

Madame Adelina Patti, the most noted living singer and in some respects the most wonderful singer of modern times, was to sing that night. She has sung before all the royal families of Europe, and after nearly a half-century of public singing still draws the crowds as no other singer. What can be the secret of her marvelous success in her chosen life-work?

The singers are so far from me that I cannot without a glass distinguish Madame Patti from the other singers in her concert company. Now she sings difficult Italian music, and her voice is wonderfully flexible and bird-like, clear and marvelously penetrating. But this is not the secret. Listen! I hear the opening bars of “Home, Sweet Home;” the piano is faint, so far is it away, but a deathlike silence has fallen upon the vast throng. I fear I shall not hear singer; I strain my ears, intently listening. Ah, yes, I can hear, so slow and soft, like a spirit voice,—

“’Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,— Be it ever so humble——”

The hall fades from sight, the brilliant lights vanish. I see no more the great fashionable crowd. I forget that I am listening to the greatest singer in the world. Only a dream whisper, silver clear, yet faint and sweet and far away: “Home, home, sweet, sweet home.” I am borne swiftly across the wide sea that has for years separated me from the land of my birth. The years of manhood vanish. I am a child again. I see once more the dear old home—the old brown farmhouse in Iowa. The old orchard is here. I am swinging careless and free with my dear little brother under the old oak-tree. I hear the sweet voices of my sisters; I see my father, so true and good; and O, I see my mother’s dear face, full of tenderest, sweetest love! She is singing, and her voice comes to me as an angel’s. Scarcely had I dared hope to see my home again. Yet now truly I see it all clear and bright,—the blessed innocence of childhood, the sweet, free country air; yes, I hear the sweet music of gentle breezes whispering through the trees and over the waving grain—the dreamy hum of nature. Ah! it is too sweet to last. Almost with a shock I awake. I hear the last echoes of the piano notes. The singer is retiring, and the crowd, awakening from the wondrous spell, is beginning to applaud.

The vision was mine, yet not mine alone. There are tears in the eyes of many whose faces were weary and hardened. They, too, have seen the dear old home, and lived over again the dear dead days of childhood; and to many has come the longing for the Heavenly Father’s home.

Truly Madame Patti is a great singer. Now I know the secret of her magic power. What is it?—She went out of sight and hearing, behind her great art, her subject. Though born and through the early days of childhood living in poverty, she had been brought before the great, yea, even the crowned heads of the world through her wondrous talent of song. Truly she has roamed “’mid pleasures and palaces,” yet tonight her true heart returns in memory to early days. Forgetful of the years of fame, the tender visions of her childhood’s home (“be it ever so humble”) bring tears to her own eyes—eyes that see not the great throng of the wealthy and noble before her. Her heart sings, she sees her

own childhood’s humble home. We therefore behold our own, and forget the singer and all else. Our heart hears not the singer, but the song; we see not Madame Patti, but home, dear, sweet home.

This is true art. This is inspiration. This is divine talent. Keep self out of sight. Let your glorious work, your calling, however humble, appear; be unconscious of self and of selfish desire to be seen, to be applauded, to grasp, to seize for self, and you will succeed. Die to self. Let God be seen in you. Live to love, for the good you may do, the blessing you may be, and you shall have a home, a “sweet” and everlasting home, in the Father’s house of many mansions.