KEEP OUT OF SIGHT by J. S. Washburn

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Apr 29, 1903

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 29, No. 17.

KEEP OUT OF SIGHT.

By J. S. Washburn

One summer evening I stood in the topmost gallery of Royal Albert Hall, the finest concert hall in England, and looked down upon the many thousands that filled every seat in the vast auditorium. What rare attraction had so filled the great hall that late comers found only standing room? I will tell you.

Madame Adalina Patti, the most noted living singer, and in many respects the most wonderful singer of modern times, is singing here to-night. She has sung before all the royal families of Europe, and, after nearly half a century of public singing, still draws as no other singer in the world. What can be the secret of her marvelous success in her chosen life work—it is a simple yet wonderful secret.

The singers are so far from me I can not, without a glass, distinguish the features of Madame Patti from the other singers in her concert company. Now she sings difficult Italian music, and her voice is wonderfully flexible and birdlike, clear and marvelously penetrating. But this is not the secret. I have heard other voices greater and equally good in many respects—but wait a minute.

I hear the opening bars of “Home, Sweet Home”—the piano is faint, so far is it away; but a death-like silence has fallen upon the vast throng. I fear I shall not hear the singer; I strain my ears, intently listening. Ah yes, I can hear, so slow and soft, like a spirit voice—

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

The hall fades from sight, the brilliant lights have vanished. I see no more, the great, fashionable crowd. I have forgotten 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 home.” I am borne swiftly across the wide sea. The years have vanished. I see my old home again—the old brown farm house 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 voice. Scarce had I dared hope to see my home again. Yet now truly I see it all so clear and bright; the blessed innocence of childhood, the sweet, free country air—ah, I hear the sweet music of gentle breezes whispering through the trees and o’er the waving grain—the dreamy hum of nature. Ah! 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 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 a longing for the heavenly Father’s home.

Truly, Madame Patti is a great singer. I have the secret of her magic power. What is it?—She went out of sight and hearing, behind her great art, her subject. Not the singer, but the song. Not Madame Patti, but home, dear, sweet HOME. This is true art, this is inspiration. Keep self out of sight. Let your glorious work, your calling, however humble, appear. Be unconscious of self and 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. J. S. WASHBURN.