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Fanny J. Crosby - Fanny J. Crosby: An Autobiography

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Fanny J. Crosby Fanny J. Crosby: An Autobiography
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Herein are the great hymnwriter Fanny Crosbys memories of eighty years. Told in her own words, this book relates her story of a life characterized by great spiritual depth and profuse creativity. Though blind since infancy, Fanny Crosby overcame great prejudice to become a poet and teacher, much beloved and respected. She lived a remarkable life and her passion for God infused her lyrics with evangelistic zeal that points people to a loving and welcoming Lord.

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Fanny J Crosby An Autobiography eBook edition Hendrickson Publishers - photo 1

Fanny J. Crosby: An Autobiography (eBook edition)

Hendrickson Publishers Marketing, LLC.
P. O. Box 3473
Peabody, Massachusetts 01961-3473

eBook ISBN 978-1-59856-646-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Due to technical issues, this eBook may not contain all of the images or diagrams in the original print edition of the work. In addition, adapting the print edition to the eBook format may require some other layout and feature changes to be made.

Fanny J. Crosby: An Autobiography is gently edited and updated from the original edition published under the title, Memories of Eighty Years by James H. Earle and Company, in 1906.

First eBook edition June 2011

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 today
Go, little book, Gods goodness tell
Whose praise her soul enraptured sings
Who gave the harp she loves so well
And in her childhood tuned the strings
Go, little book, her years recall
With countless friends so richly blest
She murmurs not whateer 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

CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT

F or 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 numberless 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.

Throughout the pages which follow I have availed myself of the kind assistance of several persons; and I desire to acknowledge here especially the services of the Biglow and Main Company for permission to make a few quotations from my copyrighted poems; to J. L. B. Sunderlin, for the use of a number of articles that originally appeared in the Albany Railroader; to I. Allan Sankey, Hubert P. Main; Dr. William H. Doane and Mrs. Mary Upham Currier, for corrections, suggestions and stories of the hymns; to my sister, Mrs. Carrie W. Rider, for the single-hearted devotion with which she has aided me in every way she could to make this story of my life all that a loving sister would wish it to be; to my friend, Miss Eva G. Cleaveland, who has warmly seconded my sisters efforts; and to my cousin, William Losee, for pictures of my early home and its surroundings.

In the work of compiling, copying and arranging this book, I am indebted to the valuable services of H. Adelbert White. Like my old physician, Dr. J. W. G. Clements, through whose generous efforts my first book of poems was issued, he has sacrificed every other consideration and patiently devoted himself to my interest. This he has done, however, as a gift of friendship; and I realize that this book never would have been possible without his assistance.

But, if this little volume shall be the means of transmitting sunshine into any life, I am sure that all those, who have so generously given their aid, will feel abundantly rewarded. For myself, it is a rare privilege and pleasure to twine the blossoms I have been gathering in the garden of memory along the journey of life into a wreath which must forever be a token of fellowship and good will.

Redeemed, how I love to proclaim it!
Redeemed by the blood of the Lamb;
Redeemed through his infinite mercy,
His child, and forever, I am.

FJC, 1882

1
FLOWERS THAT NEVER FADE

M any 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 future harvests, were gathered in the good old town of Southeast, Putnam County, New York. In that region the traveler, 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 the 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 grapevine and an apple tree clasped 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 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.

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