times beaten back from the Malakoff. The soldiers demanded the "Marseillaise." The general did not dare refuse at such a moment. The order was given; the band struck up the grand old tune of the Republic, and the troops under Bosquet and MacMahon took the stronghold. The circumstance is celebrated in some lines which almost equal the original hymn: Three times the Frenchmen charged with cheers, to win the Malakoff; Three times they rolled in tumult down, and heard the Russian scoff. What's to be done? Their hearts grow cold. That "Vive l'Empereur" Falls faint and dead-a broken spell-a battle cry no more. Ah, one there was-remembered still-of glory's brighter days; They murmur-they pronounce a name that name the "Marseillaise," From man to man The whisperings ran: "Long live the Marseillaise." The murmur grows; they talk aloud; "Our fathers' song," they cry. Heard 'round the old tri-color in the gallant times gone by. O'er battlefields and battered walls they sang it, marching free From the Alps and Pyrenees all 'round to the rolling Zuyder Zee. We'd try the conquering charm this day and though its portholes blaze, We'll give you the bold old Malakoff—but give us the Marseillaise! Grave looks the stout Pelissier when he hears the startling word, Says, "Nonsense; go," but well I know his Frenchman's heart was stirred. "Those English fly from yon Redan-they're quashed, and on my soul Unless we win the Malakoff, goodby, Sebastapol!" "Well, form them, in God's name afresh, and let the bands," he says, "If they've recovered wind enough lead off the Marseillaise." "What can I say? 'Tis our Frenchman's way So sound the Marseillaise." 'Twas done: Zouaves and volitigeurs and soldiers of the line Chimed in with the old republic's march-the war cry of the Rhine And then the charge-the last wild charge. Down tumbles Bosquet bold. Heaven rest the dead-on, soldiers, on! MacMahon's in the hold." Brave song, he heard, all undeterred, an omen and a sign, Beyond the depot's guarded camp, beyond the leaguering line Lead yet a wider, worthier strife—a mightier fortress far Against our banners still holds out, on the deadly heights of war, And sound again, bold melody! for baffled millions raise A hymn of singularly trust begetting, confidence inspiring nature was written by Elizabeth Stephane at Melrose, Scot land, in 1868. Six years afterward it appeared in a public print, when Ira D. Sankey saw it. There were ninety and nine that safely lay In the shelter of the fold, But one was out on the hills away Far off from the gates of gold, It is so universally known that I need quote no more. W. T. Stead, in referring to the hymn, said: "One day after a most impressive meeting in Edinburgh, Mr. Sankey, at the close, put the verses before him, touched the keys of the organ and sang, not knowing where he would come out. He finished the first verse amid profound silence. He took a long breath and wondered if he could sing the second the same way. He tried and succeeded. After that it was easy. When he finished the meeting was all 'broken down.' Mr. Sankey said it was the most intense moment of his life." Perhaps here I may mention another-the writer has seen the fallow ground of a congregation, which had sat stolidly through a splendid sermon preceding, all broken up by the quiet repeating of the following lines, the authorship of which is ascribed to Sally Pratt McLean: De Massa ob de sheepfol' Look down in de gloomering meadows So he call to de hirelin' shepha'd: Oh, den, says de hirelin' shepha'd, But de res' deys all brung in, Den de massa ob de sheepfol' Goes down in de gloomering meadow An' he let down de bars ob de sheepfol', Den up tro' de gloomering meadows THE hallmark of a great hymn, that is, an effective one, is not necessarily mighty music, nor splendid diction. The simplest rythm seems best, provided it has the "lilt,' Scotch call it, and a great thought bound up in language that commends itself to the heart of suffering humanity. Such a hymn comes like a benediction after prayer-like the soft, enveloping embrace of the first warm rain of summer. It has come to pass that many of the great hymns of a century ago are largely shelved, many of them omitted from our modern hymnology. Every church attendant of fifty years ago knew "Before Jehovah's Awful Throne;" now we rarely use it. "Rock of Ages" holds its place, but "Begone Unbelief" is seldom heard. I remember in my boyhood seeing the chorister putting up his tuning fork and striking in: Not all the blood of beasts On Jewish altars slain Could give the guilty conscience peace, Nor wash away one stain. But Christ, the heavenly lamb, And richer blood than they. Christmas Evans said on his dying bed, "I thank God that I never preached without blood in the basin," meaning that he never "minished aught" of the efficacy of Christ's atonement. The aesthetic tastes of our people now recoil at the thought of blood, though never was so much shed as today, and thus the old hymn is banished. "How firm a Foundation Ye Saints of the Lord" still maintains its hold, but the "foundation" does not seem quite as sure as it did in the old days. So with hundreds of old hymns which call up fathers and mothers, and old ministers and old churches, and the peppermint drop and caraway and general Sabbath aroma of half a century ago, when, sounding across the years: I hear the reverend elder say, Hymn fifty-first, long meter, sing, Armed with a fork to pitch the tune, His "fa sol la," and scent the key. |