who attuned more voices to the melodies of
praise than any Scotchman of the century.

Our own country has been very prolific in the production of hymns. The
venerable and devout blind songstress, Fanny Crosby (whom I often meet
at the house of my beloved neighbor, Mr. Ira D. Sankey), has produced
very many hundreds of them--none of very high poetic merit, but many of
them of such rich spiritual savour, and set to such stirring airs, that
they are sung by millions around the globe. By common consent in all
American hymnology the hymn commencing

"My faith looks up to Thee,
Thou Lamb of Calvary," etc,

is the best. Its author, Dr. Ray Palmer, when a young man, teaching in a
school for girls in New York, one day sat down in his room and wrote in
his pocket memorandum book the four verses which he told me "were born
of my own soul," and put the memorandum book back into his vest pocket
and for two years carried the verses there, little dreaming that he was
carrying his own passport to immortality. Dr. Lowell Mason, the
celebrated composer of Boston, asked him to furnish a new hymn for his
next volume of "Spiritual Songs" for social worship, and young Palmer
drew out the four verses from his pocket. Mason composed for them the
noble tune, "Olivet," and to that air they were wedded for ever more. He
met Palmer afterwards, and said to him: "Sir, you may live many years,
and do many things, but you will be best known to posterity as the
author of 'My faith looks up to Thee.'" The prediction proved true. His
devoted heart flowed out in that one matchless lily that has filled so
many hearts and sanctuaries with its rich fragrance. Dr. Palmer preached
several times in my Brooklyn pulpit. He was once with us on a
sacramental Sabbath. While the deacons were passing the sacred elements
among the congregation the dear old man broke out in a tremulous voice
and sang his own heavenly lines:

"My faith looks up to Thee
Thou Lamb of Calvary,
Saviour Divine."

It was like listening to a rehearsal for the celestial choir, and the
whole assembly was most deeply moved. Dr. Palmer was short in stature,
but his erect form and habit of brushing his hair high over his forehead
gave him a commanding look. He was the impersonation of genuine
enthusiasm. Some of his letters I shall always prize. They were the
outpourings of his own warm heart on paper. He fell asleep just before
he reached a round four score, and of our many h