The Life of Dwight L. Moody Chapter 48 This is the last chapter being read by Peter John Parish, also known as Brian Dean. None of my audios are copyrighted. Please feel free to make as many copies as you desire, to the glory of God. The Life of Dwight L. Moody Chapter 48 Tributes from English Friends volumes, many and large, will be required to reproduce the tribunes that have been received from sympathetic friends. Two only are here presented, and these from close associates of latter years, who were particularly near to Mr. Moody. By Rev. F. B. Meyer. D. L. Moody always reminded me of a mountain whose abrupt, bold front Scarred and furrowed with storm forbid the tourist that soft valleys nestled in its mighty embrace, and verdant pastures are watered by the waters that furrow the summit. He was preeminently a strong man. His chosen friends were men. He was happiest when giving his famous address on sowing and reaping to an audience of men only. Strong natures were strongly influenced by him. If a number of his friends were together, their conversation would almost inevitably turn on Moody, and if he entered any group, he would at once become a center to whom all thoughts and words would turn. All who knew him intimately gave him reverence as an uncrowned king, though his crown, like that of the Hughes, was of iron. Nothing short of an indomitable resolution and will of power could have conducted the uncultured, uneducated lad from the old Chanty in Chicago to the Opera House in London, where royalty waited on his words, wrung, tears, full of utter wit, direct and sharp, as a two-edged sword. For all the man was, so he spoke. For as the man was, so he spoke, alone, except for the help of God, unlearned, except for what he gained from his increased incessant study of Scripture and ceaseless observation of character, unassisted by those adventurous circumstances of pre-possessing, appearance, music, musical speech and college education on which others have climbed to prominence and power, he made his way forward to the front rank of his time and became one of the strongest religious factors of the world. The charm of his character was his thorough naturalness. Perhaps it was this that carried him so triumphantly through his career that a man or had always been dealt with in a certain way was no reason why he should follow the beaten track. On the contrary, it was a reason for striking out in some novel and unconventional method. He was perfectly unmoved by the quotation of established precedence, utterly indifferent to the question as to whether the course he proposed would bring praise or blame. When he had mastered all the difficulties of a problem, he would set himself to its solution by the exercise of his own sanctified tact and common sense. There was no limit to his embeddedness, to his rapid appreciation of the difficulties of a situation, or to his naive solution. I have often compared his method of handling a perplexity with his driving, for he always went straight before him, over hedges and mounds, up hillsides to the streams, down dikes, over plowed fields. The one day I was with him at Norfolk, he drove me from a conference hall over ground so irregular and uneven that every moment I expected we should be overturned. But we came out of writing at the gate we wanted, and it was certainly the shortest cut. So it was always with him. If he could not untie knots, he would cut them. At the same time, he was absolutely simple and humble. In all the numerous hours I spent with him, he never once manifested the least sign of never drew attention to himself, never alluded to the vast numbers that had attended his meetings, the distinguished persons who had confided their secrets to him, or the enterprises which had originated in his suggestion or been cradled under his care. It seemed as though he had never heard of D. L. Moody and knew less of his doings than the most ordinary reader of the daily press. Not unfortunately, I said to myself, when in his company. Is this the man who can gather and hold ten thousand people by the month in any of the great cities of the world? There was an appearance of abruptness in his manner which was undoubtedly assumed as a protection of a very tender and sensitive spirit, much as oysters will form for themselves strong shells against the threat of the waves and rocks. He had seen others carried away by the adoration of their admirers and weakened by the soft caresses of the world. He knew that the personal element is apt to intrude between the speaker and the interests of those whom he would fain say, for Christ's sake, it was absolutely determined that people should not rest on him, but on the word of God, to which he was ever pointing them. And he therefore encased himself in the hard shell of an apparently rugged and uncouth manor. It was only when the crowds had gone and he was able to reveal himself without risk of being misunderstood that he cast away his reserve and revealed his true and tender self. If it be asked, what was the secret of that power, which in England and his own country would hold in rapt attention for months, tens or fifteen thousand people, the answer most certainly would be found in the tenderness and compassion of his nature. That he could tell a good story, call forth ripples of laughter by the touch of quaint humor, narrate Bible stories as though he were personally acquainted with the actors, or had witnessed the occurrence in his travel were as a small dusk of a balance compared to the pathos which trembled in his voice and moved vast audiences to tears. His power was that of the heart rather than of the head. While as he was speaking, his hand was on the pulse. He was counting heartthrobs and touching those deep elemental emotions of the heart which clustered about mother, father, home, bereavements, heaven. He was more thoughtful of others than any man I have ever known. How often have the meetings in Northville been interrupted because some shabbily dressed person hadn't a seat? How many times all the comforts of his home have been freely offered to some sick or friendless student? Whatever trouble befell anyone in the town of Northfield seemed to be Mr. Moody's and his well-known buggy would be seen making its way to the home of bereavement or affliction with some kind inquiry or elevation. It was because of the acts of this that when his mother died some five years ago, the Roman Catholic element in the community asked that one of their number might lead the horses that bore the buyer, a request which, of course, was readily granted. The most pathetic revelation of D.L. Moody was made last August at Northville, when all through the long summer days, his little grandchild, whom he loved passionately, was dying. Again and again he asked me to beg the people not to express their sympathy when they met him. Least it should break him down altogether. And how the strong frame would shake with convulsion stops as we prayed that her life might be spared. God, however, knew better, and took the little one home, that she might be there in time to grieve the strong, true nature that loved her so sincerely, when in turn his servant was called to enter his reward. I never guessed the intensity of his tenderness till I saw him with his grandchildren. He used to drive them about in his carriage or carry them in his arms. One of the most striking incidents in my memory was when he stood with them besides his mother's grave in a summer sunset and asked us to pray that they might be in the coming century what she had been in this. And when little Irene was dying, He used to be on the watch below her window to keep all quiet, would steal down from the meetings to hear the latest news, would be the nurse and playmate of her little cousin, that all might devote themselves to the chamber of sickness. So touched because a little child had set the invalid pet lamb how moved he was as he saw it together. He was a great Christian strategist and never so happy as when organizing some great campaign like that during the World's Fair in Chicago when he occupied the largest halls in that city where the evangelists gathered from all parts of the world, or when in the later years He promoted the distribution of Bibles and the holdings of evangelistic meetings among the American soldiers in Cuba. He was the Von Mulkey of the religious world in the United States. He would lay plans for the winter campaigns in such a city as New York or Boston, would engage some large central building and hold two or three meetings a day, interesting reporters and gaining the attention of the press, working out presently into new quarters of the city, and to the whole community had felt the impact of the religious momentum communicated through him. Ministers would open their churches and respond to his appeals for help. Lists of converts would be furnished to the several churches, and the whole campaign would be so contrived as to increase the zeal and activity of the churches that had arranged themselves under his leadership. He was absolutely fearless. I remember one occasion when he felt it laid on his heart to speak some unpalatable truths to a number of ministers and others. Before me, as I write, is the large circle that sat around his spacious dining-room in the summer evening, the monument of ice-cream which he carved with such precision, and then the direct unvarnished words which wounded deeply that a better condition of soul-life might be introduced. Whether in a crowd or with an individual, he never, to win a smile or avoid a frown, swerved a hair's breadth from what he thought right. As a conversationalist, he was charming. He would sit on the porch of his unpretending but comfortable house, overlooking the lovely landscape, telling story after story of marvelous conversations. One day, for instance, a gentleman drove up as we were talking, and he told me that he had won him to Christ when quite allowed by a conversation on the roof of a Chicago hotel, that being the only quiet spot he could find for his purpose. Oh, he would recall reminiscences of men whom he had known. He had a great fund of information about agriculture and had traveled widely and observed shrewdly, was in keen and close touch with the great religious movements of the time, and was especially fond of asking questions of anyone who seemed likely to communicate reliable information. His was a triumphant homegoing, and as the story of it has spread from land to land. It has stirred thousands of hearts to a deeper and more entire consecration to the service of Jesus Christ. His voice is hushed. His heart has ceased to beat. He has left a great void behind him, but he has already entered on higher service and in the foremost ranks of the sons of light. His strong and noble spirit is still abounding in the work of the Lord, whether neither weariness where neither weariness nor pain can feather a stocking, by Celestial Ardor. I count it almost the greatest privilege of my life to have known him so well. By Reverend G. Campbell Morgan. My personal acquaintance with Dwight Layman Moody was not of long duration according to the measure of the calendar, he says. If, however, we should count time by heart throbs, then I may claim to have known him, for it has been one of the greatest privileges of my life who had come very near to him in the ripest years of his life. I first saw him in 1883 during his second visit to Birmingham. Bingley Hall was being crowded daily with eager crowds who had come by train from the host surrounding district. Once only I spoke to him. The impression of those days, therefore, is that of a man in the midst of the rush of work. No detail of arrangement escapes his notice. A vacant seat, the opening and closing of doors, a tendency to drag the singing, all those he noted and rectified. Yet he was by no means a man who cared for detail for detail's sake. The supreme passion of his life was the winning of men for Christ, and no detail was insufficient that would hinder or help. Two pictures of those old days were deeply engraved on the tablet of my memory. The first picture is that of Moody as a prophet, and the vast audience, numbering at least 20,000, were hushed, subdued, and overawed. Knowing the terror of the Lord, he persuaded them. I dare affirm that thousands of people stood face to face that evening with the awfulness of their sin, startled and smitten. The only picture is that of Moody coming to the close of an address in the king's invitation to the marriage supper of the Lamb. The graciousness of that invitation had possessed him that night with new force. The deepest fountains of his nature were touched, and he stood before the great crowd, moved with his master's compassion, pleading with tender urgency and fine patho. A strong man moved to tears, and at last he cried, Let those who will accept the invitation say, I will. And from every part of the hall, instantly, immediately, a cry of a multitude went up, I will. I did not see him again for thirteen years. But through them, all the force of his character had an influence on my life that I should find hard to measure. In 1896, I visited the United States for the first time. The North Hill Conference was in session, and I managed to spend a few hours there. I arrived in late at night and found my quarters and retired. The next day was a field day for me as well as a revelation. Everywhere Mr. Moody was a moving spirit, bright, cheery, and yet in dead earnest. He seemed to make everything go before him. In the interval of the meetings, he gave me a drive round the campus in his buggy. Every point of interest was pointed out, and in a few brief words, the story of how the different buildings were erected was told. Passing a certain house, he said, people sometimes ask me how I found Northfield. I tell them it found me. I was born here." Suddenly he pulled up his horse to speak to a group of children. "'Have you any apples today?' he said. "'No, Mr. Moody,' they replied. "'Then go down to my house and tell them to give you all you want.' Away they went, and so did he, both happier. Down a narrow lane he drove next. and through a gate to where a man was at work in a field. Bigelow said, Mr. Moody, it's too hard for you to work much. Half a day's work for a day's pay, you know. Well, as he thus. I sat by his side and watched and began to understand the greatness of the man whose life was so broad that it touched sympathetically all other phases of life. After the evening meeting, at his invitation, I gathered with the speakers at his house. Then, for the first time, I saw him in a new role, that of the host. He sat in his chair at the head of the table, directed the conversation, and listened with the patience and simplicity of a child to every word that others spoke. That night, the talk turned on the most serious subjects, the inter-life of the people of God and its bearing on the work of the churches among the people. As we departed, I went to bid him goodbye, as I was to leave by an early train in the morrow. Oh, said he, I shall see you in the morning. You are to preach at ten o'clock. That was my first notice. What did I do? I preached as he bid me, as other and better men has ever been glad to do. That was his way. After speaking next morning, I hurried away. But in that brief stay, Rudy had become more to me. Strong, tender, considerate. From that day, I more than revered him, I loved him. I looked upon him as one of God's choicest gifts to the church and the world during this century, now drawing to a close. His value will never be rightly appreciated here, where the view is partial and transient. Yonder in the perfect light, we shall know. To some of us, heaven is more to be desired today for his presence there, and earth is more to be loved for the great love he had averaged upon it. Oh, the gap! Yet he would not have us dwell upon his removal, but upon the abiding presence of the Lord he loved and served. He has entered on the higher service. It is for those of us who remain to tighten the girdle and take hold afresh of the work of God's today. Presently we shall meet him again in the light of the glory of the Lamb, and then certainly we shall love him more than ever. End of the book, The Life of Dwight L. Moody. Written by his son. Copyright 1900. This was read by Peter John Parisi, also known as Brian Dean. The audios are not copyrighted. Please feel free to make as many copies as you desire to the glory of God.