Sankey's Story of His Own Life

I was born in the village of Edinburgh, on the Mahoning River in Western Pennsylvania, August 28, 1840. My father, the Hon. David Sankey, and my mother, Mary, resided in Edinburgh until I was six years of age, when they removed to what was then known as Western Reserve Harbour, where my father engaged in the forwarding and commission business near the head waters of the Shenango River. From there my father removed to a farm near by, where I grew up, assisting in the farm work. Here my father was elected to the State Legislature, in which he continued for a period of thirteen years. I received the usual school privileges which fell to the lot of boys and girls of those days.

The very first recollection I have of anything pertaining to a holy life was in connexion with a Mr. Frazer. I recall how he took me by the hand and led me with his own children to the Sunday-school held in the old school-house. I shall remember this to my dying day. He had a warm heart and the children all loved him. It was not until some years after that I was converted, at the age of sixteen, while attending Revival meetings at a church known as The King’s Chapel, about three miles from my home; but my first impressions were received from the kindly action of that dear servant of God.

In 1857 our family removed to Newcastle, where my father assumed the presidency of the Bank. Here I attended the High School, where every opportunity was given to study such of the higher branches as the student might have a taste for, and later I took a position in the Bank. On arriving at New castle I joined the Methodist Episcopal Church. Soon I was elected superintendent of the Sunday-school and leader of the choir.

It was here that my voice began to attract attention, and before long the Sunday-school overflowed with people who came to hear the singing. In this way, though unconsciously, I was making preparation for the work in which I was to spend my life.

In the spring of 1860, on the call of President Lincoln for men to sustain the Government, I was among the first in Newcastle to have my name enrolled as a soldier. My company was sent to Maryland. Religious services were held in the camp, and I was often called upon to lead the singing. I soon found several other young men who had the same gift. In a short time the people around us also learned that there were some good singers in the Union camp, and we were frequently invited out by families who had heard of the singing of “the boys in blue.” At the expiration of my term as a soldier I did not re-enter the army, but returned to Newcastle to assist my father, who had been appointed by Abraham Lincoln as a collector of Internal Revenue.

In 1863, on September 9, I married a member of my choir — Miss Fanny V. Edwards, a daughter of the Hon. John Edwards. She has been a blessing and a helpmate to me throughout my life and in all my work.

My services as a singer became much in demand in Western Pennsylvania and Eastern Ohio for Sunday-school conventions and political gatherings. In 1867, when I was twenty-seven years old, a branch of the Young Men’s Christian Association was organized at Newcastle, of which I was at that time elected secretary, and afterwards president. The first meetings were held in a small hired room. From that modest beginning, by the help of God, I was in later years enabled to erect for the city a Young Men’s Christian Association building, including gymnasium, library and bath-rooms, in all costing more than $40,000, by means of money realized from the sale of “Gospel Hymns.” Not far from this building, on Jefferson Street, I bought a beautiful site for my old church, on which to erect a new structure; and later still I assisted Bishop Vincent to raise the necessary funds, so that the new church was dedicated without any debt. My father and mother were members of this church until they passed away.

In 1870, with two or three others, I was appointed a delegate to the International Convention of the Association, to be held at Indianapolis that year. It was announced that Mr. Moody would lead a morning prayer-meeting at 7 o’clock. I was rather late, and therefore sat down near the door with a Presbyterian minister, the Rev. Robert McMillan, a delegate from my own county, who said to me, “Mr. Sankey, the singing here has been abominable; I wish you would start up something when that man stops praying, if he ever does.” I promised him to do so; and when opportunity offered I sang the familiar hymn, “There is a Fountain filled with Blood.” The congregation joined heartily, and a brighter aspect seemed to be given to the meeting.

At the conclusion of the meeting Mr. McMillan said to me: “Let me introduce you to Mr. Moody.” We joined the little procession of persons who were going up to shake hands with him; and thus I met for the first time the man with whom, in the providence of God, I was to be associated for the remainder of his life, nearly thirty years.

Moody’s first words to me, after my introduction, were, “Where are you from? Are you married? What is your business?” Upon telling him that I lived in Pennsylvania, was married, had two children and was in Government employ, he said in his characteristic manner, “You will have to give that up.”

I stood amazed, at a loss to understand why the man should tell me that I would have to give up what I considered a good position. “What for?” I exclaimed.

“To come to Chicago and help me in my work,” was the answer.

When I told him that I could not leave my business, he retorted, “You must; I have been looking for you for the last eight years.”

I answered that I would think the matter over; but as yet I had no thought of giving up my position. Mr. Moody then asked me if I would go with him and pray over the matter, and to this I consented — out of politeness. After the prayer we parted, and I returned to my room, much impressed by Mr. Moody’s prayer, but still undecided.

The next day I received a card from Mr. Moody asking me to meet him on a certain street corner that evening at six o’clock. At that hour I was at the place named, with some of my friends. In a few minutes Mr. Moody came along.

Without stopping to speak, he passed on into a store near by, and asked permission to use a large store-box. The permission was granted; he rolled the box into the street, and calling me aside, asked me to get up on the box and sing something.

“Am I a Soldier of the Cross?” soon gathered a considerable crowd. After the song, Mr. Moody climbed up on the box and began to talk. The workmen were just going home from the mills and the factories, and in a short time a very large crowd had gathered. The people stood spell-bound as the words fell from Moody’s lips with wonderful force and rapidity. When he had spoken for some twenty-five minutes, he announced that the meet ing would be continued at the Opera House, and invited the people to accompany us there. He asked me to lead the way, and with my friends sing some familiar hymn. This we did, singing as we marched down the street, “Shall we gather at the river?” The men with their dinner-pails followed closely on our heels instead of going home, so completely were they carried away by the sermon from the store-box.

The Opera House was packed to the doors, and Moody first saw that all the workmen were seated before he ascended to the platform to speak. His second address was as captivating as the one delivered on the street corner, and it was not until the delegates had arrived for the evening session of the Convention that Mr. Moody closed the meeting saying,” Now we must close, as the brethren of the Convention wish to come in to discuss the question,

* How to reach the masses.” It occurred to me that here was a man who could successfully reach the masses while others were talking about it!

When Mr. Moody again brought up the subject of our going into the work together, I was still undecided. After a delay of over six months, and much urging on Mr. Moody’s part, I consented to spend a week with him; and before that week was over I had sent my resignation to Mr. Hugh McCullough, at that time Secretary of the Treasury, and the position which I had held was, at my request, given to a “bucktail” soldier who had escaped from Libby Prison.

We thus commenced work together in Chicago in the early part of 1871, visiting poor and needy ones of Mr. Moody’s little flock, singing and praying with the sick, speaking and singing at the daily noon prayer-meetings, and other work, until Mr. Moody’s church was destroyed in the Chicago fire.

On Sunday evening, October 8, 1871, we were holding a meeting in Farwell Hall, which was crowded to the doors. At the close of his address Mr. Moody asked me to sing a solo; and standing by the great organ at the rear of the platform I began the old, familiar hymn, “To-day the Saviour calls.” By the time I had reached the third verse,

To-day the Saviour calls:

For refuge fly;
The storm of justice falls,

And death is nigh,

my voice was drowned by the loud noise of the fire engines rushing past the hall, and tolling of bells, among which we could hear, ever and anon, the deep, sullen tones of the great city bell, in the steeple of the old court-house close at hand, ringing out a general alarm.

Tremendous confusion was heard in the streets, and Mr. Moody decided to close the meeting at once, for the audience was becoming restless and alarmed. As the people dispersed, I went with Mr. Moody down the small back stairway leading into the old Arcade Court, and from our position there we watched the reflection of the fire, half a mile away, on the west side of the city, as it cast its ominous glare against the sky. After a few moments we separated, I to go over the river to where the fire was raging, and he to his home on the North Side. We did not meet again for more than two months.

On reaching the scene of the fire, I found a whole block of small frame buildings burning fiercely, and with others I assisted in tearing down some board fences, to try to keep the. fire from spreading to the adjacent property. While thus engaged, the wind from the south-west had risen almost to a hurricane, and the flying embers from the falling buildings were quickly caught up and carried high upon the roofs of the houses adjoining, which were soon in flames. Thus the fire spread from building to building, and from block to block, until it was evident that the city was doomed. All this time the fire was moving in the direction of Farwell Hall and the business centre of the city.

I now gave up the fight, and made haste to recross the river, hurrying back to my quarters — my living room and office — in the Farwell Hall Building. The fire followed so rapidly that several times I had to shake from my coat the falling embers. Arriving at the hall, I gathered up a number of belongings which I especially wished to save, and placing them io SANKEY’S STORY

close to the door of my office, went out to find a conveyance so as to transfer them to a place of safety. It was now between one and two o’clock in the morning, and not a carriage or truck could be found in the streets.

While still looking for a conveyance I saw in the distance, coming up Clark Street, a horse attached to an express wagon, running at full speed, without a driver, and ten or fifteen men running after it trying to capture the animal. I made a dash for the flying steed, but in turning from one street into another he slipped and fell, and in a moment a crowd of men were on top of him, each claiming the right of possession. Not caring to share in the contest, I returned to the hall, and commenced the task of carrying my effects towards Lake Michigan, half a mile distant.

On the way to the lake I passed the present location of the Palmer House, then being erected, the foundation of which had only been built to the level of the street. Believing that the rooms and under ground passages would afford a temporary place of security for some of my things, I walked on a plank down into the cellar, and hid two large valises in the darkest corner I could find. As yet only a few people were moving out of their homes in this section of the city, and, as I noticed the seeming indifference of those who had come to the windows of their houses, I called out to them to escape for their lives, as the city was doomed to destruction. Some became alarmed; others laughed me to scorn.

I returned to the hall for another load of my belongings, and after securing all I could carry, started in a more direct route for the lake, the streets being lit up by the glare of the oncoming

OF HIS OWN LIFE ir

conflagration. After getting about half-way to the shore, I stopped and deposited my burden on the front steps of a fine residence I was passing, thinking I would soon return and find them there. Again, for the third time, I went back to my rooms, and gathering up a few more articles started for the stone steps. I found, however, on reaching the house, that the things I had left there were covered several feet deep with other people’s belongings, and I never saw them again.

By this time the people were fully awake, rushing about the street, or anxiously looking out of their windows and from the tops of their houses in the direction of the fire. I could not help thinking of the Bible story of the destruction of the Cities of the Plain in the long ago, as many still made light of those who said the city would be destroyed. The air was filled with flying sparks of fire, resembling a spring snowstorm, when the sky is filled with huge, falling flakes.

As I pressed on, two men carrying a sick man on a stretcher overtook me. After passing a short distance ahead, they stopped and laid him by the side of the street, as the invalid, being quite sure the city would not be destroyed, did not wish to be carried farther. As soon as the carriers had been paid off and discharged I employed them to assist me in carrying my effects to the lakeside; but before we reached our destination, in looking southward they saw that the fire was sweeping through the south-eastern section of the city, where they lived. Dropping my goods in the middle of the street, and without waiting for compensation, they rushed away to secure their own homes.

Again I obtained help, and at last reached the lake, where I deposited my trunks and possessions close by the edge of the water, with the thought that if the flames came to the edge of the lake, I would walk into the water and be saved from the heat. Remembering my first attempt at carrying my goods away from Farwell Hall, I returned to the Palmer House block, to secure, if possible, my first cargo, very much fearing that the things would not be there when I reached the place, as I thought some night wanderer might have noticed my leaving them and appropriated them to his own use. Much to my joy, I found them still there, and carried them away to the lake.

By this time I was greatly exhausted, and almost famished for want of water, that along the shore being unfit to drink. I asked another refugee, who was in like case with myself, watching his little store of precious things, if he would look out for mine while I returned into the city to get some water to drink. The man consenting, I went back to Wabash Avenue, one of the finest residential streets in the city, and, entering one of the large houses, asked if I might have some water. I was told to go into the rear of the building and get all I wished. I found a tap, but, on attempting to draw water, air rushed out instead. This was my first intimation that the water- works, two miles to the northward, had been destroyed. A few minutes later I heard a terrific explosion, which seemed to shake the city, and was told that the city gas works had blown up.

Things began to look very desperate — no water, no light in the houses, and the city in flames! I made my way back again to the lake, and wrapping myself in a great overcoat, lay down behind one of the large trunks which I had saved. Thus sheltered from the wind, I slept for an hour. On awaking I could hear the rush and roar of the fire coming nearer and nearer. The sun, slowly rising out of the waters of the lake, seemed like a red ball of fire. The wind had not fallen, and huge waves were breaking on the shore at my feet.

I now felt that I must have water to drink, and, after wandering along the shore for some distance, found some small rowing boats, and asked a man near by, who seemed to be their owner, if I might have one to go out into the lake for fresh water. “Yes,” he said; “if you can manage the boat you can have it, as we are not likely to have much more boating in this neighbourhood for some time to come.” So I took possession of one, and rowed down to where my goods were deposited. Rolling them on board, I made my way out into the lake, passing through the piling on which the railway was built, in front of the city. After getting my boat through the piling, I rowed out far enough to find fresh water. Then, tying the boat to some timbers that were being used for the erection of a new breakwater, I climbed up on the pile of lumber and for several hours watched the destruction of the city. Every few minutes a loud explosion would occur. I afterwards learned that these were caused by the blowing up of buildings — by order of General Sheridan, who was in the city at the time — so as to form a barrier against the fire and prevent its spreading to the southward.

It was interesting to watch the tramps and thieves carrying away on their backs large bales of silk and satin goods which they had taken from the burning stores in the wholesale district. Most of them followed the railway track southward, not knowing that at the place where the track reached the land a company of fire insurance agents were waiting with open arms to relieve them of their burdens.

The day wore away, but the city was still burning, and, as the sun was sinking in the west, a song came into my mind which I had been singing a few days before in Mr. Moody’s large Sunday-school on the North Side, and I sang it through as I sat there, with the waves beating about me. The first verse was as follows:

Dark is the night, and cold the wind is blowing, Nearer and nearer comes the breakers’ roar;

Where shall I go, or whither fly for refuge? Hide me, my Father, till the storm is o’er.

I finally determined to get back to land, but was not aware of the fact that the riding of my boat upon the waves had almost sawn asunder the line with which it was attached to the timber. As I jumped into the boat the line broke, and I was swept out into the lake, the waves dashing over my little bark. For a moment I was in real danger of being lost; but I soon had the boat under control, and, after a few moments of hard work, reached the shore in safety.

I then secured a drayman, who for the sum of ten dollars agreed to carry me and my effects to the unburned end of the Fort Wayne and Chicago Railway, if he could find it. He succeeded. I booked my goods for my home in the East, secured some refreshment at a restaurant near by, and went back into the burnt district. Farwell Hall was gone, and every building in that part of the city had disappeared. The paved streets, covered with hot bricks and long coils of burnt and twisted telegraph

DWIGHT L. MOODY.

wire, told something of the awful story. Most of the substance of these great buildings had actually been carried away by the hot air into the water of Lake Michigan.

After seeing something of the fearful destruction wrought by the conflagration, I made my way through the heated streets to the railway, and took an outgoing train for my home in Pennsylvania. As we left the city it seemed as though the whole country was on fire; in all directions we could see huge banks of flame sweeping across the prairies, and the air was filled to suffocation with smoke.

I was soon able to telegraph home of my safety and speedy return. It seemed as though this would end my work in Chicago, but two months later Mr. Moody telegraphed me to return and help him in the new temporary “Tabernacle,” which had by that time been erected. On my return to Chicago I learned that Mr. Moody, after reaching his home on the North Side, had aroused his sleeping neighbours, assisted men and women into conveyances, and urged them to flee for their lives. As the billows of fire came nearer and nearer, Mr. Moody, with his wife and children, made his way into the north-western district to a place of safety beyond the fire line. Before leaving her home Mrs. Moody took down from the wall an oil painting of her husband and asked him to carry it with him; but he declined, saying that he did not think it would look well for him to be running through the streets of Chicago with his picture in his arms at such a time! Speaking of the fire to a friend some time later, Mr. Moody remarked:

“All I saved was my Bible, my family, and my reputation.”

Mr. Moody and I continued to hold services and to help the poor and needy who had lost everything in the fire. We slept together in a corner of the new Tabernacle, with nothing for a bed but a single lounge; and frequently the fierce prairie winds would blow the drifting snow into our room.

In October of 1872 I moved my family to Chicago, and in the same year Mr. Moody went on his second trip to England, leaving me in charge of the work at the Tabernacle, assisted by Major Whittle, Richard Thain, Fleming H. Revell, and others. There were conversions in the church and Sunday-school every week.

After Mr. Moody’s return we accepted an invitation to go to Springfield, Illinois, to hold services, which were attended with great blessing. Indeed, it seemed that if we had remained and thus worked in our own country, a great revival would have taken place. On our way to Springfield the train stopped at a station near Chicago, where an immense crowd was assembled on the platform. Mr. Moody sat by an open window. Near by stood a tall, gaunt-looking countryman, with his hands in his pockets, looking at Mr. Moody through the window. Mr. Moody asked him what the crowd meant, and the man replied:

“Oh, the folks have just come down to see the cars.”

“Would you be surprised to hear that General Grant was on the train?” Mr. Moody inquired.

“Oh, is he?” the man exclaimed.

Mr. Moody, with a smile, told him that he was not. Quite nonplussed, the man walked down the platform a little way, but returned after awhile and said:

“Hello, Mister! We had a great time in town last night.”

“How was that?” asked Mr. Moody.

“There was a woman here, and they wouldn’t bury her.”

“Why wouldn’t they bury her?” Mr. Moody asked.

“Because she wasn’t dead,” the man smilingly answered, to the great amusement of his friends.

Mr. Moody turned to me and said: “Sankey, put that window down!”

About this time my friend Philip Phillips returned from Europe, where he had been singing for one hundred nights in succession. He came to Chicago and stopped with me. He made a very enticing offer, including a large salary and all expenses, if I would go with him to the Pacific coast and there assist him in his services of song. I wouldn’t promise anything until I had spent some hours in consultation and prayer with my friend, Mr. Moody; the result was that I remained with him.

In June 1873 we sailed for England, Mr. Moody taking his wife and children with him, and my wife accompanying me, having left our two children with their grandparents. The voyage was uneventful, but on arriving at Liverpool Mr. Moody received letters informing him that both Mr. Pennefather and Mr. Bainbridge, the two men who had invited us to come to England, were dead.

Neither of us had any money, and the situation looked anything but cheerful. Turning to me, Mr. Moody said, “Sankey, it seems as if God has closed the door for us, and if He does not open it we will return to America at once.”

But as Mr. Moody was looking over some letters 18 SANKEY’S STORY

which he had received in New York before sailing, and which had remained unread, he found one from the secretary of the Young Men’s Christian Association at York, asking him if he ever came to England again, to come there and speak for the Association. “Here is a door,” said Moody to me after reading the letter, “which is partly open, and we will go there and begin our work.”

Mr. Bennett, this Association secretary, secured for our use a vacant chapel, but said that he hardly thought it worth while for us to commence work, as nearly all the people were away at the seaside. “Sankey, write out a little notice,” said Mr. Moody, turning to me; “we will have some handbills struck off.” And the notice read as follows:

EVANGELISTIC SERVICES

D. L. Moody of Chicago will preach, and Ira D. Sankey of Chicago will sing, at 7 o’clock p.m. to-morrow, Thursday, and each succeeding evening for a week, in the Independent Chapel. All are welcome. No collection.

The first meeting was attended by less than fifty persons, who took seats as far away from the pulpit as possible. I sang several solos before Mr. Moody’s address, and that was my first service of song in England. It was with some difficulty that I could get the people to sing, as they had not been accustomed to the kind of songs that I was using.

The next evening there was an attendance of about two hundred persons. It was while these services were held at York that the now eminent minister of London, the Rev. F. B. Meyer, B.A., received a great spiritual quickening, according to his own testimony. From this small beginning the attendance at our meetings continued to increase, until not less than twenty thousand persons attended the meetings at the Agricultural Hall, London.

The most effective solo used at this time was “Jesus of Nazareth passeth by,” which I sang from a small scrap-book of special pieces prepared for my own use. The demand for this song became so great that I had a large number of copies of the words printed to supply those who wished to have them; but this supply was soon exhausted, and it became evident that something must be done to furnish hymns and tunes for our meetings.

After remaining at York five weeks, we were invited to go to Sunderland, in the north of England, and while there I wrote to London, offering to give my selection of songs to the publishers of Philip Phillips’ hymn-book, “Hallowed Songs,” free of charge, if they would print them. This they respectfully declined. About this time Mr. R. C. Morgan, one of the publishers and proprietors of The Christian, came to Sunderland to record the work, and on hearing of the declination of the other publishers to take the hymns, offered to take them and publish them in small pamphlet form. So I cut from my scrap-book twenty-three pieces, rolled them up, and wrote on them the words, “Sacred Songs and Solos, sung by Ira D. Sankey at the meetings of Mr. Moody of Chicago.” This book, together with the edition of words only, has now grown into a volume of twelve hundred pieces, and up to the present time has had possibly the largest sale of any book except the Bible.

During all our campaigns it was our custom to rest on Saturdays, and to make excursions into the country on that day, whenever it was convenient. While at Sunderland, one Saturday, we took a cab and drove a few miles northward along the sea shore. Coming to an almost perpendicular cliff, rising hundreds of feet above the level of the sea, we descended by a stairway to the beach below. For awhile we enjoyed ourselves by walking along the shore, examining the beautiful shells left exposed by the tide, which had gone out before we arrived. Our attention was soon arrested by some one shouting from the top of the cliff. We saw a man wildly beckoning to us to return. On looking round we discovered that the tide had risen and had filled a deep channel between us and the stairway. It was clear that we had no time to lose. Mr. Moody suggested that I should plunge in and lead the way toward the cliff as quickly as possible, and while I did so he stood looking on, convulsed with laughter at my frantic strides through the water over the slippery stones. But I reached a place of safety. Then the tables were turned, and it was my opportunity to enjoy a sight not soon to be forgotten, as my friend slowly and with considerable difficulty waded through the constantly rising water to the place where I stood. We were to hold a Bible-reading that afternoon at three o’clock. Not having time to go to our lodgings for a change of clothing, we at once proceeded to the place of the meeting, and we held the service in our wet clothes and shoes. It was a dismal night in November 1873, when our train rolled into the station in the city of Edin burgh. Desiring to avoid the formality of a reception at the hands of the committee and friends who had invited us to conduct a series of evangelistic meetings in their city, we had refrained from notifying them as to the hour of our arrival. Securing public cabs from the numerous array massed about the station, we were soon rattling along the welllighted streets to the places where we were to abide.

I had selected an hotel in the principal street, not far from the Walter Scott monument, and after being assigned my room walked out on the crowded thoroughfare for a stroll. I had not proceeded far when a hand was laid on my shoulder, and a voice said, “Ah, Mr. Sankey, is this you? When did you arrive? and where is Mr. Moody?”

I gave the desired information in a few words, and then made bold to ask, “And, pray who are you?”

“The Chairman of your Committee,” he responded. “And I’ve been waiting for days to hear when you would arrive. Come away. You’re not to be stopping at a public hotel when there are a hundred homes ready to receive you.”

So, hurrying me into a cab, and arranging with the hotel-keeper to release my room, I was soon welcomed into one of the most delightful homes in Edinburgh. It was while abiding in this house that I wrote the music of my first Gospel song.

Our first meeting in the Music Hall, Edinburgh, was advertised to be held on Sunday evening, November 23, and long before the hour for commencing the service arrived the whole building was densely packed to its utmost capacity; even the lobbies, stairs, and entrance were crowded with people, while more than two thousand were turned away.

The first announcement made was a sad disappointment to the congregation; for it was that Mr. Moody could not be present, he having contracted a severe cold the day before, while on the train en route from Carlisle. It was further announced that

Mr. Sankey would conduct the service of song, and the Rev. J. H. Wilson would preach.

This was indeed a trying hour for the singer. Much had been said and written in Scotland against the use of “human hymns” in public worship; and even more had been uttered against the employment of the “kist o’ whistles,” the term by which they designated the small cabinet organ I employed as an accompaniment to my voice.

A goodly number of ministers and prominent lay men were present. After the opening prayer, I asked all to join in singing a portion of the One Hundredth Psalm. To this they responded with a will, as it was safe and common ground for all denominations; and no question would be raised as to anything “human” being introduced into David’s version as found in the Bible. This was followed by reading the Scriptures and prayer.

The service having been thus opened in regular order, we now faced the problem of “singing the Gospel” — a term first devised and used by the Rev. Arthur A. Rees of Sunderland, some months before, in advertising our meetings in that city, and since then much discussed in Scotland. The song selected for my first solo was “Jesus of Nazareth passeth by.” The intense silence that pervaded that great audience during the singing of this song at once assured me that even “human hymns,” sung in a prayerful spirit, were indeed likely to be used of God to arrest attention and convey Gospel truth to the hearts of men in bonny Scotland, even as they had in other places.

After a powerful address by Dr. Wilson, and a closing prayer, I was requested to sing another solo. Selecting “Hold the Fort,” then comparatively new in Edinburgh, the audience was requested to join in singing the chorus, “Hold the fort, for I am coming,” which they did with such heartiness and such power that I was further convinced that Gospel songs would prove as useful and acceptable to the masses in Edinburgh as they had in the cities of York and Newcastle.

In our meetings held prior to entering Scotland, it had been our custom to have the committee in charge of the different meetings — often three and four, in different localities, in a day — see that organs were placed in the halls and chapels ready for use. In Edinburgh we failed to inform the committee that upon them would devolve the matter of placing an organ in each hall and church as needed. The consequence of this oversight was that at our second meeting, held hi Barclay Free Church, there was no organ provided; and therefore we could have no solo singing or Gospel hymns.

When the committee discovered, about the hour for commencing the service, that the organ was not present, but at the Music Hall, they immediately sent a deputation after the missing instrument, who returned with speed, the deputation inside and the organ on top of the conveyance.

They hoped to arrive at the meeting in time for the closing exercises; and this end they certainly would have attained had not the Jehu in charge been over-zealous in the use of his whip. In whirling round a corner near the church at too great a speed he overturned the vehicle, rolling both deputation and “kist o’ whistles” into the middle of the street!

The “kist” was in a sadly demoralized condition, and its appearance now strangely suggestive of its Scottish name. The outcome of the disaster was that Mr. Moody had to conduct the second meeting alone, as I had led the first one.

It was evident that these occurrences greatly pleased some of the Scottish folks, as they were heard to say: “It had a fine tendency to break up any scheme the evangelists might have had in their working together.”

The third meeting was held in the same church, and great interest was manifested by the citizens. The question of the solo singing, as to its propriety and usefulness, was not as yet fully understood or admitted; hence it was with much fear and trepidation that we thus really entered, this third night, upon our three months’ campaign.

As I took my seat at the instrument on that, to me, most memorable evening, I discovered, to my great surprise, that Dr. Horatius Bonar was seated close by my organ, right in front of the pulpit. The first Gospel-song music I had ever composed, written since my arrival in Edinburgh, was set to words which he wrote — “Yet there is room.”

Of all men in Scotland he was the one man concerning whose decision I was most solicitous. He was, indeed, my ideal hymn-writer, the prince among hymnists of his day and generation. And yet he would not sing one of his own beautiful hymns in his own congregation, such as “I heard the voice of Jesus say,” or “I was a wandering sheep,” because he ministered to a church that believed in the use of the Psalms only.

With fear and trembling I announced as a solo the song “Free from the Law, oh, happy condition.”

No prayer having been offered for this part of the service, and feeling that the singing might prove only an entertainment, and not a spiritual blessing, I requested the whole congregation to join me in a word of prayer, asking God to bless the truth about to be sung.

In the prayer my anxiety was relieved. Believing and rejoicing in the glorious truth contained in the song, I sang it through to the end.

At the close of Mr. Moody’s address, Dr. Bonar turned toward me with a smile on his venerable face, and reaching out his hand he said: “Well, Mr. Sankey, you sang the Gospel to-night.”

And thus the way was opened for my mission of sacred song in Scotland.

On another occasion, as we were holding meetings in the Free Assembly Hall, while I was singing a solo a woman’s shrill voice was heard in the gallery, as she made her way toward the door, crying: “Let me oot! Let me oot! What would John Knox think of the like of yon?” At the conclusion of the solo I went across the street to sing at an overflow meeting in the famous Tolbooth Church. I had just begun to sing, when the same voice was again heard, “Let me oot! Let me oot! What would John Knox think of the like of yon?”

In London, a little later, the late Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, accompanied by Lord Kinnaird, visited one of the meetings we were holding at the Agricultural Hall. At the conclusion of the address Mr. Moody was introduced by Lord Kinnaird to the Grand Old Man of England. “You have a fine body for your profession,” remarked Mr. Gladstone. “Yes, if I only had your head on it,” Mr. Moody replied; and then hurried away to an inquiry meeting. The late Queen Victoria, the Princess of Wales, (now Queen Alexandra), and other members of the royal family, attended a number of our meetings at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Haymarket, occupying their private box. I was told by the Duchess of Sutherland that the Princess was very fond of “Sacred Songs and Solos,” a copy of which I had the pleasure of presenting to her. When the weather was not propitious and she remained at home from her church service, she would gather her children around the piano and sing by the hour.

We remained in Great Britain this time for two years, holding meetings in many of the leading cities of England, Scotland and Ireland. Some of the comedians at the theatres tried to make hits by changing our hymns and using our names on the stage. This was always resented by the audiences.

In imitation of the then popular song, “He’s a Fraud,” an actor one evening sang at the Royal Theatre in Manchester some doggerel beginning, “We know that Moody and Sankey are doing some good in their way.” It received both cheers and hisses from the audience at first; but on a repetition of the words the displeasure was so great that the comedian had to leave the stage. At a circus in Dublin, on one occasion, one clown said to another, “I am rather Moody to-night; how do you feel?” The other responded, “I feel rather Sankeymonious.” This by-play was not only met with hisses, but the whole audience arose and joined with tremendous effect in singing one of our hymns, “Hold the fort, for I am coming.”

While holding meetings at Burdett road, London, hi 1874, Mr. Moody and I one Saturday took a drive out to Epping Forest. There we visited a gipsy camp. While stopping to speak to two brothers who had been converted and were doing good missionary work, a few young gipsy lads came up to our carriage.

I put my hand on the head of one of them and said: “May the Lord make a preacher of you, my boy!”

Fifteen years later, when Gipsy Smith made his first visit to America, I had the pleasure of taking him for a drive in Brooklyn. While passing through Prospect Park he asked me:

“Do you remember driving out from London one day to a gipsy camp at Epping Forest?” I replied that I did.

“Do you remember a little gipsy boy standing by your carriage,” he asked again, “and you put your hand on his head, saying that you hoped he would be a preacher?”

“Yes, I remember it well.”

“I am that boy,” said Gipsy Smith.

My surprise can better be imagined than described. Little had I thought that the successful evangelist and fine Gospel singer of whom I had heard so much, and whom I had so much admired, was the little boy I had met in the gipsy camp. Truly God has granted my wish of fifteen years before, and has made a mighty preacher of the gipsy boy.

During our meetings in Her Majesty’s Theatre, Haymarket, a Mr. Studd, who had a great many fast horses and fox-hounds, gave them all up and became a follower of Christ. Mr. Studd’s son was attending Eton College. He and Mr. Graham, of Glasgow, a member of Parliament, invited us to go to Windsor and hold meetings for the young lords in the college. When it was rumoured that we would accept the invitation, the subject was taken up and discussed in Parliament.

Although we were accustomed to devote Saturdays to rest, we decided to give one Saturday to Eton College. When we arrived at Windsor Station we were met by Mr. Studd and Mr. Graham, and taken to the home of a merchant. As there was so much excitement in the town because of our coming, it was decided that it would be best to hold the meetings in this gentleman’s garden, where Mr. Graham gathered about fifty of the students under a large apple-tree. There Mr. Moody gave a short address on John iii. 16, and I sang a number of solos, including “Pass me not, O gentle Saviour.” We also distributed copies of “Sacred Songs and Solos” among the students, who took an enthusiastic part in the singing. Mr. Studd’s son, who afterwards became known as one of the chief cricketers of England, was converted at this meeting.

On one of our subsequent visits to Great Britain this young man got up a large petition, inviting us to Cambridge. This invitation we gladly accepted, and arrived there on Guy Fawkes night. When we entered the Corn Exchange, which was the largest meeting room in the town, we found it filled with students. It was the largest religious meeting that had ever been held in Cambridge. On reaching the platform we found Mr. George E. Morgan, M.A., of The Christian, who was then a Cambridge student, conducting the singing. Mr. Moody asked one of the Dons to lead in prayer, after which he called upon me to sing “The Ninety and Nine.” The students listened to the first verse in perfect silence; but at its conclusion they vigorously beat the floor with canes and umbrellas, and cried, “Hear, hear!” This demonstration followed each verse to the end. Mr. Moody’s address for half an hour held the undivided attention of his congregation. At the conclusion some of the students attempted to create a disturbance, but a large majority remained and gathered around us, saying: “These men must have fair play while they are in Cambridge.” Thus began a great revival in that town. Hundreds of young men dated their conversion from that time.

The news of the religious work at Cambridge naturally spread to Oxford, and we were invited to hold meetings there. We had hoped that the success of our meetings at Cambridge would make the way easier at Oxford. But a similar process had to be gone through there. We stopped at the Bull’s Head Hotel, and held meetings for two weeks in a large hall connected with that building, and eventually a large number of students took their stand on the Lord’s side.

On August 3, 1875, a great farewell meeting was held for us in Liverpool. Several addresses were made by prominent speakers, and one of some length by Mr. Moody. As we took our departure on the S.S. Spain we were greeted with the most enthusiastic applause and evidences of good will, the great crowd on the shore singing several of our hymns as the vessel moved out of sight.

After our return to America, the first meeting held was at Northfield, on September 9, 1875. There, among many others, Mr. Moody’s mother, who was a Unitarian, stood up for prayer. At this meeting I first sang “The Ninety and Nine” in my own country.

Brooklyn was our next place to visit. Although the first meeting, held in Clermont Avenue Rink, October 24, was at half-past eight in the morning, the hall, which had chairs for five thousand persons, was packed full, and thousands were turned away for want of room. I was assisted in the singing here by a choir of two hundred and fifty voices.

My first solo was, “Rejoice and be glad! the Redeemer has come!” At the second meeting, in the afternoon, fifteen thousand persons had to be turned away for lack of accommodation. From two to three hundred requests for prayer would often be announced at these meetings.

At one of them a fine-looking young man came into the inquiry room along with a number of others. I asked him if he was willing to accept Christ as his only Saviour. He bowed his head in his hands as he sat by my side. With great earnestness, while his whole frame shook with deepest feeling, he replied:

“Jesus will not accept me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have been an infidel for many years, a follower of Charles Bradlaugh, and for the last eight years have not ceased to speak in private and public against Christ. I have travelled nearly all over the world, and have spoken everywhere against Him and all those who professed to be Christians; now I fear He will not forgive me for what I have done.”

“Do you want Him to forgive you?” I asked.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I do not know what is the matter with me, or why I am here to-night. Some power that I do not understand has been working upon me for the last two days, and I am in a despondent state of mind.”

I lifted my heart in prayer that I might make no mistake in dealing with this man. I waited for a moment, and then said, “My dear friend, what you need to-night is Christ; He will dispel your gloom and sorrow.”

“But,” he exclaimed, arousing himself from what seemed to be a deep reverie, “I have fought against Him all my life, and I thought I was right, too.”

“Did you have peace in your heart when you were preaching against Christ?”

He looked up at me. “No, I was a coward,” he confessed. “I remember, while coming home from a long journey on the sea, we were one night driven by the storm near the rocks off a certain cape, and when I thought we were sure to go to the bottom of the sea, I got down on my knees and prayed to God to save us. The storm died, and with it went my prayers. For as soon as I thought we were safe, like a coward I went back to my old ways, and denied that there was a God.”

“Well,” I said, “let that go. What brought you here to-night?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I have not been in church for eight years; I have not spoken to a Christian during that time, as I have lived entirely among infidels and sceptics. But about a year ago I received a letter from my poor old mother, away over in Dundee, Scotland. She asked me to make her one promise, that when Mr. Moody and Mr. Sankey came back to America I would go to hear them, if they came to the place where I was. I answered her that I would. When you came here I thought I would have to keep my word to my mother, so I went to the Rink two nights in succession. Since that time I have had no rest. Yesterday and to-day I have had to close up my office. I am a civil engineer. I have been walking the streets all day, thinking, thinking. Not being acquainted with any Christians to whom I could speak, I thought I would go once more to the Rink. And now here I am, talking to you.”

“My dear friend,” I said, “it is an answer to your mother’s prayer. She may be praying for her wandering boy this very night. Now, do not delay any longer. Yield to Christ, and He will receive you.”

He bowed his head, while his trembling form told how deeply his heart was moved. After a hard struggle he took my hand and said: “By the grace of God I take Jesus Christ as my Saviour now!”

After a word of prayer I asked him if he would not write to Scotland at once and tell his mother all about it, and he promised that he would. A few evenings later I met him at the door of the Rink. As he came up to shake hands and bid me good bye, I asked him if he had written to his mother.

“Oh, yes,” said he, “but not until I had first sent her a cable dispatch.”

“What did you say in the dispatch?” I asked.

“Well, I just said, ‘I’ve found Jesus,’ and signed my name to it.”

“Thank the Lord,” said I.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “that is just what my dear old mother cabled back to me, * Bless the Lord, O my soul.’”

Our first meeting in Philadelphia was held on November 24, in the old Pennsylvania Railroad Depot, which John Wanamaker fitted up for our use. It had a seating capacity of more than ten thousand persons. Here, as in Brooklyn, the leading ministers gave their hearty support to the work, and in every way expressed their approval of the effort. On one occasion the meetings were attended by President U. S. Grant, several Senators, and members of the Supreme Court. During my stay in Philadelphia I often visited the home of Henry

Clay Trumbull, then the Editor of The Sunday School Times, who gave us his heartiest support in every way. Among the laymen who were very efficient helpers at our meetings were John Wanamaker and George H. Stuart. Mr. Wanamaker ’s special meetings for young men were largely attended. Under Moody’s powerful preaching many conversions took place in Philadelphia.

A number of Princeton students attended the meetings, and an invitation was extended to us to go to Princeton to hold meetings there for the college men, which we were glad to accept. In the Princeton meetings we had the warm sympathy and co operation of President McCosh. Among the con verts at Princeton was Wilton Merle Smith, now one of the leading ministers of New York City.

The old Hippodrome in New York, located where Madison Square Garden is now, was the scene of our next meetings, in February, March and April of 1876. It was the largest place of assembly in the city, though a very unattractive structure. The building had never been used for religious meetings before, but was a place for sport and gaiety. The hall which we used, the largest in the building, seated eight thousand. A monster stage was built, large enough to hold the choir of six hundred voices, and still leave room for at least four hundred visiting clergymen and guests. Here for the first time I sang “Waiting and Watching,” which afterwards became a great favourite. Thurlow Weed, who frequently attended the meetings and occupied a seat at the reporters’ desk, would often have written requests laid on my organ asking me to sing this hymn. The New York meetings were very successful. One day, near the close of the ten weeks’ campaign, an audience assembled which numbered more than four thousand persons, all of whom confessed that they hadbeen converted at these meetings.

Our next large meetings were held in Chicago, during the fall of 1876, in a large Tabernacle erected for the occasion by John V. Farwell. It was capable of seating more than eight thousand. At one of these meetings Mr. Moody’s attention was attracted by an usher with a wand in his hand, seating the people as they came in. Mr. Moody did not like the man’s appearance. He asked the Chairman of the Committee, Mr. Harvey, who the usher was. Mr. Harvey replied that he did not know, but would go and see. Taking the man out into the inquiry room, Mr. Harvey learned that his name was Guiteau — the man who aftenvards shot President Garfield. So great was Mr. Moody’s power in reading character!

At the close of the three months’ mission in Chicago a farewell service was held for those alone who professed to have been brought to Christ during the meetings, and it was attended by six thousand persons.

Then, for six months, we conducted meetings in Boston. On an average, three meetings a day were held, in a large temporary building erected for the occasion by a committee of wealthy gentlemen. Here also we had the hearty co-operation of many prominent ministers and laymen, among whom Dr. A. J.Gordon, Dr. Joseph Cook, Phillips Brooks, and Henry M. Moore may be mentioned. Among those who professed conversion at these meetings was H. N. F. Marshall, who afterwards removed to Northfield, and there, under Mr. Moody’s direction, erected a number of the school buildings.

New Haven was our next field of labour. Many of the Yale University students were here converted, and afterwards became useful ministers of the Gospel throughout the country.

At Hartford, which we next visited, Mark Twain attended several of our meetings. On one occasion P. T. Barnum, the famous showman, attended and remained for an inquiry meeting, where it was my privilege to speak to him in regard to his spiritual condition. In our conversation he said: “Mr. Sankey, you go on singing ‘The Ninety and Nine,’ and when you get that lost sheep in the fold we will all be saved.” I afterwards learned that he was a Universalist.

For the next six months we conducted meetings in the churches of St. Louis. Able assistance was rendered by the Rev. J. H. Brookes and other eminent ministers. The usual good results attended our efforts. At one of the inquiry meetings I asked a fine-looking man as he was leaving the meeting if he was a Christian. “No,” he replied, “I am a Missourian” — meaning that he was a native of Missouri!

Our work spread out in all directions, and hundreds of cities were visited, not only throughout the United States, but in Canada, and even in Mexico, much blessing attending all the services wherever we went.

On one occasion, when I was leaving Chicago for New York on an evening train, a gentleman took his seat beside me. For some time nothing was said, but after awhile we got into a general conversation. After discussing the weather and politics, we entered upon the subject of religion. This finally led to the discussion of Moody and Sankey. The stranger said that he had never had the pleasure of hearing either of them. When I told him that I had often heard Moody preach and Sankey sing, he seemed much interested and asked:

“What kind of folks are they?”

“Oh, they are just common folks like you and me,” I replied.

His daughter, he said, had a cabinet organ and they were all very fond of Sankey’s Songs and Solos, and he was sorry that he had not had the opportunity to hear Mr. Sankey sing “The Ninety and Nine” before he died. I told him I was much surprised, and asked him what proof he had of Sankey’s death. He replied that he had seen it in the papers.

“It must be true if you have seen it in the papers,” I said.

By this time we were nearing the station where my friend was to alight. Hearing the whistle blow, he looked out of the window and remarked: “I have enjoyed your company very much, but will soon have to leave you now.”

“I hardly think it is fair that we should part with out telling you that I am one of the men we have been talking about,” I said.

“Why, who are you?” he asked.

“I am what is left of Sankey.”

At this he reached for his handbag, and giving me a quizzical look he said: “You can’t play that on me, old fellow; Sankey is dead.” Then he rushed for the door, leaving me to continue my journey alone.

During the years which followed we made several trips to Great Britain and held meetings in hundreds of places, large and small. In the campaign of 188i-’84 we held meetings in ninety-nine different places in Scotland alone. Mr. Moody was once asked if he had kept any record of the number of converts at his meetings.

“Records!” he exclaimed, “why, they are only kept in heaven.”

In one of the recent Revival meetings at Sheffield, conducted by Torrey and Alexander, a man gave the following testimony: “I found Christ in this hall in 1882, when Moody and Sankey were preaching the. Gospel; I was brought face to face with God, and in the after-meeting Mr. Sankey led me to Christ, and I am happy in Him to-day.”

“Well, now, that is refreshing,” commented Mr. Alexander. “When anybody asks you if Revival converts stand, you can speak of that one; he looks as if he is going to stay, too. As we have gone around the world we have found that the best workers, as a general rule, are either workers or con verts of the Moody and Sankey meetings. We have found them in India, in Tasmania, and everywhere we have gone.”

Lord Shaftesbury, speaking at a meeting in Exeter Hall, London, in the interest of evangelical work in Ireland, said: “Therefore go on circulating the Scriptures. I should have been glad to have had also the circulation of some well-known hymns, because I have seen the effect produced by those of Moody and Sankey. If they would only return to this country they would be astonished at seeing the influence exerted by those hymns which they sang. A week ago, when in Paris, I went to Belleville, the very nest of the communists, and even in that quarter I heard their hymns being sung. If we could get something like that in Ireland a mighty influence would be exerted.”

“These American laymen,” said another prominent man, “have wrought a work in Great Britain which the Church of England itself feels in its inmost heart. They are not, it is true, graduates of any university; they are men of the people, speaking the language and using the methods not of the refined, but of the generality. Yet they have probably left a deeper impress of their individuality upon the men and women of Great Britain than any other persons that could be named.”

One of the most delightful experiences of my life was a trip to the Holy Land in 1898. I was accompanied by my wife, one of my sons, my brother, and a few friends. One of the most genial members of the company was the late Roswell P. Flower, with whom we had the pleasure of travelling for more than three months. We sailed from New York in January, made a short stop at Gibraltar, and dropped anchor at Alexandria. Cairo we reached by rail. We saw the pyramids, the Gizeh Museum, and the Howling Dervishes; made an excursion to Heliopolis, and took the trip up the Nile to the First Cataract, visiting the usual places, such as Luxor and Karnak. At the latter place we met the old Arab who discovered the mummy of Rameses II. We asked him if he would allow us to take a snapshot of him. This he at first refused, but the glint of the bright Egyptian sun on the proffered piece of silver at once secured his consent.

After spending about forty days in Egypt we started for Palestine in March, by a provokingly slow train from Cairo to Port Said, and thence by one of the regular mail steamers to Jaffa. In the Holy Land we followed much the usual round — exploring Jerusalem, Bethlehem. Jericho, Bethany and other historic spots, and sharing the profound emotions that for ever stir the hearts of Christian tourists in Palestine. On our way home we visited Constantinople, returning via Athens, Naples and Rome — and, of course, taking in Mount Vesuvius.

All through this trip — here so briefly outlined — I had occasion to sing my Songs and Solos many times. The first evening in Cairo I visited the American Mission. I found the building well filled with Americans, Egyptians, and English. A man on the platform was giving an address on Temperance. The room was divided by a partition about two feet high, separating the natives from the foreigners. I made my way to a seat among the Americans, and had not been there long when a missionary beside me leaned over and said: “Are you not Mr. Sankey?” When I replied that I was, he said he hoped that I would sing for them. I told him that, although I had come for rest, I would gladly sing if they had a small organ or piano on which I might accompany myself. There being no instrument in the church, the matter was dropped. A few minutes later a lady pressed her way into the pew behind me and, leaning over toward me, said: “I am delighted to see you here to-night, and I hope you will sing for us.”

She proved to be a woman from my own county in Pennsylvania. Being told thai there was no instrument in the church, she declared that she would soon get one. She beckoned to four Egyptian soldiers to follow her. In a few minutes they returned with a small cabinet organ, which they placed on the platform. At the conclusion of the address I gave a service of song, lasting for half an hour, after which I said good-night. But my audience refused to be satisfied, and demanded more songs. Again a number of pieces were rendered, and the service was finally closed.

While returning down the Nile I was often prevailed upon by missionaries along the way where the steamer stopped to give services of song. At several of these I found that the natives already knew a number of our hymns.

In Jerusalem I started early one morning to visit the Tower of David, which was located only a few rods from the hotel. I was stopped by one of the Sultan’s soldiers, who informed me by signs and gesticulations that I could not ascend the tower without a permit from the captain of the guard. I secured the desired permit by the use of a little bakhsheesh, and was escorted up the winding stairway by a savage-looking soldier carrying a gun. From the top of the tower may be seen one of the grandest and most interesting scenes in the world. I determined to have at least one song in honour of King David before descending. Selecting one of the most beautiful psalms, the I2ist, “I to the hills will lift mine eyes,” I began to sing at the top of my voice, using the grand old tune, “Belmont.” The soldier, not acquainted with that kind of performance, and perhaps never having heard a sacred song in his life, rushed up to where I stood, looking quite alarmed. I knew that he could not understand a word of what I was singing, so I kept right on to the end of the psalm. Coming to the conclusion by this time that I was not likely to do any special damage either to him or to myself, the guard smiled and tipped his cap as I finished. By tipping him I returned the salutation, and then we passed down into the Street of David.

A few hours later our party visited that portion of the city called Mount Zion, where we entered the fine school erected by an English bishop for the children of Jerusalem. We were greeted by the principal, who proved to have been a member of my choir at the meetings in London. I was invited to sing for the children, and consented to do so if they would sing for us first. I was much surprised to hear them sing some of my own songs, as well as their native songs in Arabic. I sang “The Ninety and Nine” and other songs, much to the delight of the children. Standing on the summit of the “green hill far away,” outside the city wall, I sang the fine old Gospel hymn: “On Calvary’s brow my Saviour died.”

While at Constantinople I visited Robert College, where I sang several hymns and gave an address to the Turkish students; and also at the American and English missions in that city I rendered my service of song. In Rome I had the same pleasant experience, where I held a number of services, both speaking and singing in the English, American and Scotch churches.

On returning to America I visited the soldiers in camp at Tampa, Florida, where I held several services. I was here invited by Theodore Roosevelt, then Colonel of the Rough Riders, to conduct services at his camp, but a previous engagement prevented my accepting.

The following year I again visited Great Britain, where I held services of “Sacred Song and Story” in thirty cities and towns. The result was that my health broke down. Later I lost my eyesight.

My friend, Dwight Lyman Moody, was born February 5, 1837, at Northneld, Massachusetts. His father, who was a stone-mason, died when the lad was about four years old. Many years later Mr. Moody was laying the corner-stone of the first building at Northfield. His friends had secured a silver trowel for him, but he refused to use it. He had been at his mother’s home, and in the garret he had found one of his father’s old trowels with which he had earned bread for the family.

“You may keep the silver trowel,” Mr. Moody said; “this one is good enough for me.”

Mr. Moody used to tell how he earned his first money by driving the neighbours’ cows to and from pasture, at two cents a day. When he was eight years old a man who held a mortgage on his mother’s little farm came to the house one day and told the widow that she must pay the mortgage or get out of the house. The poor woman was sick at the time. She turned over in the bed and prayed that God would help her. Then she wrote to her brother, and he helped her by paying the interest on the mortgage for several years. At last, by economy and industry, the family was able to clear off the mortgage and retain the home. Many years after wards, by God’s blessing, young Dwight was able to secure the farm belonging to the man who had once held the mortgage, and on that farm is now located the school of Mount Hermon, established for the education of young men.

At the age of nineteen young Moody left the farm and went to Boston, where he entered a shoe store owned by his uncle. In that city he was converted through the preaching of Dr. Kirk, at the Mount Vernon Church. After remaining in Boston for some time, Moody went to Chicago, where he found employment in a shoe store owned by a Mr. Henderson. He made a good record in business, and sold more shoes than any other salesman in the establishment. And whenever Mr. Henderson heard of the failure of any of his customers in the towns about Chicago, he would always send Moody to collect the debts, as he invariably arrived there ahead of all other creditors.

While he was thus engaged Mr. Moody did not lose zeal in religious matters. He was very active in the work of the Y.M.C.A., and was soon elected president of the branch located at Farwell Hall. He also became much interested in Sunday-school work, hiring a saloon for use on Sundays.

In his Sunday-school was a wicked and unruly youth, who constantly disturbed the exercises. Mr. Moody remonstrated with him a number of times, but to no avail. Finally, taking the young man into an adjoining room, he gave him a severe chastising. When Moody returned, flushed with excitement, he said to his assistant superintendent: “I think I have saved that young man.” And truly he had; for from that time the young disturber became an earnest Christian, and was one of Moody ’s warmest and best supporters for many years. Mr. Moody’s Sunday-school work grew until he had one of the largest schools in Chicago, in what was known as the Illinois Street Church. There I joined him in 1871, acting as his chorister until we went to England in 1873, after which we continued to work together for about a quarter of a century. Mr. Moody was not a singer, and could not have raised a tune had his life depended upon it, although he was very fond of singing and used the service of praise more extensively and successfully than any other man in the nineteenth century.

Dwight L. Moody was the greatest and noblest man I have ever known. His strongest characteristic was common sense. The poor heard him gladly, as they did his Master of old; the rich and learned were charmed by his simple, earnest words. He will not only be remembered for his extended evangelistic work, but also for the two noble schools which he founded.

Those schools at Northfield and Mount Hermon, Massachusetts, originated in this way. One day, about the year 1880, Mr. Moody drove up into the mountains near his mother’s home. Stopping at a dilapidated farmhouse, he hitched his horse to the fence and went in. The father was sick in bed; the mother and two daughters were making straw hats, by which to support the family. Moody said to them:

“What are you going to do? This old farm is worn out and unable to maintain your family.”

The girls answered that if they could obtain an education in some way they might be able to earn money for the support of their parents.

“Well, let us pray about it,” said Moody. After the prayer he gave them a little money, got into his buggy, and started back down the mountain to the village. I met him on his return, and he said to me: “I have made up my mind to start a school for poor girls in New England. If you are willing, we will ask the committee which has charge of the royalty received on our hymn-books to devote the income from that source to start the erection of buildings.”

To this I heartily agreed, and it was the beginning of the now famous Northfield schools. The first students were the poor girls who were making the straw hats. The story of these two girls, and of Mr. Moody’s visit to them, I told some years afterward to a number of summer guests at Lake Mohonk. The proprietor of the hotel, Mr. Smiley, being much impressed, took his hat and collected among the guests $1,500 for the school. On receiving the offering next day, Moody said to me that it was the most providential thing, as they were just that amount short in making up the annual accounts of the school.

Some time after the establishment of the girls’ school a wealthy gentleman from New Haven was visiting Northfield. Seeing the good work done there for the girls, he asked Mr. Moody why he did not do the same thing for the boys of New England. Mr. Moody replied that he would be very glad to do so if he had the money.

“I will give $25,000 to commence with,” said the old, white-haired man.

The offer was gladly accepted. It was this money which Mr. Moody used for buying the property of the man who had ordered his widowed mother from her home. On this farm, situated about four miles from the girls’ school, across the Connecticut River, are now located several large buildings, in which young men from all over the world are educated. About a thousand students attend the schools every year. One hundred dollars a year is charged for each student, but pupils are expected to do whatever work they can to help along.

After forty-four years of faithful and consecrated labour for his Master, Mr. Moody passed on to his reward December 22, 1899.

I. D. S.

BEFORE sending forth this book on its mission I wish to express my thank fulness to Almighty God for having permitted me to live, move and have my being; for the promise which He hath given of eternal life through His name; and for the confidence that I shall be with Him by and by in the land where there is no more pain, sorrow or death, and where He shall wipe all tears from our eyes.

My three favourite songs, “Hiding in
Thee,” “There’ll be no Dark Valley,”
and “Saved by Grace,” besides the old
familiar “Ninety and Nine,” are herewith
reproduced, as an appropriate closing for
this autobiographical sketch.