Occasionally in his rare quiet moments, Dwight had thought about visiting England. He felt his spiritual and mental needs keenly. But he moved much too fast in Chicago to address them.
Dwight greatly admired and desired to meet three individuals in England: George Williams, founder of the YMCA and a London wholesale draper; George Muller of Bristol, the elderly German who prayed, and without capital or asking anyone for a penny maintained a large orphanage and numerous overseas missionaries; and Charles Haddon Spurgeon, Dwight’s senior by only three years, yet a preacher of fame and, like himself, virtually selftaught, jovial, and rather stout.
Spurgeon’s sermons preached from the Metropolitan Tabernacle, his Baptist church in South London, were spread worldwide—their homespun language, anecdotes, humor, grasp of scripture, all made Dwight eager to imitate this great man of God. Dwight read everything he could find of Spurgeon’s.
Much as he desired to travel to England, Dwight would never have gone had Emma’s doctor not suggested it for her asthma. Mrs. Revell gladly kept baby Emma, and Dwight and Emma set sail for England on February 24, 1867, shortly after Dwight’s thirtieth birthday.
Emma loved the sea voyage, but poor Dwight suffered from seasickness the entire trip! Shortly after their arrival, Dwight, still recovering, said, “One trip across the water is enough for me”; then he added, “I do not expect to visit this country again.” Both statements turned out to be totally false.
The couple’s first impressions of England left something to be desired. It either snowed or rained most of their first week. Dwight disliked the British formality and wrote his mother: “I do not like the old country as well as our one, I must tell you how glad I am I was born and brought up in America. I think England must be a horrible place to live.”
Although a born Londoner, Emma agreed completely with her husband. She considered London as sooty as Pittsburgh; the Bank of England timeworn; and St. Paul’s Cathedral “a very grand building but more appropriate for any other kind of performance than for a church service!”
Making their way the following Sunday to the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Spurgeon’s church, Dwight marveled at the huge congregation of at least five thousand. He remarked to Emma later, “When Spurgeon walked to the platform, my eyes just feasted upon him, and my heart’s desire for years has at last been accomplished!” It seemed to Dwight like a dream come true, to be listening to Spurgeon after all the time he had admired him. Silently Dwight prayed, “Oh, Lord, help me to preach and minister like Charles Spurgeon! I pray for grace and to be filled with the Holy Spirit to minister to Your people.”
“WHEN SPURGEON WALKED TO THE PLATFORM, MY EYES JUST FEASTED UPON HIM.”
Emma described Spurgeon: “He is a very plain-looking man but had the undivided attention of his whole audience—and the singing—so many voices mingled together in such harmony and keeping such good time, it seemed perfectly grand!” How Dwight longed to preach as Spurgeon preached and to see singing led like that. His heart nearly burst at the thought of such a possibility.
In London, Dwight met George Williams and received an invitation to the annual breakfast of the original YMCA in Aldersgate Street; he encouraged them to start a daily noon prayer meeting similar to the one in Chicago. The meeting flourished, continuing without interruption until World War I.
As time passed and spring came on, the Moodys were invited to various social gatherings, and their perception of England began to change. Emma thought London prettier in the springtime, and “some of the parks and square gardens are extremely beautiful.” And, she told Dwight, she “liked the English better than when I first came. I do not think them as reserved as I expected them, but do not think them as free and open as Americans.”
Dwight enjoyed the sensation of being appreciated. In Chicago, he recalled, Episcopalians would pass by on the other side of the street or call him names. But in England, the Church of England clergy and laymen he met were kind to him. Evangelicals, both Anglican and nonconformist, took to him.
Of course, Dwight appeared somewhat of a novelty to the British. His expansive geniality, his sincerity and drive caused a religious newspaper to declare, “How deeply and quickly Dwight L. Moody has won the affections of a multitude of Christian brethren.” Dwight relished the new attention, and his estimation of the British climbed because they received him so openly.
DWIGHT RELISHED THE NEW ATTENTION, AND HIS ESTIMATION OF THE BRITISH CLIMBED.
Dwight received an invitation to address the May meeting of the Sunday School Union in London. The meeting took place at Exeter Hall in the Strand, long considered the Mecca of Evangelicals. Lord Shaftesbury, the well-known philanthropist and leading abolitionist, introduced Dwight by saying, “We are very glad to welcome our American cousin, the Reverend Mr. Moody of Chicago.”
Dwight stood up. He gazed at the stern-looking godly faces, the ladies’ prim bonnets and crinolines, the whiskers and formal black of the men; they were all drowsy and satiated with speeches on a warm May afternoon, and most likely they considered an American a sort of colonial who was not quite English and had a vulgar, grating accent.
Every eye riveted on him, Dwight said: “The vice-chairman has made two mistakes.” He had the audience’s attention as they sat bolt upright. “To begin with, I am not ‘the Reverend Mr. Moody’ at all. I’m plain Dwight L. Moody, a Sabbath school worker. And then I’m not your American cousin. By the grace of God I’m your brother, interested with you in our Father’s work for His children.”
Dwight paused, then with a slight grin added, “And now about this vote of thanks to the ‘noble Earl.’ I don’t see why we should thank him any more than he should thank us.”
The audience gasped, but then as they observed Lord Shaftesbury, who possessed a great sense of humor and lacked any pomposity, they relaxed and delighted in the American’s frankness. Once the air had been cleared, Dwight urged the audience to have done with colorless catechism and tedious verse learning and to act on the belief that children could trust in Christ as a friend.
Some of the interesting people Dwight met in England had lasting impact on him. One of them was a wholesale butcher in West London, Henry Varley. Varley, close to Dwight’s age, belonged to the Plymouth Brethren group. His preaching, however, was remarkable; he preached with such force that several hundred people would gather to hear him.
Dwight, curious about Varley’s power, visited him to discover his secret of success. Varley believed in much prayer, so he prayed at home. Then, as they took a small carriage over the rough stone streets of London, he said, “Now, brother, let us have prayer for the meeting,” and he knelt on the swaying carriage floor, among the wisps of straw.
Dwight had never tried praying aloud in a carriage as it swayed back and forth and rumbled along over the cobblestone streets. In fact, it wasn’t exactly a formidable or convenient place to pray! But following the evening service, he watched spellbound as seventy butchers with tears streaming down their faces gathered around Varley, truly a man of God. Dwight knew that prayer was Varley’s secret.
“AH’M ’ARRY MOORHOUSE. AH’LL COOM AND PREACH FOR YOU IN CHICAGO.”
At Varley’s invitation, Dwight received several opportunities to preach, which he gladly fulfilled. At the close of a service he preached in Dublin, he heard someone speak at his shoulder level: “Ah’m ’Arry Moorhouse. Ah’ll coom and preach for you in Chicago.”
Dwight turned around. Just in front of him stood a beardless, insignificant-looking, small man. He appeared to be about seventeen years old. Slightly annoyed, yet attempting to hide his disdain, Dwight smiled a benevolent smile. Not to be put off, the little fellow repeated, “Ah’m ’Arry Moorhouse. Ah’ll preach for you in America. When d’you go ’ome?”
Now Dwight felt cornered and hedged a bit. “I’m not quite sure when we’ll leave. Things are quite unsettled for me and my few just now.” If Dwight had known his departure date, he wasn’t sure that he would have revealed it to this odd, little character anyway.
Harry Moorhouse’s name had been mentioned to Dwight, and he knew a few things about him. God had retrieved Harry from the gutter—and from picking pockets. Although Harry was known as the “Boy Preacher,” Dwight found it hard to believe this mere stripling of a lad could preach and soon forgot all about him.
Not long after the encounter with Moorhouse, Dwight and Emma returned to Chicago and were thankful to be home. Much to their surprise and delight, a home had been built for them on State Street and given to them as a gift. Their friend John Farwell had asked other friends of the Moodys to help purchase and furnish the house. Two portraits of Dwight and Emma had also been placed prominently in the new house. G. P. A. Healy, the most famous American portrait painter of the day, had painted Dwight’s portrait without fee.
The opening of the new YMCA hall on Madison Street provided the Moodys with further excitement. Designed by W. W. Boyington, an outstanding architect in the area, the hall had been erected in the center of Chicago’s business district. The first building in the world to be built by a YMCA, the hall rose five stories, had a marble façade, the largest auditorium in Chicago, five shops to lease at street level, a library, reading room, lecture rooms, a gymnasium, a dormitory for forty-two people, and extra office space rented by the fire, police, and health departments.
Officials of the YMCA had intended to name the new hall Moody Hall, but Dwight demurred and insisted it be called Far-well Hall in honor of John Farwell. Everyone knew, however, that the new YMCA represented Dwight’s crowning achievement in Chicago. They realized, too, that Dwight was one of their leading citizens, albeit a somewhat abused one.
A description of him appeared in a local religious newspaper in November 1867: “Mr. Moody is rather below the medium height, and inclined to fleshiness, not corpulence. He goes to the platform with a quick, nervous step that means business; and behind his round, ruddy and good-humored but earnest face is a busy brain.” The newspaper account attached some further accolades to Dwight: “When Moody speaks, everybody listens, even those who don’t like him. His remarks are short, pithy and practical, and his exhortations impressive and sometimes touching even to tears. He is aggressive and his remarks always have a martial ring.” The account said nothing about his being ill-educated, although it did refer to his being short—he appeared shorter because he had gained considerable weight, a fact which concerned Dwight but one he could not seem to control.
Just when Dwight thought his situation in Chicago couldn’t get much better, he received an unexpected irritant in the form of a letter from Harry Moorhouse. The young man had arrived in New York and wanted to come to Chicago and preach for Dwight. Politely, Dwight dropped him a note saying, “If you come West, call on me.” Dwight soon dismissed Moorhouse from his mind, thinking, I’ll never hear from him again.
Twenty-seven-year-old Harry Moorhouse had served time in jail before his twenty-first birthday. After getting out, he came upon a backstreet mission and heard an ex-prize fighter and coal miner preach on the prodigal son. Slowly, he began to be transformed even though he wore thick gloves at first to keep from picking pockets! He became a respectable auctioneer, married a childhood friend, then moved to a tiny cottage on the outskirts of Manchester to give his whole time to preaching.
A whimsical, gentle creature, and self-effacing, Moorhouse possessed a burning sense of mission. A strong sense of humor and an ability to prick the slightest bubble of pretension brought a wonderful balance to his life.
Upon arrival in New York, Moorhouse stayed in the home of a rich Quaker, William Kimber, who found himself quite taken with the young man. Kimber tried to help Moorhouse with his grammar, spending many hours using an accepted grammar book to help correct his errors. Kimber wished to enhance Moorhouse’s “wonderful gospel messages” with proper grammar to make them more palatable.
Dwight, of course, knew nothing about William Kimber or of his helping Moorhouse with his grammar. If he thought at all of Moorhouse after January 1, 1868, he felt relief that he had heard the last of him.
But on January 7, even as Farwell Hall still glistened with new paint, fire broke out. No police, health, or fire department on the premises could save it from the strong winds that blew that day. A young boarder, David Borrell, had reached the doorway carrying his trunk when Dwight called, “Borrell, throw it away and help me. We want to have a prayer meeting in the Methodist Church.” The noonday meeting took place, and even before the rubble cooled, the YMCA secretary and committee began soliciting for funds to rebuild the prestigious hall.
A few weeks after the fire, Dwight heard from Moorhouse again, much to his annoyance. In his letter he told Dwight the date and time for his Chicago visit. Reading it with some impatience, Dwight thought, The man can’t preach! Fortunately, from Dwight’s perspective, he had to be in St. Louis for the Missouri Christian Convention the day of Moorhouse’s arrival.
The day of Dwight’s departure for St. Louis, he asked Emma to put Moorhouse up, then he told the deacons, “Try him—and if he fails I will take him off your hands when I come back.” Then he boarded the train for St. Louis.
“TRY HIM— AND IF HE FAILS I WILL TAKE HIM OFF YOUR HANDS WHEN I COME BACK.”
Dwight had been in demand in the Northwest as a convention speaker. His ability to draw ministers and lay-people of differing denominations and viewpoints was considered valuable. The men in charge of these conventions knew Dwight to be a man who could stir sluggish saints, resolve differences, and bring about unity in the effort against unbelief, apostasy, and indifference. Materialism, too, was fast gaining ground across the nation, and multitudes were being caught up in its pursuit.
Speaking forcefully in an election year, Dwight emphasized, “We can carry this state and hold it for Christ. The power lies buried in the church, and the question is how to get it developed.” As usual, he enjoyed a warm reception for his speech—and his conciliatory ideas.
Meanwhile, back in Chicago, Harry Moorhouse put in his appearance. Seventeen-year-old Fleming Revell, Jr., spending some time with his sister and brother-in-law, saw him first. He had expected someone long-bearded, stately, and dignified. Instead at the door stood a “little stripling, an insignificant-looking little Englishman who announced triumphantly, ‘I am ’Arry Moorhouse.’ ” Fleming asked him to repeat his name, which he did. Then Moor-house asked with some bewilderment, “This is Mr. Moody’s ’ouse, isn’t it?” Receiving assurance, the little man toddled in.
With much misgiving that Thursday night, the deacons let Moorhouse preach at a small meeting in the basement. Even though they struggled to understand him and his message was very different from any they had heard, they agreed to have him preach again the following night.
When Dwight returned on Saturday, he asked Emma about Moorhouse. Much to his amazement, she replied, “They liked him very much. He preaches a little different from you. He preaches that God loves sinners!”
Dwight figured if someone preached differently from him, the other person was out of step. He looked with dread toward the next day because he knew he wouldn’t care for Moorhouse’s preaching!
“HE PREACHES A LITTLE DIFFERENT FROM YOU. HE PREACHES THAT GOD LOVES SINNERS!”