THE secret of Finney's prolonged influence in Oberlin cannot be fully understood without a closer insight into his private life and personal characteristics. With this in view, it is important to note that Finney was a true gentleman, by every instinct of his nature as well as by the habitual schooling of his conduct, ever solicitous for the interest of others, and full of sympathy for them in all their trials and temptations. His native humility was manifest in his very errors concerning methods of education. Not having been through the prescribed course of study himself, it was difficult for him at times to understand why any one could not at the age of twenty-nine be taken from the calling in which he had been successful, and by a short course be transformed into a powerful preacher like himself. So thoroughly did he realize his own dependence upon the aid of the Spirit, and upon the co-operation of the Christian people by whom he was surrounded, that he was oblivious to the part played in his marvelous career by his own abilities. It is even a more striking evidence of his genuine humility and courtesy that for forty years he could co-operate heartily in the work of a great school where he was constantly overruled by the judgment of his associates as to many details in educational methods.

It was contrary to all of Finney's natural tastes and habits to work through ecclesiastical machinery. He aimed rather to avoid synods and general assemblies, and could have little patience in listening to the discussions of the petty technicalities occupying so much of the time of ecclesiastical bodies. Least of all could he endure the party rivalries so often appearing in them. Considerable prejudice was at one time worked up against him in view of a report that on some public occasion he had said there was a jubilee in hell whenever the Presbyterian General Assembly met; but as sober-minded historians look back over the wranglings which led to the division of 1837, they have come to think that he was not far wrong in this opinion.

Finney was still living when the First National Congregational Council met at Oberlin in 1871, and he attended some of its sessions. As this grave body was heatedly discussing what it should call itself, - whether a council, a conference, an association, a convention, or something else, it was interesting to see the expression of merriment on his face at the comical aspect of the scene; and yet, a few moments afterwards, when, in the order of business, he was to address the members upon the gift of the Holy Spirit, notwithstanding the weight of fourscore years under which his physical frame was bent, his mind kindled in view of the great themes that it had ever been his object to expound, and he treated the subject so tenderly and delicately as completely to disarm the prejudice of those who had been his lifelong opponents with respect to doctrinal questions. The triumph was complete; the whole audience was suffused with tears as their thoughts were turned from their trifling topics of ecclesiastical machinery toward Christ himself and his salvation.

As an illustration of Finney's candor, it is related that when he was laboring in Boston, in 1843, a portion of the city was excited, and many of the people were being misled, by the preaching of William Miller, who was at that time announcing the speedy end of the world. Finney was urged to controvert his views, but rather than to do it in public he chose to visit Miller and secure a private conference. This he did, and, having previously read carefully all of Miller's books, so that he knew where the weakness of his argument was, he succeeded in convincing him to some extent of his error, and thus partially limited the lamentable consequences naturally following from a widespread acceptance of Miller's mistaken theories. This attitude of candor, and of carefulness about accepting premises incapable of proof, characterized Finney throughout his life, and had much to do with the marked success which he attained as teacher, author, and preacher.

The sincerity of Finney's heart exhibited itself in a very touching manner in a scene which I myself witnessed some time in the year 1856. It was at the Sabbath services in the First Church at Oberlin. In the morning he began a sermon upon the training of children; and, as was frequently the case, continued until the clock struck twelve, then stopped suddenly short, saying that he would finish in the afternoon. In the afternoon he took up the subject where he had left it, but for some cause did not have his wonted freedom of utterance. The reason was soon made apparent. Pausing abruptly, he said: "Brethren, why am I trying to instruct you on the subject of training your children in the fear of God, when I do not know that a single one of my own children gives evidence of having been converted?" He burst into tears, knelt down in the pulpit, offered a few words of prayer, and dismissed the audience. It is but just to say that this is freed from all suspicion of being designed for effect by the fact that his children were not then present; and it is but just to them to say, also, that none of them were by any means irreverent or disobedient, and that all subsequently became active and efficient members of the Christian church.

Finney's sense of humor was intensely keen, and it was a constant struggle for him to confine its exercise to proper occasions. This, however, he very uniformly succeeded in doing. Being asked at one time by his pupils why he never had preached upon the text which compares the wicked to those who forsake the fountain of living water, and hew out for themselves broken cisterns that can hold no water, he replied that the picture was so ludicrous, and the folly so extraordinary, of a man's forsaking a living fountain, and spending his time trying to get water by working a creaking, leaky pump in an empty cistern, that he did not dare trust himself before an audience with it.

Very naturally Oberlin drew to itself a number of eccentric and ill-balanced people, whose zeal for the principles of the place was not always in accordance with knowledge. One of these was a Mrs. J., who was greatly interested in the doctrine of entire sanctification, and was much given in prayer-meeting to bemoaning the defects of her neighbors. In one of these meetings, when Finney was presiding, she recounted in tearful tones the sacrifices which she and her husband had made in leaving their distant home and coming to Oberlin on account of their interest in the doctrines here maintained; but she was grieved to confess that she found a great many people here who were still unsanctified, and, indeed, there were very few who came up to the high standard which could properly be expected of them. "Sister J., Sister J.," said President Finney, interrupting her, "what have you been doing to make the place better since you came here? Have you made the place any better since you came here?" Sister J. was confounded, and neither she nor any one else failed to see the point.

At another time a Deacon C., at Oberlin, who was very good, but rather contentious and much given to eloquence in the prayer-meeting, began to dilate upon the imperfections both of the place and of the pastor. Among other things he said:

The best man that I ever knew was Deacon M., way down in Berkshire County, Massachusetts. But he was a very humble man. He always acknowledged himself to be a great sinner, and confessed that everything that he did was sinful. Though he was the best man I ever knew, he used to say that every prayer he offered to God was so full of sin that it was not fit to be received until the blood of Christ had washed it white as snow." As Deacon C. waxed more and more eloquent in this strain, Finney, who was leading the meeting, sat for some time quietly in his chair, but finally, placing his hand on his forehead, and unable longer to suppress the unfeigned agony of his soul, he repeated twice, with a groan, "Brother C., Brother C., you need to break down! you need to break down!" Brother C. looked around over the audience, began to perceive the unseemliness of his censorious remarks, and said, "I guess it is about time for me to sit down." Not another word was said upon the point, and the current of the meeting flowed on with its wonted power.

This incident may serve a good purpose in explaining the phrase "breaking down," which has appeared several times in reference to Finney's work. Nettleton, for example, spoke of "breaking down" as one of the reprehensible processes connected with Finney's revivals. But, as this incident shows, the breaking down of which Finney used to speak was a breaking down of the heart into the gentleness of Christ's love and compassion. One of his own most frequent experiences was this very breaking down of his sensibilities in view of what Christ had done for him and for the world.

Finney was ever in the best of personal relations with all the professors and citizens of Oberlin, and was most genial and lively in his companionships. While he saw clearly the personal weaknesses of his friends, his good-humor was such that he could joke about them without giving offense. This is well illustrated in the following incident, vouched for by the person upon whom the joke was played.

One of the professors, with whom Finney was very intimate, and for whom he had the highest esteem, was rather phlegmatic in his movements, and there was often considerable delay in getting a response when his door-bell was rung. At one time, however, the response by one of the children was rather quicker than usual. But upon opening the door, he found that Finney had rung the bell and then turned back, being already at the door-yard gate on his way to the street. Looking around as he heard the door opened, Finney said: "Why, is that you, George? You need not have been in so much of a hurry. I was on my way to the post-office, and I thought I would ring the bell as I went along, and stop as I came back."

In a preceding chapter (p. 171) a quotation on the sin of heedlessly borrowing tools was made from one of Finney's sermons on "The Signs of a Seared Conscience." The circumstance calling out the passage, and the effects of the appeal as related to me by his son, Frederick Norton, well illustrate the terms upon which Finney dwelt with his neighbors and associates, and the mutual confidence they reposed in each other. Finney had engaged a number of laborers to come to his house on Saturday to make his garden and do some other work of a similar nature; but when he went for various tools, they were not to be found. After searching the premises diligently without success, he sent the men home, telling them to come again on Monday.

The passage already quoted, like most of the reports of Finney's sermons, does but scant justice to the original. As delivered, it was accompanied by various lively personal references in language somewhat as follows: "Just consider the condition in which I found myself yesterday. I engaged a number of men to make the garden and put in my crops; but when I went to look for my farming tools, I could not find them. Brother Mahan borrowed my plough some time ago, and has forgotten to bring it back. Brother Morgan has borrowed my barrow, and I presume has it still. Brother Beecher has my spade and my hoe, and so my tools were all scattered. Where many of them are, no man knows. I appeal to you, how can society exist when such a simple duty as that of returning borrowed tools ceases to rest as a burden upon the conscience? It is in such delinquencies as these that the real state of our hearts is brought to the light of day."

The effect of this appeal was everywhere visible on the following day. Very early in the morning, Oberlin began to move from centre to circumference. Norton was called up by his father before light to go out and pacify the watch-dog, which seemed to be in trouble. The occasion of the commotion was that a Scotchman, living across the street, had borrowed a saw-horse, and was endeavoring to get it home unobserved; but as he climbed over the fence he found himself within the dog's domain, and the mastiff had seized him and was holding him down in triumph, while the sawhorse was lying near by as a mute witness to the guilty conscience. All through the day, farming implements and tools came in from every quarter. Not satisfied with rearing altars to the deities they knew, these delinquent borrowers reared altars to unknown gods. Tools came in that Finney had never owned and never heard of. Where they belonged was more than any man was ever able to tell. But doubtless they relieved the consciences of the guilty. Though Finney was by no means insensible to this humorous outcome, it would be a mistake to suppose that he had made the appeal in any levity of spirit. Nor was there in it any censoriousness, such as to engender ill-feeling on the part of those who had been thus publicly arraigned. But the whole circumstance illustrates, in some degree, the tendency to exaggeration which frequently characterized Finney's appeals, and which made it necessary to hear him more than once in order to get a just idea of the real symmetry of his mind.

Finney's prayers were always a most interesting and affecting part of the public services at Oberlin. Apparently, he prayed in public as he did in his closet, forgetful that any were present beside himself and his Creator. His petitions for the afflicted and needy of the parish were peculiarly touching and tender. He seemed to have every individual always before his mind. The students can never forget how, when the autumn term drew to a close, and they were about to face the trials of teaching in the winter schools throughout the region, his prayers for them would increase in fervency as he besought the Lord to keep the "dear children from misfortune and evil, and to gird them with strength for their trying work." His petitions were entirely free from formality, and were usually limited to objects of immediate interest, and only on occasions comprehended the country and the world at large. Apparently, he relied much upon the direct leadings of the Holy Spirit in prayer, and this childlike spirit must be kept in mind if we would properly understand the significance of some of the immediate answers that came. Probably his aversion to uttering many of the ordinary general petitions arose from his doctrine respecting the "prayer of faith." In his lecture upon that subject he replies, in answer to the question, At what times are we to offer this prayer? "When you have evidence from promises, or prophecies, or providences, or the leading of the Spirit, that God will do the things you pray for. You have no evidence that it is God's will to convert the whole world at once."⁽⁹⁸⁾

Some of his remarkable prayers for rain can scarcely be accounted for except upon the supposition that he was led by the Spirit; as, for example, in the case next to be related. We draw this inference partly from the fact that, a year or two subsequent to this time, there was a formal day of fasting and prayer appointed at Oberlin for the express purpose of securing rain; but Finney's name does not appear in connection with the appointment, and the prayer was by no means as productive of results as was that which we are about to relate.

The summer of 1853 was unusually hot and dry, so that the pastures were scorched, and there seemed likely to be a total failure of the crops. Under these circumstances, the great congregation gathered one Sabbath in the church at Oberlin as usual, when, though the sky was clear, the burden of Finney's prayer was for rain. In his prayer he deepened the cry of distress which went up from every heart by mentioning in detail the consequences of prolonged drought. It was in about these words: -

"We do not presume, O Lord, to dictate to thee what is best for us; yet thou dost invite us to come to thee as children to a father, and tell thee all our wants. We want rain. Our pastures are dry. The earth is gaping open for rain. The cattle are wandering about and lowing in search of water. Even the little squirrels in the woods are suffering from thirst. Unless thou givest us rain, our cattle must die, and our harvests will come to nought. O Lord, send us rain, and send it now! Although to us there is no sign of it, it is an easy thing for thee to do. Send it now, Lord, for Christ's sake! Amen."⁽⁹⁹⁾

Says a correspondent,⁽¹⁰⁰⁾ in describing the remainder of the scene, "I remember, as distinctly as yesterday, the prolongation, the fervency, the urgency, the filial pleadings, of those petitions. I remember that at length he closed, took his text, and preached perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, when we began to hear the patter upon the roof. I remember that he preached a few minutes longer; that the rattle and the roar increased; that suddenly he stopped and said, 'I think we had better thank God for the rain;' that he gave out the hymn, -

'When all thy mercies, O my God!
My rising soul surveys;'

that the whole congregation arose and sang it; that the rain continued, so that, when at last we were dismissed at the noon hour, multitudes stood around, and waited till the full skies could pour out their abounding floods."

At another time he prayed for rain in the following words: "O Lord, the long-looked-for clouds are at last over our heads, and we pray that they may now burst, and deluge the parched earth. Do not let them pass by, and discharge their waters upon the lake, as they have done so often of late, for thou knowest, O Lord, that there is already water enough in the lake." The effect of this prayer is not related. We have already referred to some of the remarkable seasons of prayer which were held with his students upon the eve of their graduation. But occasionally his irrepressible humor came to the surface in the prayers with which he habitually closed the hour of class-room work. At one time, when for some reason the class met for a few days in his study, one or two of them yielded to the soporific influence of the well-cushioned seats and fell asleep. In his closing prayer, Finney did not forget these unfortunate members, but prayed that they might hereafter be kept awake. When the class came into the room the next day, they found the easy-chairs displaced by hard-seated chairs from the kitchen. Finney good-humoredly remarked to them, "You see, young gentlemen, I have found a way to answer my own prayer."

At another time, when he had been dwelling at great length upon technical questions of theology, and when the danger of the students' getting merely the form of sound words without their power was great, Finney closed the hour with the prayer that the Lord would mellow their hearts, and give life and power to the truth, for, if He did not, their whole system of theology "would be so dry that it would be fit only to choke a moral agent.'"

On another day, when the class in theology had been quite voluble in expressing their own views, Finney in closing prayed, "O Lord, do not let these young men think that, because they have let down a little line into the infinite sea of thy greatness, they have sounded all its depths. Save them from conceit, O Lord! "

When the National Congregational Council was organized at Oberlin, advantage was taken of its presence to dedicate the building for the theological seminary (named from the event Council Hall), though it was then but partially completed. Finney was asked to make the dedicatory prayer. Before beginning his prayer he said: "I have felt somewhat embarrassed with regard to performing this part of the service, because the house is not entirely finished. I have several times refused to take part in dedicating a house of worship that was not paid for; but this is neither :finished nor paid for, and hence I have had some hesitation about offering it to God in this state. But I remember that I have often offered myself to God, and I am far from being finished yet, and why should I not offer this house just as it is? I will do so, relying upon the determination of those having it in charge to finish it as soon as possible."⁽¹⁰¹⁾

In general, Finney respected the rule for which he voted in the New Lebanon Convention, that it was improper to pray by name for persons in public without their permission. But I remember hearing him pray for Professor M. in a somewhat extraordinary manner, though one which unwittingly revealed his high appreciation of his associate's reputation for profundity. Finney was conducting the preliminary exercises on a Sabbath morning in which Professor M. was to preach, and he prayed that "Brother M. might be baptized with the Spirit, and might have great simplicity of speech and clearness of utterance given him, so that the great truths of the gospel should be made plain and brought within our reach, so that we should not all have to get up on tiptoe to understand what he was saying."

As a pastor, Finney attended faithfully to the spiritual functions of his office. In addition to preaching, he led the weekly prayer-meeting, and held an inquiry meeting at some time during each week, and always stood ready to respond to every genuine call from those who were in spiritual trouble. In a family of my acquaintance a lad of twelve had died of consumption some years before. The house was a mile away through the woods, but the mother often told me how Mr. Finney, as he went out with his gun for recreation, would regularly come around to the bedside of her dying boy to bring him the consolations of the gospel, and to pray for sustaining grace. His presence in the sick-room was as gentle as that of a woman.

He was very fond of little children, and infants were rarely restless when he took them in his arms, as he ordinarily did, to administer the rite of baptism. Children of a larger growth were usually somewhat afraid of him; but needlessly so, as they found on actually coming in contact with him. At one time he met a neighbor's little girl riding horseback, and beckoned her to come to him. With much trembling she rode up to see what he had to say. He asked her if she was not Dr. S.'s daughter. She replied, "Yes." He remarked: "I thought so. That's a hard horse you are riding. You go right home and tell your father that he must give you an easier horse to ride than that." It is related, also, that several times in succession, as he met a brother of this girl, he asked the boy what his name was. The boy at length mischievously gave him the wrong name. Whereupon Finney looked at him good-humoredly and said, "Why, John S., what a liar you are!" Of course there was no longer any barrier of reserve separating him from these children.

From his reputed severity of manner in preaching, and the high standard which he set for Christian character, it might be supposed that he would have belonged to the high Puritan party in respect to church discipline. But such was not the case. On the contrary, considerable complaint was made' from time to time that he was inclined to throw obstacles in the way of church discipline. The element of truth in this was that he regarded it as his duty to check hasty movements in church discipline, and to insist on giving every one who was charged with unchristian character ample time to vindicate himself if he could do it. As a lawyer, he very naturally emphasized the legal maxim, that the person charged with fault should have full benefit of the doubt. In fact, vigorous as were his habitual denunciations of sin, his charity was broad and considerate, and he was slow to accuse any one of an excommunicable offense. His great reliance for securing the purity of the church was upon positive influences put forth by the church to secure repentance and sanctification.

The experience of Rev. Dr. James Brand, Finney's successor in the pastorate of the First Church at Oberlin, pleasantly reveals the attractive side of Finney's character. After relating the trepidation with which he first preached in the presence of Finney in his own church, Dr. Brand goes on to say that, when introduced the next morning at his house, all his preconceived notions of him were utterly revolutionized. "A more, genial, tender, sympathetic, childlike character," he says, "I had never met. From that moment he was a father and a friend, not a judge. Doubtless he had his inward judgments, but during the two remaining years of his life, though living still among a people who idolized him, and to whom his word was law, he never, to my knowledge, offered a suggestion, or made a criticism upon the management of the church (though doubtless many might justly have been made), except when earnestly solicited to do so. If all ex-pastors were like Mr. Finney, no new minister would need to have any of the traditional fear from the presence of his predecessor in his parish. It became the frequent delight of my life to call and question him as to what ought to be done and said for the best interests of the people. He always sent me away a wiser man, and with deeper longing to win men to Christ. It was unquestionably due largely to his wisdom and Christian sympathy that the people to whom he had ministered for forty years could consent to bear with a new man, and a comparative novice at that, in his place. . . . Like the apostle John, President Finney made love the principal theme of his old age. He could hardly refer to the love of God without weeping."

An important element in Finney's influence was the strength and warmth of his personal friendships, and the tenderness of his family life. It is interesting, in looking over the file of his letters to his warm friend, Deacon Lamson, of the Park Street Church, Boston, to find them concluding with such expressions as these: "Love to Mary, and a thousand kisses to the children;" "Love to all your dear ones;" "With oceans of love to our dear Mary and the children, and as much for yourself as you can desire;" "I hope Mary is not ill. I thought if she had been seriously ill you would have informed us, but do relieve our suspense and anxiety upon this point."

In his business habits, Finney was systematic and punctilious: he quickly noticed any irregularity in the college bell; his door-yard was a model of neatness; every fruit tree in his garden was on his mind, and when absent from home he would make particular inquiries of his children about each tree. His reading was largely in philosophical lines, and he was among the first to detect and expose the fallacies of Hamilton and Mansel concerning the philosophy of the unconditioned. Nor was his interest limited to philosophical and theological subjects. Dr. Dascomb often referred to the keen criticisms made by Finney upon the chemical theories then in vogue, showing how clearly he discerned the weak points in inductive logic. After his death it was found that he had been a constant reader of the "New York Nation," and that he had preserved a complete file of the numbers for presentation to the college library.

Mr. Finney was married three times. His first wife, Lydia Andrews, to whom he was married, under the circumstances already mentioned, in 1824, died in December, 1847. By her he had several children, four of whom survived their father, - Charles G., who is a lawyer in California; Frederick Norton, a prominent actor in promoting the railroad interests in Wisconsin; Helen, the wife of Gen. J. Dolson Cox, of Cincinnati, Ohio; and Julia, wife of Hon. James Monroe, of Oberlin, Ohio.

The tribute which Mr. Finney bore, soon after her death, to his first wife's memory, is touching in the extreme. In a communication to the "Oberlin Evangelist," written the 25th of December, 1847, he recounts the circumstances of her sickness and death, and refers to the great assistance she had rendered him in his work. From this it would appear that she was constitutionally diffident, and inclined to take a despondent view of her Christian character, so that, in the earlier revivals in which she accompanied him, the sermons in which he dwelt upon the danger of self-deception were appropriated by her to an undesirable degree; and thus she was in a constant state of inordinate self-abasement, and never came to be steadily at rest about her hope in Christ until they came to Oberlin, soon after which she "received such light and grace that she ever after held fast her confidence without wavering. . . . My dear wife," he writes,

"used to look up to me as her spiritual guide and teacher under God, but in justice to her I would say that she taught me many most valuable lessons. She showed me in many things how to live, and now she has shown me how to die. Oh, I ask myself, Can I die like that? Certainly not without the abounding and sovereign grace of God."

He subsequently married Mrs. Elizabeth Ford Atkinson, of Rochester, N. Y., who was of great assistance to him in conducting meetings for women in his later revival labors in England and in Boston. She died in 1863. His third wife was Rebecca Allen Rayl, who had been for some time previously assistant principal of the ladies' department at Oberlin, and who still survives him.

The children look back upon their home life with great tenderness and satisfaction. While specially solicitous to keep them from evil associations, their father was by no means severe in the restrictions to which he subjected them. His occasional strong utterances against amusements were really aimed against their abuse, and against engaging in them when they interfered with spiritual development. But, according to his theory, everything was sinful when out of its place, and when permitted to usurp the position of the supreme end of being. His grandchildren loved to be in his family while attending school, and are fond of relating the pranks which they played upon their grandfather, and the good-natured way he accepted them. One of the marked features of his later life, observed by all his acquaintances and all his guests, was his special fondness for a beautiful little granddaughter who was for some time in his family.

As illustrating the confidence and freedom of communication between himself and his children, the following letter, found among his most valued documents, is not without interest. It was written to him in 1843, when he was in Boston, by a little daughter, then six years old, and relates to a painful discovery that a man who had been esteemed and trusted by his general acquaintances, and especially by her father, was dishonest and a totally unworthy character. The grief and dismay of the little child is thus expressed: -

MY DEAR FATHER, - I will write you a few lines, dear father. Come, let us converse about thieves. Mr. - is a thief! Will you pray for me, dear father? We suppose him one of the most wicked men in - Oh! I would not be a wicked thief like him. We suppose that he has stolen hundreds of dollars. Oh, oh! I will just tell you all my heart. I feel very sad, dear father. What shall I say? What shall I do? Your own dear friend is a villain! I feel as if I should cry every minute! Oh, oh! I don't know what - Oh, father, I hope you will not be such a thief! Do pray for me in time, that I may not be such a villain as he is.

Your affectionate daughter,

JULIA.

98. Lectures on Revivals of Religion, p. 77.

99. Rev. Joseph Adams in Reminiscences, etc., pp. 55, 56.

100. Rev. O. B. Waters.

101. Oberlin News, August 20, 1874.