I know that you have a great congregation in Brooklyn, and are mightily prospered in your labors, but your flock does not contain a _thousand students_ pursuing the higher branches of education from year to year.

Surely your field in Brooklyn is not more important than mine was at the Broadway Tabernacle in New York, nor can your people be more attached to you than mine were to me." This letter--although its kind overture was promptly declined--was a gratifying proof that the once bitter controversies between "old school" and "new school" had become quite obsolete.

When I mentioned this letter to my beloved Princeton instructor, Dr.Charles Hodge, a few weeks before his death, he simply remarked that "his Brother Finney had become very sweet and mellow in his later years." And long before this time the two great antagonistic theologians may have clasped hands in heaven.
The closing years of President Finney's useful life were indeed mellow and most lovable.

In the days of his prime he had a commanding form, a striking face and a clear, incisive style of speech.

Simple as a child in his utterances, he sometimes startled his hearers by his unique prayers.