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. For example, he was one day driven from his study at Oberlin by
a refractory stovepipe which persisted in tumbling down. At family
worship in the evening he said "Oh, Lord! thou knowest how the temper of
Thy servant has been tried to-day by that stovepipe!" Several other
expressions, quite as quaint and as piquant, might be quoted, if the
limits of this brief sketch would permit. What would be deemed
irreverent if spoken by some lips never sounded irreverent when uttered
by such a natural, fearless and yet devout a spirit as Charles G.
Finney. He retained his erect, manly form, his fresh enthusiasm and
intellectual vigor, to the ripe old age of eighty-three. On a calm
Sabbath evening--in August, 1875--he walked in his garden and listened
to the music from a neighboring church. Retiring to his chamber, the
messenger from his Master met him in the midnight hours, and before the
morning dawned his glorified spirit was before the throne! His is the
crown of one who turned many to righteousness.

While I am writing this chapter of ministerial reminiscences, I receive
the sorrowful tidings that my dear old friend, Dr. Benjamin M. Palmer,
of New Orleans--the prince of Southern preachers--has closed his
illustrious career. To the last his splendid powers were unabated,--and
last year (although past eighty-three) he delivered one of his greatest
sermons before the University of Georgia! His massive discou