that would be creditable to our city, would require an outlay of money that I cannot conscientiously consent to have expended for the purpose of personal honor rather than of public utility.  Several years ago the city authorities honored me by giving my name to the attractive plot of ground at the junction of Fulton and Greene Avenues.  If my most esteemed friend, Park Commissioner Brower, will kindly have my name visibly and permanently affixed to that little park, and will direct that it be always kept as bright and beautiful with flowers as it now is, I shall be abundantly satisfied.  I have been permitted to spend forty-one supremely happy years in this city which I heartily love, and for whose people I have joyfully labored; and while the permanent fruits of these labors remain, I trust I shall not pass out of all affectionate remembrance.  A monument reared by human hands may fade away; but if God has enabled me to engrave my humble name on any living hearts, they will be the best monument; for hearts live on forever.  While declining the proffered honor, may I ask you to convey my most sincere and cordial thanks to the kind friends who have joined with you in this generous proposal, and, with warm personal regard, I remain,

     Yours faithfully,

     THEODORE L. CUYLER.

I cannot refrain here from thanking my old friend, Dr. St. Clair McKelway, the brilliant editor of the Brooklyn Eagle, for his generous tribute which accompanied the publication of the above letter.  His grandfather, Dr. John McKelway, a typical Scotchman, was my family physician and church deacon in the city of Trenton.  Among the editorial fraternity let me also mention here the name of my near neighbor, Mr. Edward Gary, of the New York Times, who was with me in Fort Sumter, at the restoration of the flag, and with whom I have foregathered in many a fertilizing conversation.  Away off on the slope above beautiful Stockbridge, and surrounded by his Berkshire Hills, Dr. Henry M. Field is spending the bright “Indian summer” of his long and honored career.  For forty years we held sweet fellowship in the columns of the New York Evangelist.

The experience of the great Apostle at Rome, who dwelt for nearly two years in his “hired house,” has been followed by numberless examples of the ministers of the Gospel who have had a migratory home life.  My experience under rented roofs led me to build, in 1865, this dwelling, which has housed our domestic life for seven and thirty years.  A true homestead is not a Jonah’s gourd for temporary shelter from sun and storm, it is a treasure house of accumulations.  Many of its contents are precious heirlooms; its apartments are thronged with memories of friends and kinsfolk living or departed.  Every room has its scores of occupants, every wall is gladdened with the visions of loved faces.  I look into yonder guest chamber, and find my old friends, Governor Buckingham, and