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
Vice-President Wilson, who were ready to discuss the conditions of the
temperance reform which they had come to advocate. Down in the
dining-room the "Chi-Alpha" Society of distinguished ministers are
holding their Saturday evening symposium; in the parlor my Irish guest,
the Earl of Meath, is describing to me his philanthropies in London, and
his Countess is describing her organization of "Ministering Children."
In the library, Whittier is writing at the table; or Mr. Fulton is
narrating his missionary work in China; out on the piazza my veteran
neighbor, General Silas Casey, is telling the thrilling story of how he
led our troops at the storming of the Heights of Chapultepec; up the
steps comes dear old John G. Paton, with his patriarchal white beard, to
say "good-bye," before he goes back to his mission work in the New
Hebrides.

No room in our dwelling is more sacred than the one in which I now
write. On its walls hang the portraits of