ity, to
respond."]

MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN OF THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY IN
BROOKLYN:--I have been given to understand, sir, that in these
unpuritanic days lovers keep late hours; and as I listened to the wooing
of fair Brooklyn by the eloquent son[1] of New York I thought we might
be here till papa turned out the gas. Brooklyn is a New England maiden
and a trifle coy, and it may take even more than an hour's pleading and
persuasive wooing to win her. [Applause.] You ask me, sir, to turn our
thoughts back from these considerations of pressing and immediate
problems, from discussion of international and even intercontinental
relations, to the beginnings and the causes of our rejoicings here. I am
glad to do that, for I love to trace the connections and contrasts of
past and present, and to mark the growth and evolution of that New
England genius and character which are illustrated at these tables.

The early history of New England seems to many minds as dry and
unromantic as it was hard and narrow. No mist of distance softens the
harsh outlines, no mirage of tradition lifts events and characters into
picturesque beauty. There seems a poverty of sentiment. The
transplanting of a people breaks the successions and associations of
history. No memories of conqueror and crusader stir for us poetic fancy.
Instead of the glitter of chivalry there is but the sombre homespun of
Puritan peasants. In place of the "long-drawn aisle and fretted vault"
of Gothic cathedral there is but the rude log meeting-house and
schoolhouse. Instead of Christmas merriment there is only the noise of
axe and hammer or the dreary droning of psalms. It seems a history bleak
and barren of poetic inspiration, at once plebeian and prosaic.

How is it then that out of the hard soil of the Puritan thought and
character, out of the sterile rocks of the New England conscience, have
sprung the flowers of poetry which you bid me celebrate to-night? From
those songless beginnings have burst, in later generations, melodies
that charm and uplift our land--now a deep organ peal filling the air
with music, now a trumpet blast thrilling the blood of patriotism, now a
drum-beat to which duty delights to march, now a joyous fantasy of the
violin bringing smiles to the lips, now the soft vibrations of the harp
that fill the eyes with tears. What is it in the Puritan heritage,
externally so bare and cold, that make it intrinsically so poetic and
inspiring?

The