Gentlemen here to-night have spoken much already in regard to what Holland did on the other side of the sea; and neither historian’s pen, nor poet’s canto, nor painter’s pencil nor sculptor’s chisel, nor orator’s tongue, can ever tell the full story of the prowess of those people.  Isn’t it strange that two of the smallest sections of the earth should have produced most of the grandest history of the world?  Palestine, only a little over 100 miles in length, yet yielding the most glorious event of all history; and little Holland, only about one quarter of the size of the State of New Jersey, achieving wonderful history and wonderful deeds not only at home, but starting an influence under which Robert Burns wrote “A man’s a man for a’ that,” and sending across the Atlantic a thunder of indignation against oppression of which the American Declaration of Independence, and Yorktown and Bunker Hill, and Monmouth and Gettysburg, are only the echoes!

As I look across the ocean to-night, I say:  England for manufactories, Germany for scholarship, France for manners, Italy for pictures—­but Holland for liberty and for God!  And leaving to other gentlemen to tell that story—­for they can tell it better than I can—­I can to-night get but little further than our own immediate Dutch ancestors, most of whom have already taken the sacrament of the dust.  Ah, what a glorious race of old folks they were!  May our right hand forget its cunning, and our tongue cleave to the roof of the mouth, if we forget to honor their memories!  What good advice they gave us; and when they went away forever—­well, our emotions were a little different as we stood over the silent forms of the two old folks.  In one case I think the dominant emotion was reverence.  In the other case I think it was tenderness, and a wish that we could go with her.—­

  “Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight;
  Make me a child again, just for to-night! 
  Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
  Take me again to your heart as of yore;
  Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
  Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
  Over my slumbers a loving watch keep;—­
  Rock me to sleep, mother—­rock me to sleep!”

My, my! doesn’t the old Dutch home come back to us, and don’t we see the plain cap, and the large round spectacles, and the shoulders that stoop from carrying our burden!  Was there ever any other hand like hers to wipe away a tear, or to bind up a wound; for when she put the far-sighted spectacles clear up on her forehead, so that her eyes might the nearer look at the wound, it felt better right away!  And have we ever since heard any music like that which she hushed us to sleep with—­could any prima donna sing as she could!  And could any other face so fill a room with light and comfort and peace!

Mr. President, Dutch blood is good blood.  We do not propose to antagonize any other to-night; but at our public dinners, about December 21st, we are very apt to get into the Mayflower and sail around the New England coast.  I think it will be good for us to-night to take another boat quite as good, and sail around New York harbor in the Half-Moon.