drop of Southern blood in his veins; Yankee on both sides of the house, though born in Kentucky a little while after his father and mother arrived there from Connecticut.  The Ambassador who serves our Government near the French Republic was a gallant Confederate soldier and is a representative southern statesman; but he owns the estate in Massachusetts where his father was born, and where his father’s fathers lived through many generations.

And the Cavaliers, who missed their stirrups, somehow, and got into Yankee saddles?  The woods were full of them.  If Custer was not a Cavalier, Rupert was a Puritan.  And Sherwood and Wadsworth and Kearny, and McPherson and their dashing companions and followers!  The one typical Puritan soldier of the war—­mark you!—­was a Southern, and not a Northern, soldier; Stonewall Jackson, of the Virginia line.  And, if we should care to pursue the subject farther back, what about Ethan Allen and John Stark and Mad Anthony Wayne—­Cavaliers each and every one?  Indeed, from Israel Putnam to “Buffalo Bill,” it seems to me the Puritans have had rather the best of it in turning out Cavaliers.  So the least said about the Puritan and the Cavalier—­except as blessed memories or horrid examples—­the better for historic accuracy.

If you wish to get at the bottom facts, I don’t mind telling you—­in confidence—­that it was we Scotch-Irish who vanquished both of you—­some of us in peace—­others of us in war—­supplying the missing link of adaptability—­the needed ingredient of common sense—­the conservative principle of creed and action, to which this generation of Americans owes its intellectual and moral emancipation from frivolity and pharisaism—­its rescue from the Scarlet Woman and the mailed hand—­and its crystallization into a national character and polity, ruling by force of brains and not by force of arms.

Gentlemen—­Sir—­I, too, have been to Boston.  Strange as the admission may seem, it is true; and I live to tell the tale.  I have been to Boston; and when I declare that I found there many things that suggested the Cavalier and did not suggest the Puritan, I shall not say I was sorry.  But among other things, I found there a civilization perfect in its union of the art of living with the grace of life; an Americanism ideal in its simple strength.  Grady told us, and told us truly, of that typical American who, in Dr. Talmage’s mind’s eye, was coming, but who, in Abraham Lincoln’s actuality, had already come.  In some recent studies into the career of that great man, I have encountered many startling confirmations of this judgment; and from that rugged trunk, drawing its sustenance from gnarled roots, interlocked with Cavalier sprays and Puritan branches deep beneath the soil, shall spring, is springing, a shapely tree—­symmetric in all its parts—­under whose sheltering boughs this nation shall have the new birth of freedom Lincoln promised it, and mankind the refuge which was sought by the forefathers when they fled from