habitual modesty and self-depreciation, I ought, perhaps, rather to say, Fellow Pharisees [laughter]—­I congratulate you that we are able to show our guests a little real New England weather—­weather that recalls the sleigh-rides, and crossing the bridges, and the singing-school.  You are reminded of the observation of the British tar, who, after a long cruise in the Mediterranean, as he came into the eternal fog which surrounds the “tight little island,” exclaimed, “This is weather as is weather; none of your blasted blue sky for me!” [Laughter.]

Let me also apologize to our guests for the extreme plainness and frugality of the entertainment.  They will kindly make allowance, when they remember that this is washing-day. [Laughter.]

I am aware that the occasion is so large as to dwarf all merely personal considerations; but I cannot omit to return you my thanks for the unmerited kindness which has placed me in the position I occupy.  I must add that the position is at once the more honorable and the more onerous, because I am called to follow a gentleman whose administration of the office has been so superlatively successful.

In making this allusion to my honored predecessor, I am reminded of an event in which we all feel a common pride.  On the 25th of last June, amid the hills which overshadow Dartmouth College, our then president laid the corner-stone of “Rollins Chapel” for Christian worship, while on the same day, at the same place, on the grounds traversed in earlier years by Webster and Choate, another son of New England laid the corner-stone of the “Wilson Library Building.”  Thus does intelligent industry, large-hearted benevolence, and filial piety, plant upon the granite hills of New England the olive-groves of Academus and the palms of Judea. [Applause.]

But perhaps there may be here some intelligent stranger who asks me to define an expression which is now and then heard on these occasions:  “What is this New England of which you speak so seldom and so reluctantly?  Is it a place?” Yes, it is a place; not indeed only a place, but it is a place; and he cannot know New England who has not traversed it from Watch Hill to Mount Washington, from Champlain to Passamaquoddy.  In no other wise can one realize how the sterile soil and the bleak winds and the short summer have been the rugged parents of that thrift, that industry, that economy, that regard for the small savings, which have made New England the banker of America.  As the population grew beyond the capacity of the soil, her sons from her myriad harbors swarmed out upon the sea, an army of occupation, and annexed the Grand Banks, making them national banks before the days of Secretary Chase. [Laughter.] When the limits of agriculture were reached, they enslaved the streams, and clothed the continent.  They gathered hides from Iowa and Texas, and sold them, in the shape of boots, in Dubuque and Galveston.  Sterile New England underlaid the imperial Northwest