Britain came not from the Puritans of New England, the Dutch of New
York, nor the planters of Virginia, but from the Scotch-Irish
Presbyterians? [Applause.] Therefore, Mr. President, be kind enough to
accept from us the greeting of the Scotch-Irish of Pennsylvania, our
native State--that prolific mother of pig-iron and coal, whose favorite
and greatest sons are still Albert Gallatin, of Switzerland, and
Benjamin Franklin, of Massachusetts. [Laughter and applause.]

The first son of a Forefather I ever fell in with was a nine-months
Connecticut man at Fredericksburg, Virginia, in the spring of '62. Now,
I was a guileless and generous lad of nineteen--all Pennsylvanians are
guileless and generous, for our mountains are so rich in coal, our
valleys so fat with soil, that our living is easy and therefore our wits
are dull, and we are still voting for Jackson. [Great laughter.] The
reason the Yankees are smart is because they have to wrest a precarious
subsistence from a reluctant soil. "What shall I do to make my son get
forward in the world?" asked an English lord of a bishop. "I know of
only one way," replied the bishop; "give him poverty and parts." Well,
that's the reason the sons of the Pilgrims have all got on in the world.
They all started with poverty, and had to exercise their wits on nutmegs
or notions or something to thrive. [Laughter.] Yes, they had "parts."
Why, they have taken New York from the Dutch; they are half of Wall
Street, and only a Jew, or a long-headed Sage, or that surprising and
surpassing genius in finance, Jay,[2] can wrestle with them on equal
terms. Ah! these Yankees have "parts"--lean bodies, sterile soil, but
such brains that they grew a Webster. [Applause.] Well, this Connecticut
man invited me to his quarters. When I got back to my regiment I had a
shabby overcoat instead of my new one, I had a frying-pan worth twenty
cents, that cost me five dollars, and a recipe for baked beans for which
I had parted with my gold pen and pencil. [Continued laughter.] I was a