It is, of course, a matter of peculiar pleasure to me to come to my own city and to meet so many men with whom I have been associated for the last quarter of a century—for it was nearly that time ago, Judge, that you and I first met when we were both in the New York Legislature together—and to be greeted by you as you have greeted me to-night. I wish to express at the outset my special sense of obligation—and I know that the rest of you will not grudge my expressing it—my special sense of obligation to Colonel Duffy and the officers and men of the Sixty-ninth, who were my escort to-day. I shall write to Colonel Duffy later, to give him formal notice, and to ask him to give the regiment formal notice, of my appreciation, but I wish to express it thus publicly to-night. And now, before I begin my speech proper, I wish to read a telegram which has been handed to me as a sop to certain of my well-known prejudices. It has been sent up to me by one of the members here to-night, who when we came into the dining-room was only a father, but who at this moment is a grandfather. This telegram runs as follows: “Peter McDonnell, Friendly Sons’ Dinner, Delmonico’s. Patrick just arrived. Tired after parade. Sends his regards to the President. He is the first on record since the President attended the Friendly Sons’ dinner. He is a fine singer. No race suicide in this family. Weighs eight pounds, looks like the whole family. The mother is doing well. Robert McDonnell.” And, gentlemen, I want you to join with me in drinking the health of Patrick, Peter, Robert, and above all, of the best of the whole outfit, Mrs. McDonnell, the mother.