But I must not stand here and brag all night.  However, you won’t mind a body bragging a little about his country on the Fourth of July.  It is a fair and legitimate time to fly the eagle.  I will say only one more word of brag—­and a hopeful one.  It is this.  We have a form of government which gives each man a fair chance and no favor.  With us no individual is born with a right to look down upon his neighbor and hold him in contempt.  Let such of us as are not dukes find our consolation in that.  And we may find hope for the future in the fact that as unhappy as is the condition of our political morality to-day, England has risen up out of a far fouler since the days when Charles I. ennobled courtesans and all political place was a matter of bargain and sale.  There is hope for us yet.*

At least the above is the speech which I was going to make, but our minister, General Schenck, presided, and after the blessing, got up and made a great, long, inconceivably dull harangue, and wound up by saying that inasmuch as speech-making did not seem to exhilarate the guests much, all further oratory would be dispensed with during the evening, and we could just sit and talk privately to our elbow-neighbors and have a good, sociable time.  It is known that in consequence of that remark forty-four perfected speeches died in the womb.  The depression, the gloom, the solemnity that reigned over the banquet from that time forth will be a lasting memory with many that were there.  By that one thoughtless remark General Schenck lost forty-four of the best friends he had in England.  More than one said that night:  “And this is the sort of person that is sent to represent us in a great sister empire!”

          ADDRESS AT A DINNER GIVEN BY THE SAVAGE CLUB,
          LONDON, SEPTEMBER 28, 1872.

          Reported by Moncure D. Conway in the Cincinnati Commercial.

It affords me sincere pleasure to meet this distinguished club, a club which has extended its hospitalities and its cordial welcome to so many of my countrymen.  I hope [and here the speaker’s voice became low and fluttering] you will excuse these clothes.  I am going to the theatre; that will explain these clothes.  I have other clothes than these.  Judging human nature by what I have seen of it, I suppose that the customary thing for a stranger to do when he stands here is to make a pun on the name of this club, under the impression, of course, that he is the first man that that idea has occurred to.  It is a credit to our human nature, not a blemish upon it; for it shows that underlying all our depravity (and God knows and you know we are depraved enough) and all our sophistication, and untarnished by them, there is a sweet germ of innocence and simplicity still.  When a stranger says to me, with a glow of inspiration in his eye, some gentle, innocuous little