Model Speeches for Practise | Page 4

a third part of the
acknowledgment has fallen to me. You, my lord, have alluded to the
difficulties of after-dinner oratory. I must say that I am one of those
who feel them more keenly the more after-dinner speeches I make.
There are a great many difficulties in the way, and there are three
principal ones, I think. The first is having too much to say, so that the
words, hurrying to escape, bear down and trample out the life of each
other. The second is when, having nothing to say, we are expected to
fill a void in the minds of our hearers. And I think the third, and most
formidable, is the necessity of following a speaker who is sure to say
all the things you meant to say, and better than you, so that we are
tempted to exclaim, with the old grammarian, "Hang these fellows,
who have said all our good things before us!"
Now the Fourth of July has several times been alluded to, and I believe
it is generally thought that on that anniversary the spirit of a certain
bird known to heraldic ornithologists--and I believe to them alone--as
the spread eagle, enters into every American's breast, and compels him,

whether he will or no, to pour forth a flood of national self-laudation.
This, I say, is the general superstition, and I hope that a few words of
mine may serve in some sort to correct it. I ask you, if there is any other
people who have confined their national self-laudation to one day in the
year. I may be allowed to make one remark as a personal experience.
Fortune had willed it that I should see as many--perhaps more--cities
and manners of men as Ulysses; and I have observed one general fact,
and that is, that the adjectival epithet which is prefixt to all the virtues
is invariably the epithet which geographically describes the country
that I am in. For instance, not to take any real name, if I am in the
kingdom of Lilliput, I hear of the Lilliputian virtues. I hear courage, I
hear common sense, and I hear political wisdom called by that name. If
I cross to the neighboring Republic Blefusca--for since Swift's time it
has become a Republic--I hear all these virtues suddenly qualified as
Blefuscan.
I am very glad to be able to thank Lord Coleridge for having, I believe
for the first time, coupled the name of the President of the United States
with that of her Majesty on an occasion like this. I was struck, both in
what he said, and in what our distinguished guest of the evening said,
with the frequent recurrence of an adjective which is comparatively
new--I mean the word "English-speaking." We continually hear
nowadays of the "English-speaking race," of the "English-speaking
population." I think this implies, not that we are to forget, not that it
would be well for us to forget, that national emulation and that national
pride which is implied in the words "Englishman" and "American," but
the word implies that there are certain perennial and abiding
sympathies between all men of a common descent and a common
language. I am sure, my lord, that all you said with regard to the
welcome which our distinguished guest will receive in America is true.
His eminent talents as an orator, the dignified--I may say the
illustrious--manner in which he has sustained the traditions of that
succession of great actors who, from the time of Burbage to his own,
have illustrated the English stage, will be as highly appreciated there as
here.
And I am sure that I may also say that the chief magistrate of England

will be welcomed by the bar of the United States, of which I am an
unworthy member, and perhaps will be all the more warmly welcomed
that he does not come among them to practise. He will find American
law administered--and I think he will agree with me in saying ably
administered--by judges who, I am sorry to say, sit without the
traditional wig of England. I have heard since I came here friends of
mine gravely lament this as something prophetic of the decay which
was sure to follow so serious an innovation. I answered with a little
story which I remember having heard from my father. He remembered
the last clergyman in New England who still continued to wear the wig.
At first it became a singularity and at last a monstrosity; and the good
doctor concluded to leave it off. But there was one poor woman among
his parishioners who lamented this sadly, and waylaying the clergyman
as he came out of church she said, "Oh, dear doctor, I have always
listened to your sermon with the greatest edification and comfort,