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Memorial Address of Honorable George Bancroft.

Washington, February 19, 1866.

The 12th day of February has passed into history, wisely chronicled by one of the first historians of the age, and ere this the oration of the Honorable George Bancroft has been discussed in almost every hamlet in the land. It was an able effort, but nevertheless, one longed for a little less history and a little more Lincoln.

All the great and wise men of the nation were gathered together, and there was a man in the gallery busily employed in taking photographs. Hereafter the wise men of the country will bear witness that the Honorable George Bancroft is a better writer than speaker. And here let me record an historical fact. It is the memory of a delicious little nap indulged in by one of the Supreme Court Judges. Whether it was the peculiar tones of the orator, like a dull minister’s voice of a Sunday afternoon, or the sound of the rain pattering on the roof, or the shadows of so many great men falling aslant the judge’s mental horizon which caused this somnolence I am unable to say; but he did sleep for a brief time, bringing great joy to many hearts, for it proved that those awful judges in black gowns are mortal like the rest of us and that dignity is something that can be laid aside like any other covering.

But I proceeded to the foreign ministers, who nobly came forward, like martyrs, to mingle their sympathy with ours. And it was the heroic part of the ceremonies to see how manfully these aristocrats endured the castigation. What business had lords to accept cards of invitation unless they were willing to be told some unpleasant truths? Did they suppose the great historian would dwell on the life and virtues of Abraham Lincoln and leave out the history of this mighty republic? The Marquis De Montholon, the representative of His Majesty Napoleon III, drew his expressive brow into a frown terrific in the extreme, and pulled his kid gloves in a manner which denoted great nervousness. But this may be owing entirely to the mercurial character of the French nation.

Another foreign minister drew the cape of his overcoat up over his head during certain portions of the oration. But it was not owing to any wish of stopping his ears—merely a preventive to cold-catching, as the doors were open and certain draft of air perambulated the hall, taking liberties with these great men just as if they had been nobodies. Her Majesty the Queen of England’s servant, Sir Frederick Bruce, is one of the handsomest men of the age. I never look at such a man without feeling that nature’s laws have been followed and perfected in such veritable lords of creation. Compare a lion to its mate, the songster of the forest with plain birds who prefer domestic duties to gadding about the woods, whistling all sorts of love-sick tunes, and who disputes where the palm of beauty is found? The most exquisite woman that was ever made is no more to be compared to the handsomest man than the humble pea-fowl to his majesty the peacock. Yet the peacock thinks his mate the most exquisite of all created things, and what woman would be so unwise as to upset his opinions? I return to Sir Frederick Bruce, but would as soon attempt to paint the moonbeams as to describe his personal appearance. He is a thoroughbred, just like Bonner’s “Silver Heels” and “Fearless;” skin as translucent as wine; hands and feet as small as a woman’s. Men are like grapes, they need a little frost to sweeten and perfect them; and a man is never handsome until he has been rounded and polished by the hand of Time. And this is confirmed by the additional instances of Chief Justice Chase and Honorable James Watson Webb, both of them on the threshold of the winter of life, yet never before so perfect in manly beauty.

The two men who occupied the most prominent positions before the oratory were His Excellency the President, and the Chief Justice of the United States. I am not going to record their lives; the pen of the historian will do that. I desire merely to say that they were representative Americans, who rose from the humblest position to the topmost round of the ladder of fame. And may it prove a solemn warning to those mothers who are accustomed to apply the slipper to unruly urchins. I beg them to desist, lest they may be breaking the spirit or souring the disposition of some future President or Chief Justice of the United States.

Among the celebrities in the gallery I noticed the widow of Daniel Webster. But as I have given my opinion about the beauty of women, I shall make no departure from it, unless the ends shall justify the means. The wife of the Lieutenant General, Julia Dent Grant, occupied a front seat in the gallery, just as she had a right to do. She wore a pink hat, a red plaided scarf, and black gloves, and a little upstart woman who sat near me had the impudence to say the general’s lady “looked horrid.” She no doubt would have been put out for the above expression but the gallery was so crowded that no officer could be found at the proper time to discharge his duty.

Just before the time arrived for opening this great historical meeting Washington contained two sets of people besides the saints and sinners, and these were the envious and the envied. The envied were the fortunate holders of tickets to the meeting, and the envious were the great outsiders. But when the third hour of that memorable speaking arrived the tables were turned. Members began to twist around as if they were schoolboys, the victims of pins which in some unaccountable way had been put in the cushions of their chairs, points upward. A celebrated New York politician treated himself to a newspaper; tobacco-boxes circulated freely and all sorts of expressions came over the human countenance which are possible when men get into positions where they are obliged to behave themselves and don’t want to. I will add, everything must come to an end, and so did this great occasion.

As I have nearly filled the allotted space, I must only glance at the great ball at the Marquis De Montholon’s and say it was equal, but not superior, to the same kind of parties given by our accomplished countrywoman, Mrs. Senator Sprague. In both cases no expense is spared in the entertainment of guests, and any amount of greenbacks, duty in the shape of costly silks and laces; but I learn that precious stones are more or less abandoned, since the shoddy and petroleum have learned to shine.

The shadows of Lent are upon us, and this fact crowded the President’s last levee to suffocation. It was exceedingly painful to notice the violation of good taste in some of my countrywomen by their appearance before the Executive and the ladies of the mansion in bonnet and wrappings. Unless ladies can conform to the usages of good society they had better remain at home.

Olivia.