[Speech of Henry Watterson at the dinner held on the anniversary of
General W. T. Sherman's birthday, Washington, D. C., February 8,
1883. Colonel George B. Corkhill presided, and introduced Mr.
Watterson to speak to the toast, "Our Wives."]
GENTLEMEN:--When one undertakes to respond to such a sentiment
as you do me the honor to assign me, he knows in advance that he is put,
as it were, upon his good behavior. I recognize the justice of this and
accepted the responsibility with the charge; though I may say that if
General Sherman's wife resembles mine--and I very much suspect she
does--he has a sympathy for me at the present moment. Once upon a festal
occasion, a little late, quite after the hour when Cinderella was bidden
by her godmother to go to bed, I happened to extol the graces and
virtues of the newly wedded wife of a friend of mine, and finally, as a
knockdown argument, I compared her to my own wife. "In this case," said
he, dryly, "you'll catch it when you get home." It is a peculiarity they
all have: not a ray of humor where the husband is concerned; to the best
of them and to the last he must be and must continue to be--a hero!
Now, I do not wish you to believe, nor to think that I myself believe,
that all women make heroes of their husbands. Women are logical in
nothing. They naturally hate mathematics. So, they would have their
husbands be heroes only to the rest of the world. There is a charming
picture by John Leech, the English satirist, which depicts Jones, who
never looked askance at a woman in his life, sitting demurely at table,
stuck with his nose on his plate, and Mrs. Jones opposite, redundant to
a degree, observing with gratified severity, "Now, Mr. Jones, don't let
me see you ogling those Smith girls again!" She, too, was like the
rest--the good ones, I mean--seeing the world through her husband; no
happiness but his comfort; no vanity but his glory; sacrificing herself
to his wants, and where he proves inadequate putting her imagination out
to service and bringing home a basket of flowers to deck his brow. Of
our sweethearts the humorist hath it:--
"Where are the Marys and Anns and Elizas,
Lovely and loving of yore?
Look in the columns of old 'Advertisers,'
Married and dead by the score."
But "our wives." We don't have far to look to find them; sometimes, I am
told, you army gentlemen have been known to find them turning
unexpectedly up along the ranges of the Rocky Mountains, and making
their presence felt even as far as the halls of the Montezumas. Yet how
should we get on without them? Rob mankind of his wife and time could
never become a grandfather. Strange as you may think it our wives are,
in a sense, responsible for our children; and I ask you seriously how
could the world get on if it had no children? It might get on for a
while, I do admit; but I challenge the boldest among you to say how long
it could get on without "our wives." It would not only give out of
children; in a little--a very little--while it would have no
mother-in-law, nor sister-in-law, nor brother-in-law, nor any of those
acquired relatives whom it has learned to love, and who have contributed
so largely to its stock of harmless pleasure.
But, as this is not exactly a tariff discussion, though a duty, I drop
statistics; let me ask you what would become of the revenues of man if
it were not for "our wives?" We should have no milliners but for "our
wives." But for "our wives" those makers of happiness and furbelows,
those fabricators of smiles and frills, those gentle beings who bias and
scollop and do their sacking at both ends of the bill, and sometimes in
the middle, would be compelled to shut up shop, retire from business,
and return to the good old city of Mantua, whence they came. The world
would grow too rich; albeit, on this promise I do not propose to
construct an argument in favor of more wives. One wife is enough, two
is too many, and more than two are an abomination everywhere, except in
Utah and the halls of our national legislature.
I beg you will forgive me. I do but speak in banter. It has been said
that a good woman, fitly mated, grows doubly good; but how often have we
seen a bad man mated to a good woman turned into a good man? Why, I
myself was not wholly good till I married my wife; and, if the eminent
soldier and gentleman in whose honor we are here--and may he be among us
many and many another anniversary, yet always sixty-three--if he should
tell the story of his life, I am sure he would say that its darkest
hours were cherished, its brightest illuminated by the fair lady of a
noble race, who stepped from the highest social eminence to place her
hand in that of an obscure young subaltern of the line. The world had
not become acquainted with him, but with the prophetic instinct of a
true woman she discovered, as she has since developed, the mine. So it
is with all "our wives." Whatever there is good in us they bring it out;
wherefor may they be forever honored in the myriad of hearts they come
to lighten and to bless. [Loud applause.]
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