[In conclusion, Mr. Warner paid a brief but eloquent tribute to the Quaker poet.]

[Illustration:  HENRY WATTERSON

Photogravure after a photograph from life]

HENRY WATTERSON

OUR WIVES

[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.”