How often do ye hear about a fellow that he is very plain but
has a beautiful nature. Ye bet he has. If he hadn't an' didn't always
keep it in th' show-case where all th' wurruld cud see he'd be lynched
be th' Society f'r Municipal Improvement. But 'tis diff'rent with us
comely bachelors. Bein' very beautiful, we can afford to be haughty an'
peevish. It makes us more inthrestin'. We kind iv look thim over with a
gentle but supeeryor eye an' say to oursilves: 'Now, there's a nice,
pretty atthractive girl. I hope she'll marry well.' By an' by whin th'
roses fade fr'm our cheeks an' our eye is dimmed with age we bow to th'
inivitable, run down th' flag iv defiance, an' ar-re yanked into th'
multichood iv happy an' speechless marrid men that look like flashlight
pitchers. Th' best-lookin' iv us niver get marrid at all.
"Yes, Sir, there's no doubt we do a good deal to beautify th' landscape.
Whose pitchers ar-re those ye see in th' advertisemints iv th'
tailorman? There's not a marrid man among thim. They're all bachelors.
What does th' gents' furnishing man hang his finest neckties in th'
front window f'r but to glisten with a livelier iris, as Hogan says, th'
burnished bachelor? See th' lordly bachelor comin' down th' sthreet,
with his shiny plug hat an' his white vest, th' dimon stud that he wint
in debt f'r glistenin' in his shirt front, an' th' patent-leather shoes
on his feet out-shinin' th' noonday sun.
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