“Whin a lady begins to wondher if I’m not onhappy in me squalid home without th’ touch iv a woman’s hand ayether in th’ tidy on th’ chair or in th’ inside pocket iv th’ coat, I say:  ’No, ma’am, I live in gr-reat luxury surrounded be all that money can buy an’ manny things that it can’t or won’t.  There ar-re Turkish rugs on th’ flure an’ chandyleers hang fr’m th’ ceilins.  There I set at night dhrinkin’ absinthe, sherry wine, port wine, champagne, beer, whisky, rum, claret, kimmel, weiss beer, cream de mint, curaso, an’ binidictine, occas’nally takin’ a dhraw at an opeem pipe an’ r-readin’ a Fr-rinch novel.  Th’ touch iv a woman’s hand wudden’t help this here abode iv luxury.  Wanst, whin I was away, th’ beautiful Swede slave that scrubs out me place iv business broke into th’ palachal boodoor an’ in thryin’ to set straight th’ ile paintin’ iv th’ Chicago fire burnin’ Ilivator B, broke a piece off a frame that cost me two dollars iv good money.’  If they knew that th’ on’y furniture in me room was a cane-bottomed chair an’ a thrunk an’ that there was nawthin’ on th’ flure but oilcloth an’ me clothes, an’ that ’tis so long since me bed was made up that it’s now a life-size plaster cast iv me, I’d be dhragged to th’ altar at th’ end iv a chain.

“Speakin’ as wan iv th’ few survivin’ bachelors, an old vethran that’s escaped manny a peril an’ got out iv manny a difficult position with honor, I wish to say that fair woman is niver so dangerous as whin she’s sorry f’r ye.  Whin th’ wurruds ‘Poor man’ rises to her lips an’ th’ nurse light comes into her eyes, I know ’tis time f’r me to take me hat an’ go.  An’ if th’ hat’s not handy I go without it.

“I bet ye th’ idee iv taxin’ bachelors started with th’ dear ladies.  But I say to thim:  ’Ladies, is not this a petty revenge on ye’er best frinds?  Look on ye’er own husbands an’ think what us bachelors have saved manny iv ye’er sisters fr’m.  Besides aren’t we th’ hope iv th’ future iv th’ instichoochion iv mathrimony?  If th’ onmarrid ladies ar-re to marry at all, ‘tis us, th’ bold bachelors, they must look forward to.  We’re not bachelors fr’m choice.  We’re bachelors because we can’t make a choice.  Ye all look so lovely to us that we hate to bring th’ tears into th’ eyes iv others iv ye be marryin’ some iv ye.  Considher our onforchnit position an’ be kind.  Don’t oppress us.  We were not meant f’r slaves.  Don’t thry to coerce us.  Continue to lay f’r us an’ hope on.  If ye tax us there’s hardly an old bachelor in th’ land that won’t fling his five dollars acrost th’ counter at th’ tax office an’ say:  ‘Hang th’ expense.’”

THE RISING OF THE SUBJECT RACES

“Ye’er frind Simpson was in here awhile ago,” said Mr. Dooley, “an’ he was that mad.”

“What ailed him?” asked Mr. Hennessy.