He would add--"God bless them!" did we allow him to speak.
Men of his sort rarely think of their own womenkind or of pure, gentle womanhood in the abstract, without a benediction, mental or audible.
Our specimen, you will note, as he begins to feel at ease in the honorable pillory to which we have called him--puts his hands into his pockets.

The gesture supplies us with the first clause of our illustrated lecture.

Without his pockets John would be a cipher, and a decimal cipher at that.

If some men were not all pocket they would never be Johns, for no Jill would be so demented as to "come tumbling after" them.

I have seen a pocket marry off a hump-back, a twisted foot and sixty winters' fall of snow upon the head, while a pocketless Adonis sighed in vain for Beauty's glance.