Tag: Mr Dooley

Finley Peter Dunne: A Candidate’s Pillory


I’ve said something I find fascinating in the Progressive Era is its feel of being contemporary. The piece I share today, A Candidate’s Pillory, is a strong demonstration of this. The candidate here is “Big” Bill McKinley, hoping to be the first Republican re-elected since Ulysses S Grant, and talk about hoop-skirts might be silly in a way that isn’t understood today.

“Thrimmer” here is eye-dialect for “trimmer”, as in a person who keeps trimming his sails to steer between the two parties. We still have people like that, and whether you dislike or like them tells you whether they’re unprincipled or free of dogma. Also check out the reference to hoboes when that was not just something from old-timey movies and the comic strip Henry.

“What’s this counthry comin’ to, annyhow, that a man that’s out f’r to be Prisident has to set up on a high chair an’ be questioned on his record be a lot iv la-ads that hasn’t had annything to do since th’ carpetbeatin’ season’s ended? “said Mr Dooley. “Ye’d think Big Bill was r-runnin’ f’r chief ex-icutive iv th’ Clan-na-Gael. First along comes a comity iv th’ Sons iv Rest. ‘Major,’ says they, ‘we’re insthructed be th’ organization to ascertain ye’er views on th’ important, we may say all-important, question iv havin’ wire matthresses put on th’ benches in th’ parks. Are we,’ they says, ‘goin’ f’r to have to wear lumps on our backs into all eternity,’ they says, ‘an’ have our slumbers broke be th’ hot fut iv th’ polisman?’ they says. ‘We demand an answer,’ they says, ‘or, be this an’ be that, we won’t do a thing to ye.’ Well, maybe Bill has been down to th’ corner playin’ a game iv spoil-five with his old frind Coalsack, an’ has paid no attintion to th’ Sons iv Rest. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘gintlemen, I’m in favor iv doin’ ivrything in reason f’r th’ hoboes,’ he says. ‘Th’ protection iv th’ home hobo again th’ pauper can trade iv Europe,’ he says, ‘has been wan iv th’ principal wurruks iv me life,’ he says; an’ he gives thim each a hand out, an’ bows thim to th’ dure.

“In comes a dillygation fr’m th’ Union iv Amalgamated Pantsmakers; an’ says th’ chairman, ‘Major,’ he says, ‘we have a complaint to make again thim pants iv ye’ers,’ he says. ‘What’s th’ matter with th’ pants?’ says th’ future Prisident. ‘I thought they looked all right,’ he says. ‘I paid four dollars f’r thim in Bucyrus las’ year,’ he says. ‘They have no union label on thim,’ says th’ chairman. ‘Do you know, sir,’ he says, ‘that thim pants riprisints th’ oppression iv women an’ childher?’ he says. ‘D’ye know that ivry thread in thim seams means a tear an’ sigh?’ says he. ‘D’ye know that ivry time ye put on thim pants ye take a pair off some down-throdden workman?’ he says. ‘Glory be!’ says Big Bill: ‘is that thrue? Thin what am I to do?’ he says in alarm. ‘Do?’ says th’ chairman. ‘Wear pants that riprisints honest toil fairly compinsated,’ he says. ‘Wear pants that ‘ll say to th’ wurruld that Bill McKinley’s legs are fair legs;’ he says, ‘that they may bow at th’ knees, but they niver bow to th’ opprissor,’ he says; ‘that niver did they wrap thimsilves in bags that bore th’ curse iv monno-poly an’ greed,’ he says. ‘An’ where can I get thim?’ says th’ major, ‘Fr’m me,’ says th’ frind iv labor, pullin’ out a tape. ‘Will ye have wan or two hip pockets?’ he says.

“An’ so it goes. Ivry day a rayporther comes to th’ house with a list iv questions. ‘What are ye’er views on th’ issue iv eatin’ custard pie with a sponge? Do ye believe in side-combs? If called upon to veto a bill f’r all mimbers iv th’ Supreme Coort to wear hoop-skirts, wud ye veto it or wudden’t ye? If so, why? If not, why not? If a batted ball goes out iv th’ line afther strikin’ th’ player’s hands, is it fair or who? Have ye that tired feelin’? What is your opinion iv a hereafther? Where did you get that hat? If a man has eight dollars an’ spends twelve iv it, what will th’ poor man do? An’ why an’ where an’ how much?’

“Thin, if he don’t answer, ivry wan says he’s a thrimmer, an’ ought to be runnin’ a sthreet-car an’ not thryin’ to poke his ondecided face into th’ White House. I mind wanst, whin me frind O’Brien was a candydate f’r aldherman, a comity iv tax-payers waited on him f’r to get his views on th’ issues iv th’ day. Big Casey, th’ housemover, was th’ chairman; an’ he says, says he, ‘Misther O’Brien,’ he says, ‘we are desirous,’ he says, ‘iv larnin’ where ye stand on th’ tariff, th’ currency question, pensions, an’ th’ intherstate commerce act,’ he says, with a wave iv his hand. ‘Well,’ says O’Brien, he says, ‘th’ issue on which I’m appealin’ to th’ free an’ intilligent suffrages of Ar-rchey Road an’ th’ assistance iv Deerin’ Sthreet Station,’ he says, ‘is whether little Mike Kelly will have th’ bridge or not,’ he says. ‘On that I stand,’ he says. ‘As f’r th’ minor issues,’ he says, ‘I may have me opinions on thim an’ I may not. Anny information I possess I’ll keep tucked away in this large an’ commodjous mind cage, an’ not be dealin’ it out to th’ likes iv ye, as though I was a comity iv th’ Civic Featheration,’ he says. ‘Moreover,’ he says, ‘I’d like to know, you, Casey, what business have you got comin’ roun’ to my house and pryin’ into my domestic affairs,’ he says. ”Tis th’ intherstate commerce act now, but th’ nex’ thing ‘ll be where I got th’ pianny,’ he says; ‘an’, f’r fear ye may not stop where ye are, here goes to mount ye.’ An’ he climbed th’ big man, an’ rolled him. Well, sir will ye believe me, ivry man on th’ comity but wan voted f’r him. Casey was still in bed iliction day.

“I met Tom Dorsey afther th’ comity called. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I heerd ye was up to O’Brien’s questionin’ him on th’ issues iv th’ day,’ I says. ‘We was,’ says he. ‘Was his answers satisfacthry?’ says I. ‘Perfectly so,’ he says. ‘Whin th’ comity left, we were all convinced that he was th’ strongest man that cud be nommynated,’ he says.”

Finley Peter Dunne: The Freedom Picnic


Today on Archey Road I come to “The Freedom Picnic”, which I feel shows a key part of Dunne’s writing persona. He’s not opposed to movements to resolve great crimes — in this case, the English occupation of Ireland — but is skeptical that people will take useful action against it. And despite that, he doesn’t dislike people; at least as Mr Dooley, he accepts that these are ways we’re frail and we should accept that.

“There’s wan thing about th’ Irish iv this town,” said Mr Dooley.

“The police?” said Mr McKenna.

“No,” said the philosopher. “But they give picnics that does bate all. Be hivins, if Ireland cud be freed be a picnic, it ‘d not on’y be free to-day, but an impire, begorra, with Tim Haley, th’ Banthry man, evictin’ Lord Salisbury fr’m his houldin’. ‘Twud that.

“Jawn, th’ la-ads have got th’ thrick iv freein’ Ireland down to a sinsible basis. In th’ ol’ days they wint over with dinnymite bumbs in their pockets, an’ ayether got their rowlers on thim in Cork an’ blew thimsilves up or was arristed in Queenstown f’r disordherly conduct. ‘Twas a divvle iv a risky job to be a pathrite in thim days, an’ none but those that had no wan dipindint on thim cud affoord it. But what was th’ use? Ireland wint on bein’ th’ same opprissed green oil it had always been, an’ th’ on’y difference th’ rivolutions made was ye sa-aw new faces on th’ bridges an’ th’ Wolfe Tones passed another set iv resolutions.

“‘Tis different now. Whin we wants to smash th’ Sassenach an’ restore th’ land iv th’ birth iv some iv us to her thrue place among th’ nations, we gives a picnic. ‘Tis a dam sight asier thin goin’ over with a slug iv joynt powder an’ blowin’ up a polis station with no wan in it. It costs less; an’, whin ’tis done, a man can lep aboord a sthreet ca-ar, an’ come to his family an’ sleep it off.

“I wint out last Choosdah, an’ I suppose I must ‘ve freed as much as eight counties in Ireland. All th’ la-ads was there. Th’ first ma-an I see was Dorgan, the sanyor guarjeen in the Wolfe Tone Lithry Society. He’s th’ la-ad that have made th’ Prince iv Wales thrimble in his moccasins. I heerd him wanst makin’ a speech that near injooced me to take a bumb in me hand an’ blow up Westminsther Cathedral. ‘A-re ye,’ he says, ‘men, or a-re ye slaves?’ he says. ‘Will ye,’ he says, ‘set idly by,’ he says, ‘while th’ Sassenach,’ he says, ‘has th’ counthry iv Immitt an’ O’Connell,’ he says, ‘an’ Jawn Im Smyth,’ he says, ‘undher his heel?’ he says. ‘Arouse,’ he says, ‘slaves an’ despots!’ he says. ‘Clear th’ way!’ he says. ‘Cowards an’ thraitors!’ he says. ‘Faugh-a-ballagh!’ he says. He had th’ beer privilege at th’ picnic, Jawn.

“Hinnissy, th’ plumber, who blew wan iv his fingers off with a bumb intinded f’r some iv th’ archytecture iv Liverpool, had th’ conthract f’r runnin’ th’ knock-th’-babby-down-an’-get-a-nice-seegar jint. F’r th’ good iv th’ cause I knocked th’ babby down, Jawn, an’ I on’y wish th’ Queen iv England ‘r th’ Prince iv Wales cud be injooced to smoke wan iv th’ seegars. Ye might as well go again a Roman candle. Th’ wan I got was made iv baled hay, an’ ’twas rumored about th’ pa-ark that Hinnissy was wurrukin’ off his surplus stock iv bumbs on th’ pathrites. His cousin Darcey had th’ shootin’ gallery privilege, an’ he done a business th’ like iv which was niver knowed be puttin’ up th’ figure iv an Irish polisman f’r th’ la-ads to shoot at. ‘Twas bad in th’ end though, f’r a gang iv Tipp’rary lads come along behind th’ tent an’ begun thrown stones at th’ copper. Wan stone hit a Limerick man, an’ th’ cry ‘butthermilk’ wint around; an’ be hivins, if it hadn’t been that th’ chief iv polis, th’ wise la-ad, sint none but German polismen to th’ picnic, there ‘d not been a man left to tell th’ tale.”

“What’s that all got to do with freeing Ireland?” asked Mr McKenna.

“Well, ’tis no worse off thin it was befure, annyhow,” said Mr Dooley.

Finley Peter Dunne: The Skirts Of Chance


As I extend the attention on Mr Dooley through a second week let me share “The Skirts Of Chance”. Bars, then and now, have been great places for side attractions to take coins for bits of amusement, and what’s more amusing than the chance of getting more coins out? Finley Peter Dunne, writing a generation before pinball games could be the nominally respectable slot machines, here describes a gadget that I don’t know but can believe existed, and how people responded to it.

The people of Bridgeport are not solicitous of modern improvements, and Mr Dooley views with distaste the new and garish. But he consented to install a nickel-in-the-slot machine in his tavern last week, and it was standing on a table when Mr McKenna came in. It was a machine that looked like a house; and, when you put a nickel in at the top of it, either the door opened and released three other nickels or it did not. Mostly it did not.

Mr Dooley saluted Mr McKenna with unusual cordiality, and Mr McKenna inspected the nickel-in-the-slot machine with affectation of much curiosity.

“What’s this you have here, at all?” said Mr McKenna.

“‘Tis an aisy way iv gettin’ rich,” said Mr Dooley. “All ye have to do is to dhrop a nickel in th’ slot, an’ three other nickels come out at th’ dure. Ye can play it all afthernoon, an’ take a fortune fr’m it if ye’er nickels hould out.”

“And where do th’ nickels come fr’m?” asked Mr McKenna.

“I put thim in,” said Mr Dooley. “Ivry twinty minutes I feed th’ masheen a hatful iv nickels, so that whin me frinds dhrop in they won’t be dissypinted, d’ye mind. ‘Tis a fine invistment for a young man. Little work an’ large profits. It rayminds me iv Hogan’s big kid an’ what he done with his coin. He made a lot iv it in dhrivin’ a ca-ar, he did, but he blew it all in again good liquor an’ bad women; an’, bedad, he was broke half th’ time an’ borrowin’ th’ other half. So Hogan gets in Father Kelly fr’m up west iv th’ bridge, an’ they set in with Dinnis to talk him out iv his spindthrift ways. ‘I have plenty to keep mesilf,’ says Hogan, he says. ‘But,’ he says, ‘I want ye to save ye’er money,’ he says, ‘f’r a rainy day.’ ‘He’s right, Dinnis,’ says th’ soggarth,—’he’s right,’ he says. ‘Ye should save a little in case ye need it,’ he says. ‘Why don’t ye take two dollars,’ says th’ priest, ‘an’ invist it ivry month,’ says he, ‘in somethin’,’ says he, ‘that ‘ll give ye profits,’ says he. ‘I’ll do it,’ says Dinnis,—’I ‘ll do it,’ he says. Well, sir, Hogan was that tickled he give th’ good man five bones out iv th’ taypot; but, faith, Dinnis was back at his reg’lar game before th’ week was out, an’, afther a month or two, whin Hogan had to get th’ tayspoons out iv soak, he says to th’ kid, he says, ‘I thought ye was goin’ to brace up,’ he says, ‘an’ here ye’re burnin’ up ye’er money,’ he says. ‘Didn’t ye promise to invist two dollars ivry month?’ he says. ‘I’m doin’ it,’ says Dinnis. ‘I’ve kept me wurrud.’ ‘An’ what are ye invistin’ it in?’ says Hogan. ‘In lotthry tickets,’ says th’ imp’dent kid.”

While delivering these remarks, Mr Dooley was peeping over his glasses at Mr McKenna, who was engaged in a struggle with the machine. He dropped a nickel and it rattled down the slot, but it did not open the door.

“Doesn’t it open?” said Mr Dooley.

“It does not.”

“Shake it thin,” said Mr Dooley. “Something must be wrong.”

Mr McKenna shook the machine when he inserted the next nickel, but there was no compensatory flow of coins from the door.

“Perhaps the money is bad,” suggested Mr Dooley. “It won’t open f’r bad money.”

Thereupon he returned to his newspaper, observing which Mr McKenna drew from his pocket a nickel attached to a piece of string and dropped it into the slot repeatedly. After a while the door popped open, and Mr McKenna thrust in his hand expectantly. There was no response, and he turned in great anger to Mr Dooley.

“There ain’t any money there,” he said.

“Ye’re right, Jawn,” responded Mr Dooley. “If ye expect to dhraw anny coin fr’m that there masheen, ye may call on some iv ye’er rough frinds down town f’r a brace an’ bit an’ a jimmy. Jawn, me la-ad, I see th’ nickel with th’ string before; an’, to provide again it, I improved th’ masheen. Thim nickels ye dhropped in are all in th’ dhrawer iv that there table, an’ to-morrow mornin’ ye may see me havin’ me hair cut be means iv thim. An’ I’ll tell ye wan thing, Jawn McKenna, an’ that’s not two things, that if ye think ye can come up here to Ar-rchey Road an’ rob an honest man, by gar, ye’ve made th’ mistake iv ye’er life. Goowan, now, before I call a polisman.”

Mr McKenna stopped at the door only long enough to shake his fist at the proprietor, who responded with a grin of pure contentment.

Finley Peter Dunne: Their Excellencies, the Police


Some more Mr Dooley for you. This piece, “Their Excellencies, The Police”, alludes to the problems in both cleaning up the city and in operating a police force that’s more interested in serving the public than clubbing the members they find deserving.

I assume the Brennin referenced here is Michael Brennan, head of the Chicago police department from May 1893 to April 1895. I’m not sure what to make of his mention in a book published in 1899 and, I assume, collecting columns from the year or two before that. Maybe Dunne figured it was a good enough piece to include despite the anachronism. Maybe Brennan had another role in public safety that made him still relevant. (I don’t know Chicago municipal government of the late 1890s hardly at all. I am aware that near this time Edward P Brennan was active, but so far as I can tell his only municipal role was in nagging Chicago to rationalize its street naming and numbering, which had started as a disaster and got worse when the city annexed half of northern Illinois after the Fire.)

“Ye’ll be goin’ home early to-night, Jawn dear,” said Mr Dooley to Mr McKenna.

“And for why?” said that gentleman, tilting lazily back in the chair.

“Because gin’ral ordher number wan is out,” said Mr Dooley, “directin’ th’ polis to stop ivry man catched out afther midnight an’ make thim give a satisfacthry account iv thimsilves or run thim off to jail. Iv coorse, ye’ll be pinched, f’r ye won’t dare say where ye come fr’m; an’ ’tis twinty-eight to wan, the odds again an Orangeman at a wake, that ye’ll not know where ye’re goin’.”

“Tut, tut,” said Mr McKenna, indifferently.

“Ye may tut-tut till ye lay an egg,” said Mr Dooley, severely, “ye ol’ hen; but ’tis so. I read it in th’ pa-papers yesterdah afthernoon that Brinnan—’tis queer how thim Germans all get to be polismen, they’re bright men, th’ Germans, I don’t think—Brinnan says, says he, that th’ city do be overrun with burglars an’ highwaymen, so he ordhers th’ polis to stick up ivry pedesthreen they meet afther closin’ time. ‘Tis good for him he named th’ hour, f’r ’tis few pedesthreens save an’ except th’ little kids with panneckers that most iv th’ polis meet befure midnight. Look at there table, will ye? ‘An ax done it,’ says ye? No, faith, but th’ fist iv a Kerry polisman they put on this here bate last week. He done it ladin’ thrumps. ‘Thank Gawd,” says I, ‘ye didn’t have a good hand,’ I says, ‘or I might have to call in th’ wreckin’ wagon.’ Thim Kerry men shud be made to play forty-fives with boxin’-gloves on.

“I read about th’ ordher, but it slipped me min’ las’ night. I was down at a meetin’ iv th’ Hugh O’Neills, an’ a most intherestin’ meetin’ it was, Jawn. I’d been niglictful iv me jooty to th’ cause iv late, an’ I was surprised an’ shocked to hear how poor ol’ Ireland was sufferin’. Th’ rayport fr’m th’ Twinty-third Wa-ard, which is in th’ County Mayo, showed that th’ sthreet clanin’ conthract had been give to a Swede be th’ name iv Oleson; an’ over in th’ Nineteenth Wa-ard th’ County Watherford is all stirred up because Johnny Powers is filled th’ pipe-ya-ard with his own rilitives. I felt dam lonely, an’ with raison, too; f’r I was th’ on’y man in th’ camp that didn’t have a job. An’ says I, ‘Gintlemen,’ says I, ‘can’t I do something f’r Ireland, too?’ I says. ‘I’d make a gr-reat city threasurer,’ says I, ‘if ye’ve th’ job handy,’ I says; and at that they give me th’ laugh, and we tuk up a subscription an’ adjourned.

“Well, sir, I started up Ar-rchey Road afther th’ meetin’, forgettin’ about Brennan’s ordhers, whin a man jumps out fr’m behind a tree near th’ gas-house. ‘Melia murther!’ says I to mesilf. ”Tis a highwayman!’ Thin, puttin’ on a darin’ front an’ reachin’ f’r me handkerchief, I says, ‘Stand back, robber!’ I says. ‘Stand back, robber!’ I says. ‘Stand back!’ I says.

“‘Excuse me,’ says th’ la-ad. ‘I beg ye’er pardon,’ he says.

“‘Beg th’ pardon iv Hiven,’ says I, ‘f’r stoppin’ a desperate man in th’ sthreet,’ says I; ‘f’r in a holy minyit I’ll blow off th’ head iv ye,’ says I, with me hand on th’ handkerchief that niver blew nawthin’ but this nose iv mine.”

“‘I humbly ask your pardon,’ he says, showin’ a star; ‘but I’m a polisman.’

“‘Polisman or robber,’ says I, ‘stand aside!’ I says.

“‘I’m a polisman,’ he says, ‘an’ I’m undher ordhers to be polite with citizens I stop,’ he says; ‘but, if ye don’t duck up that road in half a minyit, ye poy-faced, red-eyed, lop-eared, thick-headed ol’ bosthoon,’ he says, ‘I’ll take ye be th’ scruff iv th’ neck an’ thrun ye into th’ ga-as-house tank,’ he says, ‘if I’m coort-martialed f’r it to-morrow.’

“Thin I knew he was a polisman; an’ I wint away, Jawn.”

Finley Peter Dunne: Lexow


The Progressive Era fascinates me because it is one of the first periods in history that feels, to me, modern in its outlook and concerns and problems. There are some things that seem to come from outer space — whatever the heck bimetallism was about, “Traction Trusts”, or the idea that monopolies are things to break up — but otherwise? So many of their concerns are still our concerns. For example, the strong idea that we can make a more honest society by determined action today, and the hypocrisy of … all of us. “Lexow”, the name of today’s piece, references the famous mid-1890s New York State investigation into the corruption of the New York City police department, and how much more it functioned as a protection racket than a public service.

“This here wave iv rayform,” said Mr Dooley, “this here wave iv rayform, Jawn, mind ye, that’s sweepin’ over th’ counthry, mind ye, now, Jawn, is raisin’ th’ divvle, I see be th’ pa-apers. I’ve seen waves iv rayform before, Jawn. Whin th’ people iv this counthry gets wurruked up, there’s no stoppin’ thim. They’ll not dhraw breath until ivry man that took a dollar iv a bribe is sent down th’ r-road. Thim that takes two goes on th’ comity iv th’ wave iv rayform.

“It sthruck th’ r-road las’ week. Darcey, th’ new polisman on th’ bate, comes in here ivry night f’r to study spellin’ an’ figgers. I think they’ll throw him down, whin he goes to be examined. Wan iv th’ wild la-ads down be th’ slough hit him with a brick wanst, an’ he ain’t been able to do fractions since. Thin he’s got inflammathry rheumatism enough to burn a barn, an’ he can’t turn a page without makin’ ye think he’s goin’ to lose a thumb. He’s got wife an’ childher, an’ he’s on in years; but he’s a polisman, an’ he’s got to be rayformed. I tell him all I can. He didn’t know where St. Pethersburg was till I tould him it was th’ capital iv Sweden. They’ll not give him th’ boots on that there question. Ye bet ye’er life they won’t, Jawn.

“I seen th’ aldherman go by yisterdah; an’ he’d shook his dimon ‘stud, an’ he looked as poor as a dhrayman. He’s rayformed. Th’ little Dutchman that was ilicted to th’ legislachure says he will stay home. Says I, ‘Why?’ Says he, ‘There’s nawthin’ in it.’ He’s rayformed. Th’ wather inspictor, that used to take a dhrink an’ a seegar an’ report me two pipes less thin I have, turned me in las’ week f’r a garden hose an’ a ploonge bath. He’s rayformed. Th’ wave iv rayform has sthruck, an’ we’re all goin’ around now with rubbers on.

“They’ve organized th’ Ar-rchey Road Lexow Sodality, an’ ’tis th’ wan institootion that Father Kelly up west iv th’ bridge ‘ll duck his head to. All th’ best citizens is in it. Th’ best citizens is thim that th’ statue iv limitations was made f’r. Barrister Hogan tol’ me—an’ a dacint man, but give to dhrink—that, whin a man cud hide behind th’ statue iv limitations, he was all r-right. I niver seen it. Is that th’ wan on th’ lake front? No, tubby sure, tubby sure. No wan ‘d hide behind that.

“Th’ Ar-rchey Road Lexow Sodality is composed iv none but square men. They all have th’ coin, Jawn. A man that’s broke can’t be square. He’s got too much to do payin’ taxes. If I had a million, divvle th’ step would I step to confession. I’d make th’ soggarth come an’ confess to me. They say that th’ sthreets iv Hivin was paved with goold. I’ll bet ye tin to wan that with all th’ square men that goes there ivry year they have ilecloth down now.”

“Oh, go on,” said Mr McKenna.

“I was goin’ to tell ye about th’ Lexow Sodality. Well, th’ chairman iv it is Doherty, th’ retired plumber. He sold me a house an’ lot wanst, an’ skinned me out iv wan hundherd dollars. He got th’ house an’ lot back an’ a morgedge. But did ye iver notice th’ scar on his nose? I was r-rough in thim days. Ol’ Mike Hogan is another mimber. Ye know him. They say he hires constables be th’ day f’r to serve five days’ notices. Manny’s th’ time I see th’ little furniture out on th’ sthreet, an’ th’ good woman rockin’ her baby under th’ open sky. Hogan’s tinants. Ol’ Dinnis Higgins is another wan. An’ Brannigan, th’ real estate dealer. He was in th’ assissors’ office. May Gawd forgive him! An’ Clancy, that was bail-bondman at Twelfth Sthreet.

“They appointed comities, an’ they held a meetin’. I wint there. So did some iv th’ others. ‘Twas at Finucane’s, an’ th’ hall was crowded. All th’ sodality made speeches. Doherty made a great wan. Th’ air was reekin’ with corruption, says he. Th’ polis foorce was rotten to th’ core. Th’ rights iv property was threatened. What, says he, was we goin’ to do about it?

“Danny Gallagher got up, as good a lad as iver put that in his face to desthroy his intelligence, as Shakspere says. ‘Gintlemen,’ says he, ‘wan wurrud befure we lave,’ he says. ‘I’ve listened to th’ speeches here to-night with satisfaction,’ he says. ‘I’m proud to see th’ rayform wave have sthruck th’ road,’ he says. ‘Th’ rascals must be dhriven fr’m th’ high places,’ he says. ‘I see befure me in a chair a gintleman who wud steal a red-hot stove an’ freeze th’ lid befure he got home. On me right is th’ gintleman who advanced th’ wave iv rayform tin years ago be puttin’ Mrs Geohegan out on th’ sthreet in a snowstorm whin she was roarin’ with a cough. Mrs Geohegan have rayformed, peace be with her undher th’ dhrifts iv Calv’ry! I am greeted be th’ smile iv me ol’ frind Higgins. We are ol’ frinds, Dinnis, now, ain’t we? D’ye mind th’ calls I made on ye, with th’ stamps undher me arms, whin I wurruked in th’ post-office? I’ve thought iv thim whin th’ lockstep was goin’ in to dinner, an’ prayed f’r th’ day whin I might see ye again. An’ you, Misther Brannigan, who knows about vacant lots, an’ you Misther Clancy, th’ frind iv th’ dhrunk an’ disordherly, we’re proud to have ye here. ‘Tis be such as ye that th’ polisman who dhrinks on th’ sly, an’ th’ saloon-keeper that keeps open f’r th’ la-ads an’ th’ newsboys that shoots craps, ‘ll be brought to justice. Down with crime! says I. Fellow-citizens, I thank ye kindly. Th’ meetin’ is adjourned siney dee; an’ I app’int Missers Dooley, O’Brien, Casey, Pug Slattery, an’ mesilf to lade out th’ Lexow Sodality be th’ nose.'”

Mr McKenna arose sleepily, and walked toward the door.

“Jawn,” said Mr Dooley.

“Yes,” responded Mr McKenna.

“Niver steal a dure-mat,” said Mr Dooley. “If ye do, ye’ll be invistigated, hanged, an’ maybe rayformed. Steal a bank, me boy, steal a bank.”

Finley Peter Dunne: The Grip


Germ theory was not always what it is now, one of the most important parts of scientific knowledge that the general public fails to learn or refuses to understand. There was a time it was the exciting new frontier of scientific research, and a fascinating new insight into what might be wrong. Germs, then, provide the inciting incident for today’s Mr Dooley piece, The Grip.

The Fenians, mentioned in the essay, were a late-19th/early-20th century movement pushing for Irish independence. From the United States side of things they’re most notable for a couple of filibustering raids launched from American territory into Canada, marking the … fourth? Fifth? time the Americans tried to liberate Canada from British rule despite sending like 65 people to complete the task and Canada not much wanting liberation.

Mr Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage, consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine, and fifteen parts strong waters.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mr McKenna.

“I have th’ lah gr-rip,” said Mr Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. “Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! I feels as if a dhray had run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not? Well, ye’re lucky. Ye’re a lucky man.

“I wint to McGuire’s wake las’ week. They gave him a dacint sind-off. No porther. An’ himsilf looked natural, as fine a corpse as iver Gavin layed out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as proud iv McGuire as if he owned him. Fetched half th’ town in to look at him, an’ give ivry wan iv thim cards. He near frightened ol’ man Dugan into a faint. ‘Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?’ ‘Sivinty-five, thanks be,’ says Dugan. ‘Thin,’ says Gavin, ‘take wan iv me cards,’ he says. ‘I hope ye’ll not forget me,’ he says.

“‘Twas there I got th’ lah grip. Lastewise, it is me opinion iv it, though th’ docthor said I swallowed a bug. It don’t seem right, Jawn, f’r th’ McGuires is a clane fam’ly; but th’ docthor said a bug got into me system. ‘What sort iv bug?’ says I. ‘A lah grip bug,’ he says. ‘Ye have Mickrobes in ye’er lungs,’ he says. ‘What’s thim?’ says I. ‘Thim’s th’ lah grip bugs,’ says he. ‘Ye took wan in, an’ warmed it,’ he says; ‘an’ it has growed an’ multiplied till ye’er system does be full iv’ thim,’ he says, ‘millions iv thim,’ he says, ‘marchin’ an’ counthermarchin’ through ye.’ ‘Glory be to the saints!’ says I. ‘Had I better swallow some insect powdher?’ I says. ‘Some iv thim in me head has a fallin’ out, an’ is throwin’ bricks.’ ‘Foolish man,’ says he. ‘Go to bed,’ he says, ‘an’ lave thim alone,’ he says, ‘Whin they find who they’re in,’ he says, ‘they’ll quit ye.’

“So I wint to bed, an’ waited while th’ Mickrobes had fun with me. Mondah all iv thim was quite but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin’ an’ carousin’ an’ dancin’ jigs till wurruds come up between th’ Kerry Mickrobes an’ thim fr’m Wexford; an’ th’ whole party wint over to me left lung, where they cud get th’ air, an’ had it out. Th’ nex’ day th’ little Mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine; an’ manetime some Mickrobes that was wurkin’ f’r th’ tilliphone comp’ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an’ put on their spikes an’ climbed all night long.

“They was tired out th’ nex’ day till about five o’clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin’ out th’ rooms; an’ I knew there was goin’ to be doin’s in th’ top flat. What did thim Mickrobes do but invite all th’ other Mickrobes in f’r th’ ev’nin’. They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not wan iv them stayed away. At six o’clock they begin to move fr’m me shins to me throat. They come in platoons an’ squads an’ dhroves. Some iv thirn brought along brass bands, an’ more thin wan hundherd thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes on dhrays. A throlley line was started up me back, an’ ivry car run into a wagon-load iv scrap iron at th’ base iv me skull.

“Th’ Mickrobes in me head must ‘ve done thimsilves proud. Ivry few minyits th’ kids ‘d be sint out with th’ can, an’ I’d say to mesilf: ‘There they go, carryin’ th’ thrade to Schwartzmeister’s because I’m sick an’ can’t wait on thim.’ I was daffy, Jawn, d’ye mind. Th’ likes iv me fillin’ a pitcher f’r a little boy-bug! Such dhreams! An’ they had a game iv forty-fives; an’ there was wan Mickrobe that larned to play th’ game in th’ County Tipp’rary, where ’tis played on stone, an’ ivry time he led thrumps he’d like to knock me head off. ‘Whose thrick is that?’ says th’ Tipp’rary Mickrobe. ”Tis mine,’ says th’ red-headed Mickrobe fr’m th’ County Roscommon. They tipped over th’ chairs an’ tables: an’, in less time thin it takes to tell, th’ whole party was at it. They’d been a hurlin’ game in th’ back iv me skull, an’ th’ young folks was dancin’ breakdowns an’ havin’ leppin’ matches in me forehead; but they all stopped to mix in. Oh, ’twas a grand shindig—tin millions iv men, women, an’ childher rowlin’ on th’ flure, hands an’ feet goin’, ice-picks an’ hurlin’ sticks, clubs, brickbats, an’ beer kags flyin’ in th’ air! How manny iv thim was kilt I niver knew; f’r I wint as daft as a hen, an’ dhreamt iv organizin’ a Mickrobe Campaign Club that ‘d sweep th’ prim’ries, an’ maybe go acrost an’ free Ireland. Whin I woke up, me legs was as weak as a day old baby’s, an’ me poor head impty as a cobbler’s purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr’m a cockroach to an aygle save an’ excipt thim West iv Ireland Fenians, th’ Mickrobes.”

Finley Peter Dunne: Hanging Aldermen


Something I find interesting in Finley Peter Dunne’s writing is an understanding of, even sympathy for, corruption. Not that it’s a good thing, mind, more that people are frail and money is needed and that there’s none of us that can’t end up in circumstances where we do the shameful thing.

Today’s piece from 1899 is Finley Peter Dunne’s Hanging Aldermen. The political issue underlying it is the Chicago Traction Wars, fights over how the streetcar lines should be run. Many small corporations, a handful of big corporations, public ownership, on what terms, et cetera. The “Yerkuss” referenced here is Charles Tyson Yerkes, financier who after being convicted of larceny and attempting to blackmail President Grant went on to important roles in the Chicago and the London transport industries. He also funded the University of Chicago’s Yerkes Observatory. Theodore Dreiser fictionalized him, I read in Wikipedia, as Frank Cowperwood in three novels.

I do not know if the other figures named here represent any contemporary politicians. While Wikipedia discusses the Chicago mayoral election of 1899, it doesn’t get into the city council elections in detail before 1923.

Chicago is always on the point of hanging some one and quartering him and boiling him in hot pitch, and assuring him that he has lost the respect of all honorable men. Rumors of a characteristic agitation had come faintly up Archey Road, and Mr Hennessy had heard of it.

“I hear they’re goin’ to hang th’ aldhermen,” he said. “If they thry it on Willum J O’Brien, they’d betther bombard him first. I’d hate to be th’ man that ‘d be called to roll with him to his doom. He cud lick th’ whole Civic Featheration.”

“I believe ye,” said Mr Dooley. “He’s a powerful man. But I hear there is, as ye say, what th’ pa-apers ‘d call a movement on fut f’r to dec’rate Chris’mas threes with aldhermen, an’ ’tis wan that ought to be encouraged. Nawthin’ cud be happyer, as Hogan says, thin th’ thought iv cillybratin’ th’ season be sthringin’ up some iv th’ fathers iv th’ city where th’ childher cud see thim. But I’m afraid, Hinnissy, that you an’ me won’t see it. ‘Twill all be over soon, an’ Willum J O’Brien ‘ll go by with his head just as near his shoulders as iver. ‘Tis har-rd to hang an aldherman, annyhow. Ye’d have to suspind most iv thim be th’ waist.

“Man an’ boy, I’ve been in this town forty year an’ more; an’ divvle th’ aldherman have I see hanged yet, though I’ve sthrained th’ eyes out iv me head watchin’ f’r wan iv thim to be histed anny pleasant mornin’. They’ve been goin’ to hang thim wan week an’ presintin’ thim with a dimon’ star th’ next iver since th’ year iv th’ big wind, an’ there’s jus’ as manny iv thim an’ jus’ as big robbers as iver there was.

“An’ why shud they hang thim, Hinnissy? Why shud they? I’m an honest man mesilf, as men go. Ye might have ye’er watch, if ye had wan, on that bar f’r a year, an’ I’d niver touch it. It wudden’t be worth me while. I’m an honest man. I pay me taxes, whin Tim Ryan isn’t assessor with Grogan’s boy on th’ books. I do me jooty; an’ I believe in th’ polis foorce, though not in polismen. That’s diff’rent. But honest as I am, between you an’ me, if I was an aldherman, I wudden’t say, be hivins, I think I’d stand firm; but—well, if some wan come to me an’ said, ‘Dooley, here’s fifty thousan’ dollars f’r ye’er vote to betray th’ sacred inthrests iv Chicago,’ I’d go to Father Kelly an’ ask th’ prayers iv th’ congregation.

“‘Tis not, Hinnissy, that this man Yerkuss goes up to an aldherman an’ says out sthraight, ‘Here, Bill, take this bundle, an’ be an infamious scoundhrel.’ That’s th’ way th’ man in Mitchigan Avnoo sees it, but ’tis not sthraight. D’ye mind Dochney that was wanst aldherman here? Ye don’t. Well, I do. He ran a little conthractin’ business down be Halsted Sthreet ‘Twas him built th’ big shed f’r th’ ice comp’ny. He was a fine man an’ a sthrong wan. He begun his political career be lickin’ a plasthrer be th’ name iv Egan, a man that had th’ County Clare thrip an’ was thought to be th’ akel iv anny man in town. Fr’m that he growed till he bate near ivry man he knew, an’ become very pop’lar, so that he was sint to th’ council. Now Dochney was an honest an’ sober man whin he wint in; but wan day a man come up to him, an’ says he, ‘Ye know that ordhnance Schwartz inthrajooced?’ ‘I do,’ says Dochney, ‘an I’m again it. ‘Tis a swindle,’ he says. “Well,’ says th’ la-ad, ‘they’se five thousan’ in it f’r ye,’ he says. They had to pry Dochney off iv him. Th’ nex’ day a man he knowed well come to Dochney, an’ says he, ‘That’s a fine ordhnance iv Schwartz.’ ‘It is, like hell,’ says Dochney. ”Tis a plain swindle,’ he says. ”Tis a good thing f’r th’ comp’nies,’ says this man; ‘but look what they’ve done f’r th’ city,’ he says, ‘an think,’ he says, ‘iv th’ widdies an’ orphans,’ he says, ‘that has their har-rd-earned coin invisted,’ he says. An’ a tear rolled down his cheek. ‘I’m an orphan mesilf,’ says Dochney; ‘an’ as f’r th’ widdies, anny healthy widdy with sthreet-car stock ought to be ashamed iv hersilf if she’s a widdy long,’ he says. An’ th’ man wint away.

“Now Dochney thought he’d put th’ five thousan’ out iv his mind, but he hadn’t. He’d on’y laid it by, an’ ivry time he closed his eyes he thought iv it. ‘Twas a shame to give th’ comp’nies what they wanted, but th’ five thousan’ was a lot iv money. ‘Twud lift th’ morgedge. ‘Twud clane up th’ notes on th’ new conthract. ‘Twud buy a new dhress f’r Mrs. Dochney. He begun to feel sorrowful f’r th’ widdies an’ orphans. ‘Poor things!’ says he to himsilf, says he. ‘Poor things, how they must suffer!’ he says; ‘an’ I need th’ money. Th’ sthreet-car comp’nies is robbers,’ he says; ‘but ’tis thrue they’ve built up th’ city,’ he says, ‘an th’ money ‘d come in handy,’ he says. ‘No wan ‘d be hurted, annyhow,’ he says; ‘an’, sure, it ain’t a bribe f’r to take money f’r doin’ something ye want to do, annyhow,’ he says. ‘Five thousan’ widdies an’ orphans,’ he says; an’ he wint to sleep.

“That was th’ way he felt whin he wint down to see ol’ Simpson to renew his notes, an’ Simpson settled it. ‘Dochney,’ he says, ‘I wisht ye’d pay up,’ he says. ‘I need th’ money,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid th’ council won’t pass th’ Schwartz ordhnance,’ he says; ‘an’ it manes much to me,’ he says. ‘Be th’ way,’ he says, ‘how’re ye goin’ to vote on that ordhnance?’ he says. ‘I dinnaw,’ says Dochney. ‘Well,’ says Simpson (Dochney tol’ me this himsilf), ‘whin ye find out, come an’ see me about th’ notes,’ he says. An’ Dochney wint to th’ meetin’; an’, whin his name was called, he hollered ‘Aye,’ so loud a chunk iv plaster fell out iv th’ ceilin’ an’ stove in th’ head iv a rayform aldherman.”

“Did they hang him?” asked Mr Hennessy.

“Faith, they did not,” said Mr Dooley. “He begun missin’ his jooty at wanst. Aldhermen always do that after th’ first few weeks. ‘Ye got ye’er money,’ says Father Kelly; ‘an’ much good may it do ye,’ he says. ‘Well,’ says Dochney, ‘I’d be a long time prayin’ mesilf into five thousan’,’ he says. An’ he become leader in th’ council. Th’ las’ ordhnance he inthrojooced was wan establishin’ a license f’r churches, an’ compellin’ thim to keep their fr-ront dure closed an’ th’ blinds drawn on Sundah. He was expelled fr’m th’ St. Vincent de Pauls, an’ ilicted a director iv a bank th’ same day.

“Now, Hinnissy, that there man niver knowed he was bribed—th’ first time. Th’ second time he knew. He ast f’r it. An’ I wudden’t hang Dochney. I wudden’t if I was sthrong enough. But some day I’m goin’ to let me temper r-run away with me, an’ get a comity together, an’ go out an’ hang ivry dam widdy an’ orphan between th’ rollin’ mills an’ th’ foundlin’s’ home. If it wasn’t f’r thim raypechious crathers, they’d be no boodle annywhere.”

“Well, don’t forget Simpson,” said Mr Hennessy.

“I won’t,” said Mr Dooley, “I won’t.”

Finley Peter Dunne: Times Past


Chatting with some friends gave me reason to mention Finley Peter Dunne. During the Progressive Era he was a renowned humorist, and you could find warm things written about him for decades after. Today? He’s known mostly by freaks like me. So I decided to use some time this week to encourage awareness of an author from 125 years ago who’s still, you know, readable and pleasant and not always throwing up barbs of Really Bad Opinions. I’ve done this before, but not much and not in ages, so why not start again?

Dunne’s most lasting work is the creation of Mr Dooley, barkeeper on Archey Road, Chicago. Other people appear but it’s mostly a monologue from a man who’s seen everything there is to know about people and still likes them, though maybe doesn’t trust them. This week I figure to share some essays reprinted in the 1899 collection Mr Dooley in the Hearts of His Countrymen. First up: A reflection on Times Past.

I understand that eye dialect is a challenge to read — it’s not my favorite thing myself — but I promise, it’s worth a reasonable effort.

Mr McKenna, looking very warm and tired, came in to Mr Dooley’s tavern one night last week, and smote the bar with his fist.

“What’s the matter with Hogan?” he said.

“What Hogan?” asked Mr Dooley. “Malachy or Matt? Dinnis or Mike? Sarsfield or William Hogan? There’s a Hogan f’r ivry block in th’ Ar-rchey Road, an’ wan to spare. There’s nawthin’ th’ matter with anny iv thim; but, if ye mean Hogan, th’ liquor dealer, that r-run f’r aldherman, I’ll say to ye he’s all right. Mind ye, Jawn, I’m doin’ this because ye’re me frind; but, by gar, if anny wan else comes in an’ asks me that question, I’ll kill him, if I have to go to th’ bridewell f’r it. I’m no health officer.”

Having delivered himself of this tirade, Mr Dooley scrutinized Mr McKenna sharply, and continued: “Ye’ve been out ilictin’ some man, Jawn, an’ ye needn’t deny it. I seen it th’ minyit ye come in. Ye’er hat’s dinted, an’ ye have ye’er necktie over ye’er ear; an’ I see be ye’er hand ye’ve hit a Dutchman. Jawn, ye know no more about politics thin a mimber iv this here Civic Featheration. Didn’t ye have a beer bottle or an ice-pick? Ayether iv thim is good, though, whin I was a young man an’ precint captain an’ intherested in th’ welfare iv th’ counthry, I found a couplin’ pin in a stockin’ about as handy as annything.

“Thim days is over, though, Jawn, an’ between us politics don’t intherest me no more. They ain’t no liveliness in thim. Whin Andy Duggan r-run f’r aldherman against Schwartzmeister, th’ big Dutchman,—I was precinct captain then, Jawn,—there was an iliction f’r ye. ‘Twas on our precinct they relied to ilict Duggan; f’r the Dutch was sthrong down be th’ thrack, an’ Schwartzmeister had a band out playin’ ‘Th’ Watch on th’ Rhine.’ Well, sir, we opened th’ polls at six o’clock, an’ there was tin Schwartzmeister men there to protect his intherests. At sivin o’clock there was only three, an’ wan iv thim was goin’ up th’ sthreet with Hinnissy kickin’ at him. At eight o’clock, be dad,’ there was on’y wan; an’ he was sittin’ on th’ roof iv Gavin’s blacksmith shop, an’ th’ la-ads was thryin’ to borrow a laddher fr’m th’ injine-house f’r to get at him. ‘Twas thruck eighteen; an’ Hogan, that was captain, wudden’t let thim have it. Not ye’er Hogan, Jawn, but th’ meanest fireman in Bridgeport. He got kilt aftherwards. He wudden’t let th’ la-ads have a laddher, an’ th’ Dutchman stayed up there; an’, whin there was nawthin’ to do, we wint over an’ thrun bricks at him. ‘Twas gr-reat sport.

“About four in th’ afthernoon Schwartzmeister’s band come up Ar-rchey Road, playin’ ‘Th’ Watch on th’ Rhine.’ Whin it got near Gavin’s, big Peter Nolan tuk a runnin’ jump, an’ landed feet first in th’ big bass dhrum. Th’ man with th’ dhrum walloped him over th’ head with th’ dhrum-stick, an’ Dorsey Quinn wint over an’ tuk a slide trombone away fr’m the musician an’ clubbed th’ bass dhrum man with it. Thin we all wint over, an’ ye niver see th’ like in ye’er born days. Th’ las’ I see iv th’ band it was goin’ down th’ road towards th’ slough with a mob behind it, an’ all th’ polis foorce fr’m Deerin’ Sthreet afther th’ mob. Th’ la-ads collected th’ horns an’ th’ dhrums, an’ that started th’ Ar-rchey Road brass band. Little Mike Doyle larned to play ‘Th’ Rambler fr’m Clare’ beautifully on what they call a pickle-e-o befure they sarved a rayplivin writ on him.

“We cast twinty-wan hundherd votes f’r Duggan, an’ they was on’y five hundherd votes in th’ precinct. We’d cast more, but th’ tickets give out. They was tin votes in th’ box f’r Schwartzmeister whin we counted up; an’ I felt that mortified I near died, me bein’ precinct captain, an’ res-sponsible. ‘What ‘ll we do with thim? Out th’ window,’ says I. Just thin Dorsey’s nanny-goat that died next year put her head through th’ dure. ‘Monica,’ says Dorsey (he had pretty names for all his goats), ‘Monica, are ye hungry,’ he says, ‘ye poor dear?’ Th’ goat give him a pleadin’ look out iv her big brown eyes. ‘Can’t I make ye up a nice supper?’ says Dorsey. ‘Do ye like paper?’ he says. ‘Would ye like to help desthroy a Dutchman,’ he says, ‘an’ perform a sarvice f’r ye’er counthry?’ he says. Thin he wint out in th’ next room, an’ come back with a bottle iv catsup; an’ he poured it on th’ Schwartzmeister ballots, an’ Monica et thim without winkin’.

“Well, sir, we ilicted Duggan; an’ what come iv it? Th’ week before iliction he was in me house ivry night, an’ ’twas ‘Misther Dooley, this,’ an’ ‘Mr Dooley, that,’ an’ ‘What ‘ll ye have, boys?’ an’ ‘Niver mind about th’ change.’ I niver see hide nor hair iv him f’r a week afther iliction. Thin he come with a plug hat on, an’ says he: ‘Dooley,’ he says, ‘give me a shell iv beer,’ he says: ‘give me a shell iv beer,’ he says, layin’ down a nickel. ‘I suppose ye’re on th’ sub-scription,’ he says. ‘What for?’ says I. ‘F’r to buy me a goold star,’ says he. With that I eyes him, an’ says I: ‘Duggan,’ I says, ‘I knowed ye whin ye didn’t have a coat to ye’er back,’ I says, ‘an’ I ‘ll buy no star f’r ye,’ I says. ‘But I’ll tell ye what I’ll buy f’r ye,’ I says. ‘I’ll buy rayqueem masses f’r th’ raypose iv ye’er sowl, if ye don’t duck out iv this in a minyit,’ Whin I seen him last, he was back dhrivin’ a dhray an’ atin’ his dinner out iv a tin can.”

Mr Dooley on ‘Keeping Lent’


A post by Mike Peterson at The Daily Cartoonist made me aware of this piece by Finley Peter Dunne, part of his Mister Dooley series. So here’s a bit from the 1899 collection Mr Dooley in the Hearts of his Countrymen.

Mr Dooley: Keeping Lent.

Finley Peter Dunne

Mr McKenna had observed Mr Dooley in the act of spinning a long, thin spoon in a compound which reeked pleasantly and smelt of the humming water of commerce; and he laughed and mocked at the philosopher.

“Ah-ha,” he said, “that’s th’ way you keep Lent, is it? Two weeks from Ash Wednesday, and you tanking up.”

Mr Dooley went on deliberately to finish the experiment, leisurely dusting the surface with nutmeg and tasting the product before setting down the glass daintily. Then he folded his apron, and lay back in ample luxury while he began: “Jawn, th’ holy season iv Lent was sent to us f’r to teach us th’ weakness iv th’ human flesh. Man proposes, an’ th’ Lord disposes, as Hinnissy says.

“I mind as well as though it was yesterday th’ struggle iv me father f’r to keep Lent. He began to talk it a month befure th’ time. ‘On Ash Winsdah,’ he’d say, ‘I’ll go in f’r a rale season iv fast an’ abstinince,’ he’d say. An’ sure enough, whin Ash Winsdah come round at midnight, he’d take a long dhraw at his pipe an’ knock th’ ashes out slowly again his heel, an’ thin put th’ dhudeen up behind th’ clock. ‘There,’ says he, ‘there ye stay till Easter morn,’ he says. Ash Winsdah he talked iv nawthin but th’ pipe. ”Tis exthraordinney how easy it is f’r to lave off,’ he says. ‘All ye need is will power,’ he says. ‘I dinnaw that I’ll iver put a pipe in me mouth again. ‘Tis a bad habit, smokin’ is,’ he says; ‘an’ it costs money. A man’s betther off without it. I find I dig twict as well,’ he says; ‘an’, as f’r cuttin’ turf, they’se not me like in th’ parish since I left off th’ pipe,’ he says.

“Well, th’ nex’ day an’ th’ nex’ day he talked th’ same way; but Fridah he was sour, an’ looked up at th’ clock where th’ pipe was. Saturdah me mother, thinkin’ to be plazin to him, says: ‘Terrence,’ she says, ‘ye’re iver so much betther without th’ tobacco,’ she says. ‘I’m glad to find you don’t need it. Ye’ll save money,’ she says. ‘Be quite, woman,’ says he. ‘Dear, oh dear,’ he says, ‘I’d like a pull at th’ clay,’ he says. ‘Whin Easter comes, plaze Gawd, I’ll smoke mesilf black an’ blue in th’ face,’ he says.

“That was th’ beginnin’ iv th’ downfall. Choosdah he was settin’ in front iv th’ fire with a pipe in his mouth. ‘Why, Terrence,’ says me mother, ‘ye’re smokin’ again.’ ‘I’m not,’ says he: ”tis a dhry smoke,’ he says; ”tisn’t lighted,’ he says. Wan week afther th’ swear-off he came fr’m th’ field with th’ pipe in his face, an’ him puffin’ away like a chimney. ‘Terrence,’ says me mother, ‘it isn’t Easter morn.’ ‘Ah-ho,’ says he, ‘I know it,’ he says; ‘but,’ he says, ‘what th’ divvle do I care?’ he says. ‘I wanted f’r to find out whether it had th’ masthery over me; an’,’ he says, ‘I’ve proved that it hasn’t,’ he says. ‘But what’s th’ good iv swearin’ off, if ye don’t break it?’ he says. ‘An’ annyhow,’ he says, ‘I glory in me shame.’

“Now, Jawn,” Mr Dooley went on, “I’ve got what Hogan calls a theery, an’ it’s this: that what’s thrue iv wan man’s thrue iv all men. I’m me father’s son a’most to th’ hour an’ day. Put me in th’ County Roscommon forty year ago, an’ I’d done what he’d done. Put him on th’ Ar-rchey Road, an’ he’d be deliverin’ ye a lecture on th’ sin iv thinkin’ ye’re able to overcome th’ pride iv th’ flesh, as Father Kelly says. Two weeks ago I looked with contimpt on Hinnissy f’r an’ because he’d not even promise to fast an’ obstain fr’m croquet durin’ Lent. To-night you see me mixin’ me toddy without th’ shadow iv remorse about me. I’m proud iv it. An’ why not? I was histin’ in me first wan whin th’ soggarth come down fr’m a sick call, an’ looked in at me. ‘In Lent?’ he says, half-laughin’ out in thim quare eyes iv his. ‘Yes,’ said I. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’m not authorized to say this be th’ propaganda,’ he says, ‘an’ ’tis no part iv th’ directions f’r Lent,’ he says; ‘but,’ he says, ‘I’ll tell ye this, Martin,’ he says, ‘that they’se more ways than wan iv keepin’ th’ season,’ he says. ‘I’ve knowed thim that starved th’ stomach to feast th’ evil temper,’ he says. ‘They’se a little priest down be th’ Ninth Ward that niver was known to keep a fast day; but Lent or Christmas tide, day in an’ day out, he goes to th’ hospital where they put th’ people that has th’ small-pox. Starvation don’t always mean salvation. If it did,’ he says, ‘they’d have to insure th’ pavemint in wan place, an’ they’d be money to burn in another. Not,’ he says, ‘that I want ye to undherstand that I look kindly on th’ sin iv’—

“”Tis a cold night out,’ says I.

“‘Well,’ he says, th’ dear man, ‘ye may. On’y,’ he says, ”tis Lent.’

“‘Yes,’ says I.

“‘Well, thin,’ he says, ‘by ye’er lave I’ll take but half a lump iv sugar in mine,’ he says.”

Finley Peter Dunne explains High Finance


While I imagine many people are interested in How To Understand International Finance these days, I thought I’d step back to the turn of the 20th century and Finley Peter Dunne’s Mister Dooley, who in Mr Dooley’s Philosophy explains high finance. And yes, I understand, the dialect writing makes it harder to read. It’s worth it.

Mister Dooley on: HIGH FINANCE

“I THINK,” said Mr. Dooley, “I’ll go down to th’ stock yards an’ buy a dhrove iv Steel an’ Wire stock.”

“Where wud ye keep it?” asked the unsuspecting Hennessy.

“I’ll put it out on th’ vacant lot,” said Mr. Dooley, “an’ lave it grow fat by atin’ ol’ bur-rd cages an’ tin cans. I’ll milk it hard, an’ whin ’tis dhry I’ll dispose iv it to th’ widdies an’ orphans iv th’ Sixth Ward that need household pets. Be hivins, if they give me half a chanst, I’ll be as gr-reat a fi-nanceer as anny man in Wall sthreet.

“Th’ reason I’m so confident iv th’ value iv Steel an’ Wire stock, Hinnissy, is they’re goin’ to hur-rl th’ chairman iv th’ comity into jail. That’s what th’ pa-apers calls a ray iv hope in th’ clouds iv dipression that’ve covered th’ market so long. `Tis always a bull argymint. `Snowplows common was up two pints this mornin’ on th’ rumor that th’ prisidint was undher ar-rest.’ `They was a gr-reat bulge in Lobster preferred caused be th’ report that instead iv declarin’ a dividend iv three hundhred per cint. th’ comp’ny was preparin’ to imprison th’ boord iv directors.’ `We sthrongly ricommind th’ purchase iv Con and Founder. This comp’ny is in ixcillint condition since th’ hangin’ iv th’ comity on reorganization.’

“What’s th’ la-ad been doin’, Hinnissy? He’s been lettin’ his frinds in on th’ groun’ flure — an’ dhroppin’ thim into th’ cellar. Ye know Cassidy, over in th’ Fifth, him that was in th’ ligislachure? Well, sir, he was a gr-reat frind iv this man. They met down in Springfield whin th’ la-ad had some thing he wanted to get through that wud protect th’ widdies an’ orphans iv th’ counthry again their own avarice, an’ he must’ve handed Cassidy a good argymint, f’r Cassidy voted f’r th’ bill, though threatened with lynchin’ be stockholders iv th’ rival comp’ny. He come back here so covered with dimons that wan night whin he was standin’ on th’ rollin’ mill dock, th’ captain iv th’ Eliza Brown mistook his shirt front f’r th’ bridge lights an’ steered into a soap facthry on th’ lee or gas-house shore.

“Th’ man made a sthrong impression on Cassidy. ‘Twas : `As me frind Jawn says,’ or `I’ll ask Jawn about that,’ or `I’m goin’ downtown to-day to find out what Jawn advises.’ He used to play a dollar on th’ horses or sivin-up f’r th’ dhrinks, but afther he met Jawn he wanted me to put in a tick er, an’ he wud set in here figurin’ with a piece iv chalk on how high Wire’d go if hoopskirts come into fashion again. `Give me a dhrop iv whisky,’ he says, ` f’r I’m inthrested in Distillers,’ he says, `an’ I’d like to give it a shove,’ he says. `How’s Gas?’ he says. `A little weak, to-day,’ says I. `’Twill be sthronger,’ he says. `If it ain’t,’ says I, `I’ll take out th’ meter an’ connect th’ pipe with th’ ventilator. I might as well bur-rn th’ wind free as buy it,’ I says.

“A couple iv weeks ago he see Jawn an’ they had a long talk about it. `Cassidy,’ says Jawn, `ye’ve been a good frind iv mine,’ he says, an’ I’d do annything in the wurruld t’r ye, no matther what it cost ye,’ he says. `If ye need a little money to tide over th’ har-rd times till th’ ligislachure meets again buy’ — an’ he whispered in Cassidy’s ear. `But,’ he says, `don’t tell annywan. ‘Tis a good thing, but I want to keep it bottled up,’ he says.

“Thin Jawn took th’ thrain an’ begun confidin’ his secret to a few select frinds. He give it to th’ conductor on th’ thrain, an’ th’ porther, an’ th’ can dy butcher; he handed it to a switchman that got on th’ platform at South Bend, an’ he stopped off at Detroit long enough to tell about it to the deepo’ policeman. He had a sign painted with th’ tip on it an’ hung it out th’ window, an’ he found a man that carrid a thrombone in a band goin’ over to Buffalo, an’ he had him set th’ good thing to music an’ play it through th’ thrain. Whin he got to New York he stopped at the Waldorf Asthoria, an’ while th’ barber was powdhrin’ his face with groun’ dimons Jawn tol’ him to take th’ money he was goin’ to buy a policy ticket with an’ get in on th’ good thing. He tol’ th’ bootblack, th’ waiter, th’ man at th’ news-stand, th’ clerk behind th’ desk, an’ th’ bartinder in his humble abode. He got up a stereopticon show with pitchers iv a widow-an-orphan befure an’ afther wirin’, an’ he put an advertisement in all th’ pa-apers tellin’ how his stock wud make weak men sthrong. He had th’ tip sarved hot in all th’ resthrants in Wall sthreet, an’ told it confidintially to an open-air meetin’ in Madison Square. `They’se nawthin,’ he says, `that does a tip so much good as to give it circulation,’ he says.’ I think, be this time,’ he says, `all me frinds knows how to proceed, but — Great Hivins!’ he says. `What have I done? Whin all the poor people go to get th’ stock they won’t be anny f’r thim. I can not lave thim thus in th’ lurch. Me reputation as a gintleman an’ a fi-nanceer is at stake,’ he says. `Rather than see these brave people starvin’ at th’ dure f’r a morsel iv common or preferred, I’ll — I’ll sell thim me own stock,’ he says. An’ he done it. He done it, Hinnissy, with unfalthrin’ courage an’ a clear eye. He sold thim his stock, an’ so’s they might get what was left at a raysonable price, he wrote a confidintial note to th’ pa-apers tellin’ thim th’ stock wasn’t worth thirty cints a cord, an’ now, be hivins, they’re talkin’ iv puttin’ him in a common jail or pinitinchry pre ferred. Th’ ingratichood iv man.”

“But what about Cassidy?” Mr. Hennessy asked.

“Oh,” said Mr. Dooley, “he was in here las’ night. `How’s our old frind Jawn?’ says I. He said nawthin’. `Have ye seen ye’er collidge chum iv late?’ says I. `Don’t mintion that ma-an’s name,’ says he. `To think iv what I’ve done f’r him,’ he says, `an’ him to throw me down,’ he says. `Did ye play th’ tip?’ says I. `I did,’ says he. `How did ye come out?’ says I. `I haven’t a cint lift but me renommynation f’r th’ ligislachure,’ says he. `Well,’ says I, `Cassidy,’ I says, `ye’ve been up again what th’ pa-apers call hawt finance,’ I says. `What th’ divvle’s that?’ says he. `Well,’ says I, `it ain’t burglary, an’ it ain’t obtainin’ money be false pretinses, an’ it ain’t manslaughter,’ I says. `It’s what ye might call a judicious seliction fr’m th’ best features iv thim ar-rts,’ I says. `T’was too sthrong f’r me,’ he says. `It was,’ says I. `Ye’re about up to simple thransom climbin’, Cassidy,’ I says.”

Finley Peter Dunne: Machinery


I want to offer another bit from Observations By Mr. Dooley, this one a bit about the astounding progress in machinery that the late 19th century had brought, and the basic attitude feels to me pretty evergreen.

Mr. Dooley was reading from a paper.

“‘We live,’ he says, ‘in an age iv wondhers. Niver befure in th’ histhry iv th’ wurruld has such progress been made.’

Continue reading “Finley Peter Dunne: Machinery”

Finley Peter Dunne: “Sherlock Holmes”


Here’s a bit from Finley Peter Dunne — Mister Dooley — in Observations By Mr. Dooley. It amuses me, besides its basic funniness, for spoofing the Sherlock Holmes stories right about when they were still being written. I can’t find just when this particular essay was composed, but the book was published in 1902 or possibly 1903.

Dorsey an’ Dugan are havin’ throuble,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“What about?” asked Mr. Dooley.

“Dorsey,” said Mr. Hennessy, “says Dugan stole his dog. They had a party at Dorsey’s an’ Dorsey heerd a noise in th’ back yard an’ wint out an’ see Dugan makin’ off with his bull tarryer.”

“Ye say he see him do it?”

“Yis, he see him do it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dooley, “‘twud baffle th’ injinooty iv a Sherlock Holmes.”

“Who’s Sherlock Holmes?”

Continue reading “Finley Peter Dunne: “Sherlock Holmes””

Peter Finley Dunne: Avarice and Generosity


[ I’d like to offer another piece from Peter Finley Dunne’s Observations by Mr Dooley today, this one, about exactly what the title says. ]

Avarice and Generosity

“I niver blame a man f’r bein’ avaricyous in his ol’ age. Whin a fellow gits so he has nawthin’ else to injye, whin ivrybody calls him ‘sir’ or ‘mister,’ an’ young people dodge him an’ he sleeps afther dinner, an’ folks say he’s an ol’ fool if he wears a buttonhole bokay an’ his teeth is only tinants at will an’ not permanent fixtures, ’tis no more thin nach’ral that he shud begin to look around him f’r a way iv keepin’ a grip on human s’ciety. It don’t take him long to see that th’ on’y thing that’s vin’rable in age is money an’ he pro-ceeds to acquire anything that happens to be in sight, takin’ it where he can find it, not where he wants it, which is th’ way to accumylate a fortune. Money won’t prolong life, but a few millyons judicyously placed in good banks an’ occas’nally worn on th’ person will rayjooce age. Poor ol’ men are always older thin poor rich men. In th’ almshouse a man is decrepit an’ mournful-lookin’ at sixty, but a millyonaire at sixty is jus’ in th’ prime iv life to a frindly eye, an’ there are no others.

Continue reading “Peter Finley Dunne: Avarice and Generosity”

Finley Peter Dunne: (More) Casual Observations


I was having fun with bits of Mr Dooley’s Philosophy so here’s another round of quips from him.

To most people a savage nation is wan that doesn’t wear oncomf’rtable
clothes.

Manny people’d rather be kilt at Newport thin at Bunker Hill.

I care not who makes th’ laws iv a nation if I can get out an injunction.

All men are br-rave in comp’ny an’ cow’rds alone, but some shows it
clearer thin others.

If Rooshia wud shave we’d not be afraid iv her.

Finley Peter Dunne: Casual Observations


I had enough fun flipping through Finley Peter Dunne’s Mr Dooley’s Philosophy, including a section of “Casual Observations” at the end, that I’ll bring a couple of them up as today’s entry.

Th’ nearest anny man comes to a con-ciption iv his own death is lyin’ back in a comfortable coffin with his ears cocked f’r th’ flatthrin’ remarks iv th’ mourners.

A fanatic is a man that does what he thinks th’ Lord wud do if He knew th’ facts iv th’ case.

It takes a sthrong man to be mean. A mean man is wan that has th’ courage not to be gin’rous. Whin I give a tip ’tis not because I want to but because I’m afraid iv what th’ waiter’ll think. Russell Sage is wan iv Nature’s noblemen.

The last particularly delights me since I attended graduate school in Troy, New York, just up the hill from Russell Sage College. According to campus lore passed around Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, the things Russell Sage hated most in a life spent hating people and things were education, women, and educating women; and his widow, Margaret Olivia Sage, donated much of his fortune to schools, particularly schools for women. This is a good enough story I’ve never looked closely enough into Russell Sage’s biography to tell whether it’s true.