Mr. Dooley Says by Finley Peter Dunne (best contemporary novels .txt) 📗

why a man shud be allowed to pizen himsilf into th' belief that he amounts to something, but thin they don't undherstand man. They little know what a bluff he is an' how 'tis on'y be fortifyin' himsilf with stuff that they regard as iv no use except to burn undher a tea-kettle that he dares to go on livin' at all. He knows how good dhrink makes him look to himsilf, an' he dhrinks. They see how it makes him look to ivrybody else, an' they want to take it away fr'm him. Whin he's sober his bluff is on th' outside. Whin he's dhrunk he makes th' bluff to his own heart. Dhrink turns him inside out as well as upside down, an' while he's congratulatin' himsilf on th' fine man he is, th' neighbors know him f'r a boaster, a cow'rd, an' something iv a liar. That th' ladies see an' hate. They do not know that there is wan thing an' on'y wan thing to be said in favor iv dhrink, an' that is that it has caused manny a lady to be loved that otherwise might've died single."

"They're all right, said Mr. Hennessy. I'm against it."

"Yes," said Mr. Dooley. "Anny man is against dhrink that's iver been really against it."

THINGS SPIRITUAL

"Th' latest thing in science," said Mr. Dooley, "is weighin' th' human soul. A fellow up in Matsachoosetts has done it. He weighs ye befure ye die an' he weighs ye afther ye die, an' th' diff'rence is what ye'er soul weighs. He's discovered that th' av'rage weight iv a soul in New England is six ounces or a little less. Fr'm this he argies that th' conscience isn't part iv th' soul. If it was th' soul wud be in th' heavyweight class, f'r th' New England conscience is no feather. He thinks it don't escape with th' soul, but lies burrid in th' roons iv its old fam'ly home—th' liver.

"It's so simple it must be true, an' if it ain't true, annyhow it's simple. But it's a tur-rble thing to think iv. I can't see anny money in it as an invintion. Who'll want to have his soul weighed? Suppose ye'er time has come. Th' fam'ly ar-re busy with their own thoughts, grievin' because they hadn't been as good to ye as they might, because they won't have ye with thim anny more, because it's too late f'r thim to square thimsilves, pityin' ye because ye'er not remainin' to share their sorrows with thim, wondhrin' whether th' black dhresses that were bought in honor iv what people might have said if they hadn't worn thim in mimry iv Aunt Eliza, wud be noticed if they were worn again f'r ye. Th' very young mimbers iv th' fam'ly ar-re standin' around, thryin' to look as sad as they think they ought to look. But they can't keep it up. They nudge each other, their eyes wandher around th' room, an' fr'm time to time they glance over at Cousin Felix an' expect him to make a laugh'ble face. He's a gr-reat frind iv theirs an' they're surprised he isn't gayer. Something must've happened to him. Maybe he's lost his job. There ar-re a gr-reat manny noises in th' sthreet. Th' undertaker whistles as he goes by, an' two iv th' neighbors ar-re at th' gate sayin' what a fine man ye were if ye didn't dhrink, an' askin' did ye leave much.

"An' little ye care. Everything is a millyon miles away fr'm ye. F'r th' first time in ye'er life ye're alone. F'r the first time in ye'er life ye ar-re ye'ersilf. F'r Hiven knows how manny years ye've been somebody else. Ye've been ye'er wife, ye'er fam'ly, ye'er relations, th' polisman on th' beat, th' doctor, th' newspaper reporther, th' foreman at th' mills, th' laws iv th' land, th' bartinder that gives ye dhrinks, th' tailor, th' barber, an' public opinion. Th' wurruld has held a lookin'-glass in front iv ye fr'm th' day ye were born an' compelled ye to make faces in it. But in this here particular business ye have no wan to please but ye'ersilf. Good opinyon an' bad opinyon ar-re alike. Ye're akelly unthroubled be gratichood an' revenge. No wan can help ye or stay ye. Ye're beyond th' sound iv th' alarm clock an' th' facthry whistle an' beginnin' th' Big Day Off whin th' man iv Science shakes ye be th' elbow an' says: 'Ye've got to weigh out.' An' he weighs figures: 'Wan hundhred an' forty-siven fr'm wan hundhred an' fifty. Siven fr'm naught can't be done; borry wan; siven fr'm ten leaves three. I find that th' soul iv our late laminted frind weighed a light three pounds avirdoopoise.'

"No, sir, it won't do. 'Twill niver be popylar. People won't have their souls weighed. I wudden't f'r all th' wurruld have th' wurrud go through th' ward: 'Did ye hear about Dooley's soul?' 'No, what?' 'They had to get an expert accountant to figure its weight, it was that puny.'

"D'ye suppose Dorgan, th' millyonaire, wud consint to it? Whin he entered th' race iv life he was properly handicapped with a soul to offset his avarice an' his ability, so that some iv th' rest iv us wud have a kind iv a show again him. But as soon as he thinks no wan can see him he begins to get rid iv his weight an' comes rompin' home miles ahead. But th' judges say: 'Hold on, there; yell have to weigh out,' an' a little later a notice is posted up that Dorgan is disqualified f'r ridin' undherweight in th' matther iv soul. On th' other hand, there's little Miss Maddigan, th' seamstress. She's all but left at th' post; she's jostled all th' way around, an' comes in lame, a bad last. But she's th' only wan iv th' lot that's kept th' weight. She weighs ninety-six pounds—six iv it bein' tea an' toast an ninety iv it soul.

"No, sir, whin it comes to goin' up to th' scales to have their souls weighed people'll be as shy as they are in a Customs House. Th' people that wud make th' invintion pay wud be th' last to want to be tested by it. Th' pa-apers might keep records iv th' results: 'Misther So-an'-so, th' gr-reat captain iv finance, died yesterday, universally regretted. His estate amounts to nineteen millyon dollars. There ar-re two large bequests to charity. Wan is a thrust fund set aside f'r his maiden sister Annybelle, who will receive f'r life th' income on eight hundhred dollars in stock iv th' Hackensack Meadows Comp'ny. Th' other is forty-two dollars to buy a wooden leg f'r his brother Isaac, it bein' undherstood that no charge is to be made be th' estate against th' brother f'r a set iv false teeth bought f'r him in th' year nineteen four. Th' balance iv th' property is left in trust f'r th' minor childher until they ar-re 90 years old. Th' deceased requested that his soul be measured be troy weight. It tipped th' beam at wan pennyweight.'"

"D'ye think th' soul can be weighed?" asked Mr. Hennessy. "I know it's there, but I think—I kind iv feel—I wondher—I don't hardly know—"

"I see what ye mean" said Mr. Dooley. "Scales an' clocks ar-re not to be thrusted to decide annything that's worth deciding. Who tells time be a clock? Ivry hour is th' same to a clock an' ivry hour is different to me. Wan long, wan short. There ar-re hours in th' avenin' that pass between two ticks iv th' clock; there ar-re hours in th' arly mornin' whin a man can't sleep that Methusalah's age cud stretch in. Clocks ar-re habichool liars, an' so ar-re scales. As soon as annything gets good enough to weigh ye can't weigh it. Scales ar-re f'r th' other fellow. I'm perfectly willin' to take ye'er weight or ye'er soul's weight fr'm what th' scales say. Little I care. A pound or two more or less makes no diff'rence. But when it comes to measurin' something that's precious to me, I'll not thrust it to a slight improvement on a see-saw.

"But what do I know about it, annyhow? What do I know about annything? I've been pitchin' information into ye f'r more years thin anny wan iver wint to colledge, an' I tell ye now I don't know annything about annything. I don't like to thrust mesilf forward. I'm a modest man. Won't somebody else get up? Won't ye get up, Tiddy Rosenfelt; won't ye, Willum Jennings Bryan; won't ye, Prisidint Eliot; won't ye, pro-fissors, preachers, doctors, lawyers, iditors? Won't annybody get up? Won't annybody say that they don't know annything about annything worth knowin' about? Thin, be Hivens, I will. All alone I'll stand up befure me class an' say: 'Hinnissy, about annything that can't be weighed on a scales or measured with a tape line I'm as ign'rant as—ye'ersilf. I'll have to pay ye back th' money I took fr'm ye f'r ye'er schoolin'. It was obtained be false pretences.'

"How can I know annything, whin I haven't puzzled out what I am mesilf. I am Dooley, ye say, but ye're on'y a casual obsarver. Ye don't care annything about me details. Ye look at me with a gin'ral eye. Nawthin' that happens to me really hurts ye. Ye say, 'I'll go over to see Dooley,' sometimes, but more often ye say, 'I'll go over to Dooley's.' I'm a house to ye, wan iv a thousand that look like a row iv model wurrukin'men's cottages. I'm a post to hitch ye'er silences to. I'm always about th' same to ye. But to me I'm a millyon Dooleys an' all iv thim sthrangers to ME. I niver know which wan iv thim is comin' in. I'm like a hotel keeper with on'y wan bed an' a millyon guests, who come wan at a time an' tumble each other out. I set up late at night an' pass th' bottle with a gay an' careless Dooley that hasn't a sorrow in th' wurruld, an' suddenly I look up an' see settin' acrost fr'm me a gloomy wretch that fires th' dhrink out iv th' window an' chases me to bed. I'm just gettin' used to him whin another Dooley comes in, a cross, cantankerous, crazy fellow that insists on eatin' breakfast with me. An' so it goes. I know more about mesilf than annybody knows an' I know nawthin'. Though I'd make a map fr'm mem'ry an' gossip iv anny other man, f'r mesilf I'm still uncharted.

"So what's th' use iv thryin' to know annything less important. Don't thry. All ye've got to do is to believe what ye hear, an' if ye do that enough, afther a while ye'll hear what ye believe. Ye've got to start in believin' befure ye can find a reason f'r ye'er belief. Our old frind Christopher Columbus hadn't anny good reason f'r believin' that there was anny such a place as America. But he believed it without a reason an' thin wint out an' found it. Th' fellows that discovered th' canals on Mars which other fellows think cud be cured be a good oculist, hadn't anny right to think there were canals on Mars. But wan iv thim said: 'I wondher if there ar-re canals on Mars; I believe there ar-re. I'll look an' see. Be Hivens, there ar-re.' If he'd wondhered an' thin believed about clothes poles he'd've found thim too. Anny kind iv a fact is proof iv a belief. A firm belief atthracts facts. They come out iv holes in th' ground an' cracks in th' wall to support belief, but they run away fr'm doubt.

"I'll niver get anny medal f'r makin' anny man give up his belief. If I see a fellow with a chube on his eye and hear him hollerin', 'Hooray, I've discovered a new planet,' I'll be th' last man in th' wurruld to brush th' fly off th' end iv th' telescope. I've known people that see ghosts. I didn't see thim, but they did. They cud see ghosts an' I cudden't. There wasn't annything else to it. I knew a fellow that was a Spiritualist wanst. He was in th' chattel morgedge business on week days an' he was a Spiritulist on Sunday. He cud understand why th' spirits wud always pick out a stout lady with false hair or a gintleman that had his thumb mark registhered at Polis Headquarthers to talk through, an' he knew why spirits liked to play on banjoes an' mandolins an' why they convarsed be rappin' on a table in th' dark. An' there was a man that wud bite a silver dollar in two befure he'd take it f'r good."

"My aunt seen a ghost wanst," said Mr. Hennessy.

"Ivrybody's aunt has seen a ghost," said Mr. Dooley.

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"Well,