"A WOMAN ought to be careful who she
marries," said Mr. Dooley.
"So ought a man," said Yr. Hennessy, with feeling.
"It don't make so much diff'rence about him," said Mr. Dooley. "Whin a man's marrid he'a a marrid man. That's all ye can say about him. Of course, he thinks marriage is goin' to change th' whole current of his bein', as Hogan says. But it doesn't. After he's been hooked up f'r a few months he finds he was marrid befure, even if he wasn't, which is often th' ease, d'ye mind.
Th' first bride iv his bosom was th' Day's Work, an' it can't be put off.
They'se no grounds f'r dissolvin' that marriage, Hinnissy. You can't say to th' Day's Wurruk: 'Here, take this bunch iv alimony an' go on th' stage.' It turns up at breakfast about th' fourth month afther th' weddin' an' creates a scandal.
Th' unforchnit man tries to shoo it off, but it fixes him with its eye an' hauls him away fr'm the bacon an' eggs, while the lady opposite weeps and wonders what he can see in anything so old an' homely. It says, 'Come with me', an' he goes.
An' afthes: that he spends most of his time an' often a good deal of his money with th' enchantress. I tell ye what, Hinnissy, th' Day's Work has broke up more happy homes thin comic opry. If th' courts would allow it, many a woman cud get a divorce on th' groun's that her husband cared more f'r his Day's Work thin he did f'r her.
'Hinnissy varsus Hinnissy; corryspondint, th' Day's Work.' They'd be evidence that th' defendant was seen ridin' in a cab with th' corryspondint, that he took it to a picnic, that he went to th' theatre with it, that he talked about it in his sleep, an' that, lost to all sense of shame, he even escorted it home with him an' introduced it to his virtuous wife an' innocent children. So it don't make much diffrence who a man marries. If he has a job, he's safe.
"But with a woman 'tis diff'rent. Th' man puts down only part of the bet. When he's had enough of the conversation that made him think he was talking with all intellectual joyousness, all he has to do is put on his coat, grab up his dinner pail an' go down to th' stoops, to be happy though married.
But a woman, I tell ye, bets all she has. A man don't have to marry, but a woman does.
Ol' maids an' clergymen do the most good in the world an' we love them for the good they do. But people, especially women, don't want to be loved that way. They want to be loved because people can't help loving them no matter how bad they are.
Th' story books that ye give ye'er daughter all tell her 'tis just as good not to be married. She reads about how kind Dorothy was to Lulu's children an' she knows Dorothy was th' better woman, but she wants to be Lulu. Her heart, an' a cold look in th' eye of the world an' her Ma tell her to hurry up.
Arly in life she looks for the man of her choice in th' tennis records; later she reads the news from the militia encampment; thin she studies the social register; further on she makes herself familiar with Bradsthreets' reports, an' finally she watches the place where life preservers are hangin'. ..
Now, what kind of a man ought a woman to marry? She oughtn't to marry a young man because she'll grow old quicker then he will; she oughtn't to marry an old man because he'll be much older before he's younger; she oughtn't to marry a poor man because he may become rich an' lose her; she oughtn't to marry a rich man because if he becomes poor she can't lose him; she oughtn't to marry a man that knows' more then she does, because he'll never fail to show it, an' she oughtn't to marry a man that knows less because he may never catch up. But above all things she mustn't marry a genius.
A floorwalker, perhaps; a genius never. .. I tell ye this because I've been readin' a book Hogan give me, about the devil's own time a genius had with his family. A cap of industry may have trouble in his fam'ly till there isn't a whole piece of china in the cup¬board, an' no wan will be the wiser f'r it but th' hired girl an' th' doctor that paints th' black eye.
But every body knows what happens in a genius's house. Th' genius always tells the bartender. Besides he has other geniuses callin' on him an' 'tis the business of a genius to write about the domestic troubles of other geniuses so posterity'll know what a hard thing it is to be a genius.
I've been readin' this book of Hogan's, an' as I tell ye, 'tis about th' misery a wretched woman inflicted on a poet's life. " . Our hero,' says th' author, 'at this tJeeryod contracted an unfortunate alliance that was destined to cast a deep gloom over his career. At th' age iv fifty, after a life devoted to the pursuit of such gaiety as geniuses have always found necess'ry to solace their evenings, he married a young an' beautiful girl some thirty-two years his junior.
This wretched creature had no appreciation of literature or literary men. She was frivolous an' light-minded an' evidently considered that nothing was really literature that couldn't be translated into groceries.
Never shall I forget th' expression iv despair on th' face of, this godlike man as he came into Casey's saloon one starry July evenin' an' staggered into his familiar seat, holdin' in his hand a bit of soiled paper which he tore into fragments an' hurled into the coal scuttle. On that crumpled parchment findin' a somber grave among th' disinterred relics iv an age long past, to wit, th' cariboniferious or coal age, was written th' ever-mem'rable poem: "Ode to Gin."
Our frind had scribbled it hastily at th' dinner iv th' Betther-thin¬Shakespeare Club, an' had attimpted to read it to his wife through th' keyhole iv her bed¬room dure an' met no response fr'm th' fillystein but a pitcher iv wather through th' thransom. Forchnitly he had presarved a copy on his cuff an' th' gem was not lost to posterity. But such was th' home life iv wan iv th' gr-reatest iv lithry masters, a man indowed be nachure with all that shud make a woman adore him as is proved be his tindher varses: "To Carrie," "To Maude," "To Flossie," "To Angebel," "To Queenie," an' so foorth.
Napolean Bonapart in his celebrated "Mimores," in which he tells everything unpleasant he see or heerd in his frinds' houses, gives a sthrikin' pitcher iv a scene that hap~ pened befure his eyes.
"Afther a few basins iv absceenthe in th' reev gosh," says he, "Parnassy invited us home to dinner. Sivral iv th' bum 7ivonts was hard to wake up, but fin'lly we arrive at th' handsome cellar where our gr-reat frind. had installed his unworthy fam'ly. Ivrything pinted to th' admirable taste iv th' thrue artist. Th' tub, th' washboard, th' .biler singin' on th' fire, th' neighbor's washin' dancin' on the clothes rack, were all in keepi,,' wit:" 'eh' best ideels iv what a pote's home shud be. Th' wife, a faded but still pretty woman, welcomed us more or less an' with th' aSliistance iv sivral bottles iv paint we had brought with us we was soon launched on a feast iv raison an' a flow iv soul. Unhappily befure th' raypast was con-eluded a mis'rable scene took place. Amid cries iv approval, Parnassy read his mim-rable pome intitled: "I wisht I nivir got marrid." Afther finishin'in a perfect roar of applause, he happened to look up an' see his wife callously rockin' th' baby. With th' impetchosity so charackteristic iv th' man, he broke a soup plate over her head an' burst into tears on th' floor, where gentle sleep soon soothed th' pangs iv a weary heart. We left as quietly as we cud, considherin' th' way th' chairs was placed, an' wanst undher th' stars comminted on th' ir'ny iv fate that condimned so great a man to so milancholy a distiny. "
'This,' says our author, 'was th' daily life iv th' hero for ten years. In what purgatory will that infamous woman suffer if Heaven thinks as much iv geniuses as we think of oursilves. Forchnitly th pote was soon to be marcifully relieved. He left her an' she marrid a boor¬jawce with whom she led a life iv coarse happiness. It is sad to relate that some years afterward th' great pate, havin' called to make a short touch on th' woman f'r whom he had. sacrificed so much, was unfeelingly kicked out iv th' boorjawce's plumbin' shop.'
"So, ye see, Hinnissy, why a woman oughtn't to marry a janius. She can't be cross or peevish or angry or jealous or frivolous or anything else a woman ought to be at times f'r fear it will get into th' ditchn'ry iv bio-graphy, an' she'll go down to history as a termygant. A termygant, Hinnissy, is a woman who's heard talkin' to her husband after they've been married a year. Hogan says all janiuses was unhappily marrid. I guess that's thrue iv their wives, too. He says if ye hear iv a poet who got on with his fam'ly, scratch him fr'm ye'er public lib'ry list. An' there ye ar-re."
"Ye know a. lot about marriage," said Mr. Hennessy
"I do," said Mr. Dooley.
"Ye was never married?"
"No," said Mr. Dooley.
"No, Then I say, give three cheers. I know about marriage th' way an astronomer knows about th' stars. I'm stud yin' it through me glass all th' time."
"Ye're an astronomer," said Mr. Hennessy; "but," he added, tapping himself lightly on the chest, "I'm a star."
"Go home," said Mr. Dooley crossly; "before th' mornin' comes to put ye Gut."
F. P. DUNNE (" Mr. Dooley")
"So ought a man," said Yr. Hennessy, with feeling.
"It don't make so much diff'rence about him," said Mr. Dooley. "Whin a man's marrid he'a a marrid man. That's all ye can say about him. Of course, he thinks marriage is goin' to change th' whole current of his bein', as Hogan says. But it doesn't. After he's been hooked up f'r a few months he finds he was marrid befure, even if he wasn't, which is often th' ease, d'ye mind.
Th' first bride iv his bosom was th' Day's Work, an' it can't be put off.
They'se no grounds f'r dissolvin' that marriage, Hinnissy. You can't say to th' Day's Wurruk: 'Here, take this bunch iv alimony an' go on th' stage.' It turns up at breakfast about th' fourth month afther th' weddin' an' creates a scandal.
Th' unforchnit man tries to shoo it off, but it fixes him with its eye an' hauls him away fr'm the bacon an' eggs, while the lady opposite weeps and wonders what he can see in anything so old an' homely. It says, 'Come with me', an' he goes.
An' afthes: that he spends most of his time an' often a good deal of his money with th' enchantress. I tell ye what, Hinnissy, th' Day's Work has broke up more happy homes thin comic opry. If th' courts would allow it, many a woman cud get a divorce on th' groun's that her husband cared more f'r his Day's Work thin he did f'r her.
'Hinnissy varsus Hinnissy; corryspondint, th' Day's Work.' They'd be evidence that th' defendant was seen ridin' in a cab with th' corryspondint, that he took it to a picnic, that he went to th' theatre with it, that he talked about it in his sleep, an' that, lost to all sense of shame, he even escorted it home with him an' introduced it to his virtuous wife an' innocent children. So it don't make much diffrence who a man marries. If he has a job, he's safe.
"But with a woman 'tis diff'rent. Th' man puts down only part of the bet. When he's had enough of the conversation that made him think he was talking with all intellectual joyousness, all he has to do is put on his coat, grab up his dinner pail an' go down to th' stoops, to be happy though married.
But a woman, I tell ye, bets all she has. A man don't have to marry, but a woman does.
Ol' maids an' clergymen do the most good in the world an' we love them for the good they do. But people, especially women, don't want to be loved that way. They want to be loved because people can't help loving them no matter how bad they are.
Th' story books that ye give ye'er daughter all tell her 'tis just as good not to be married. She reads about how kind Dorothy was to Lulu's children an' she knows Dorothy was th' better woman, but she wants to be Lulu. Her heart, an' a cold look in th' eye of the world an' her Ma tell her to hurry up.
Arly in life she looks for the man of her choice in th' tennis records; later she reads the news from the militia encampment; thin she studies the social register; further on she makes herself familiar with Bradsthreets' reports, an' finally she watches the place where life preservers are hangin'. ..
Now, what kind of a man ought a woman to marry? She oughtn't to marry a young man because she'll grow old quicker then he will; she oughtn't to marry an old man because he'll be much older before he's younger; she oughtn't to marry a poor man because he may become rich an' lose her; she oughtn't to marry a rich man because if he becomes poor she can't lose him; she oughtn't to marry a man that knows' more then she does, because he'll never fail to show it, an' she oughtn't to marry a man that knows less because he may never catch up. But above all things she mustn't marry a genius.
A floorwalker, perhaps; a genius never. .. I tell ye this because I've been readin' a book Hogan give me, about the devil's own time a genius had with his family. A cap of industry may have trouble in his fam'ly till there isn't a whole piece of china in the cup¬board, an' no wan will be the wiser f'r it but th' hired girl an' th' doctor that paints th' black eye.
But every body knows what happens in a genius's house. Th' genius always tells the bartender. Besides he has other geniuses callin' on him an' 'tis the business of a genius to write about the domestic troubles of other geniuses so posterity'll know what a hard thing it is to be a genius.
I've been readin' this book of Hogan's, an' as I tell ye, 'tis about th' misery a wretched woman inflicted on a poet's life. " . Our hero,' says th' author, 'at this tJeeryod contracted an unfortunate alliance that was destined to cast a deep gloom over his career. At th' age iv fifty, after a life devoted to the pursuit of such gaiety as geniuses have always found necess'ry to solace their evenings, he married a young an' beautiful girl some thirty-two years his junior.
This wretched creature had no appreciation of literature or literary men. She was frivolous an' light-minded an' evidently considered that nothing was really literature that couldn't be translated into groceries.
Never shall I forget th' expression iv despair on th' face of, this godlike man as he came into Casey's saloon one starry July evenin' an' staggered into his familiar seat, holdin' in his hand a bit of soiled paper which he tore into fragments an' hurled into the coal scuttle. On that crumpled parchment findin' a somber grave among th' disinterred relics iv an age long past, to wit, th' cariboniferious or coal age, was written th' ever-mem'rable poem: "Ode to Gin."
Our frind had scribbled it hastily at th' dinner iv th' Betther-thin¬Shakespeare Club, an' had attimpted to read it to his wife through th' keyhole iv her bed¬room dure an' met no response fr'm th' fillystein but a pitcher iv wather through th' thransom. Forchnitly he had presarved a copy on his cuff an' th' gem was not lost to posterity. But such was th' home life iv wan iv th' gr-reatest iv lithry masters, a man indowed be nachure with all that shud make a woman adore him as is proved be his tindher varses: "To Carrie," "To Maude," "To Flossie," "To Angebel," "To Queenie," an' so foorth.
Napolean Bonapart in his celebrated "Mimores," in which he tells everything unpleasant he see or heerd in his frinds' houses, gives a sthrikin' pitcher iv a scene that hap~ pened befure his eyes.
"Afther a few basins iv absceenthe in th' reev gosh," says he, "Parnassy invited us home to dinner. Sivral iv th' bum 7ivonts was hard to wake up, but fin'lly we arrive at th' handsome cellar where our gr-reat frind. had installed his unworthy fam'ly. Ivrything pinted to th' admirable taste iv th' thrue artist. Th' tub, th' washboard, th' .biler singin' on th' fire, th' neighbor's washin' dancin' on the clothes rack, were all in keepi,,' wit:" 'eh' best ideels iv what a pote's home shud be. Th' wife, a faded but still pretty woman, welcomed us more or less an' with th' aSliistance iv sivral bottles iv paint we had brought with us we was soon launched on a feast iv raison an' a flow iv soul. Unhappily befure th' raypast was con-eluded a mis'rable scene took place. Amid cries iv approval, Parnassy read his mim-rable pome intitled: "I wisht I nivir got marrid." Afther finishin'in a perfect roar of applause, he happened to look up an' see his wife callously rockin' th' baby. With th' impetchosity so charackteristic iv th' man, he broke a soup plate over her head an' burst into tears on th' floor, where gentle sleep soon soothed th' pangs iv a weary heart. We left as quietly as we cud, considherin' th' way th' chairs was placed, an' wanst undher th' stars comminted on th' ir'ny iv fate that condimned so great a man to so milancholy a distiny. "
'This,' says our author, 'was th' daily life iv th' hero for ten years. In what purgatory will that infamous woman suffer if Heaven thinks as much iv geniuses as we think of oursilves. Forchnitly th pote was soon to be marcifully relieved. He left her an' she marrid a boor¬jawce with whom she led a life iv coarse happiness. It is sad to relate that some years afterward th' great pate, havin' called to make a short touch on th' woman f'r whom he had. sacrificed so much, was unfeelingly kicked out iv th' boorjawce's plumbin' shop.'
"So, ye see, Hinnissy, why a woman oughtn't to marry a janius. She can't be cross or peevish or angry or jealous or frivolous or anything else a woman ought to be at times f'r fear it will get into th' ditchn'ry iv bio-graphy, an' she'll go down to history as a termygant. A termygant, Hinnissy, is a woman who's heard talkin' to her husband after they've been married a year. Hogan says all janiuses was unhappily marrid. I guess that's thrue iv their wives, too. He says if ye hear iv a poet who got on with his fam'ly, scratch him fr'm ye'er public lib'ry list. An' there ye ar-re."
"Ye know a. lot about marriage," said Mr. Hennessy
"I do," said Mr. Dooley.
"Ye was never married?"
"No," said Mr. Dooley.
"No, Then I say, give three cheers. I know about marriage th' way an astronomer knows about th' stars. I'm stud yin' it through me glass all th' time."
"Ye're an astronomer," said Mr. Hennessy; "but," he added, tapping himself lightly on the chest, "I'm a star."
"Go home," said Mr. Dooley crossly; "before th' mornin' comes to put ye Gut."
F. P. DUNNE (" Mr. Dooley")
