“What d’ye think iv th’ war?” Mr. Hennessy asked.

“I think I want to go out an’ apologize to Shafter,” said Mr. Dooley.

“I’m like ivrybody else, be hivins, I thought war was like shootin’ glass balls. I niver thought iv th’ glass balls thrainin’ a dinnymite gun on me. ‘Tis a thrait iv us Anglo-Saxons that we look on an inimy as a target. If ye hit him ye get three good see-gars. We’re like people that dhreams iv fights. In me dhreams I niver lost wan fight. A man I niver saw befure comes up an’ says something mane to me, that I can’t raymimber, an’ I climb into him an’ ’tis all over in a minyit. He niver hits me, or if he does I don’t feel it. I put him on his back an’ bate him to death. An’ thin I help mesilf to his watch an’ chain an’ me frinds come down an’ say, ‘Martin, ye haven’t a scratch,’ an’ con-grathlate me, an’ I wandher ar-roun’ th’ sthreets with a chip on me shoulder till I look down an’ see that I haven’t a stitch on me but a short shirt. An’ thin I wake up. Th’ list iv knock-outs to me credit in dhreams wud make Fitzsimmons feel poor. But ne’er a wan iv thim was printed in th’ pa-apers.”

“‘Tis so with me frinds, th’ hands acrost th’ sea. They wint to sleep an’ had a dhream. An’ says they: ‘We will sind down to South Africa thim gallant throops that have won so manny hard-fought reviews,’ they says, ‘captained,’ they says, ‘be th’ flower iv our aristocracy,’ they says. ‘An’ whin th’ Boers come out ar-rmed with rollin’ pins an’ bibles,’ they says, ‘We’ll just go at thim,’ they says, ‘an’ walk through thim an’ that night we’ll have a cotillyon at Pretoria to which all frinds is invited,’ they says. An’ so they deposit their intellects in th’ bank at home, an’ th’ absent-minded beggars goes out in thransports iv pathreetism an’ pothry. An’ they’se a meetin’ iv th’ cabinet an’ ’tis decided that as th’ war will on’y las’ wan week ’twill be well f’r to begin renamin’ th’ cities iv th’ Thransvaal afther pop’lar English statesmen — Joechamberlainville an’ Rhodesdorp an’ Beitfontein. F’r they have put their hands to th’ plough an’ th’ sponge is squeezed dhry, an’ th’ sands iv th’ glass have r-run out an’ th’ account is wiped clean.”

“An’ what’s th’ Boer doin’ all this time? What’s me frind th’ Boer doin’. Not sleepin’, Hinnissy, mind ye. He hasn’t anny dhreams iv conquest. But whin a man with long whiskers comes r-ridin’ up th’ r-road an’ says: ‘Jan Schmidt or Pat O’Toole or whativer his name is, ye’re wanted at th’ front,’ he goes home an’ takes a rifle fr’m th’ wall an’ kisses his wife an’ childher good-bye an’ puts a bible in th’ tails iv his coat an’ a stovepipe hat on his head an’ thramps away. An’ his wife says: ‘Good-bye, Jan. Don’t be long gone an’ don’t get shooted.’ An’ he says: ‘Not while I’ve got a leg undher me an’ a rock in front iv me,’ he says. I tell ye, Hinnissy, ye can’t beat a man that fights f’r his home an’ counthry in a stovepipe hat. He might be timpted f’r to come out fr’m cover f’r his native land, but he knows if he goes home to his wife with his hat mussed she won’t like it, an’ so he sets behind a rock an’ plugs away. If th’ lid is knocked off he’s fatally wounded.”

“What’s th’ raysult, Hinnissy? Th’ British marches up with their bands playin’ an’ their flags flyin’. An’ th’ Boers squat behind a bouldher or a three or set comfortable in th’ bed iv a river an’ bang away. Their on’y thradition is that it’s betther to be a live Boer thin a dead hero, which comes, perhaps, to th’ same thing. They haven’t been taught f’r hundherds iv years that ’tis a miracle f’r to be an officer an’ a disgrace to be a private sojer. They know that if they’re kilt they’ll have their names printed in th’ pa-apers as well as th’ Markess iv Doozleberry that’s had his eyeglass shot out. But they ain’t lookin’ f’r notoriety. All they want is to get home safe, with their counthry free, their honor protected an’ their hats in good ordher. An’ so they hammer away an’ th’ inimy keeps comin’, an’ th’ varyous editions iv th’ London pa-apers printed in this counthry have standin’ a line iv type beginnin’, ‘I regret to state.’”

“All this, Hinnissy, comes fr’m dhreamin’ dhreams. If th’ British had said, ‘This unclean an’ raypeecious people that we’re against is also very tough. Dirty though they be, they’ll fight. Foul though their nature is, they have ca’tridges in their belts. This not bein’ England an’ th’ inimy we have again us not bein’ our frinds, we will f’rget th’ gloryous thraditions iv th’ English an’ Soudan ar-rmies an’ instead iv r-rushin’ on thim sneak along yon kindly fence an’ hit thim on th’ back iv th’ neck,’ — they’d be less, ‘I r-regret-to-states’ and more ‘I’m plazed-to-reports.’ They wud so, an’ I’m a man that’s been through columns an’ columns iv war. Ye’ll find, Hinnissy, that ’tis on’y ar-rmies fights in th’ open. Nations fights behind threes an’ rocks. Ye can put that in ye’re little book. ‘Tis a sayin’ I made as I wint along.”

“We done th’ same way oursilves,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“We did that,” said Mr. Dooley. “We were in a dhream, too. Th’ on’y thing is th’ other fellow was in a thrance. We woke up first. An’ anny-how I’m goin’ to apologize to Shafter. He may not have anny medals f’r standin’ up in range iv th’ guns but, be hivins, he niver dhrove his buckboard into a river occypied be th’ formerly loathed Castile.”

(Mr. Dooley’s Philosophy)

“What ar-re ye readin’?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“A comical little piece in th’ Sunday pa-aper on th’ Descent iv Man,” said Mr. Dooley. “Ye get a good dale iv knowledge out iv th’ pa-apers whin ye’re not lookin’ f’r it, an’ a fellow that’s paid five cents to find out where Gyp th’ Blood spint his vacation, if he doesn’t stop there but goes on r-readin’, is li’ble to end up as an idjacated man.

“Maybe ye’d like me to read ye something out iv this here fable in slang. Well, thin, listen to th’ pro-fissor: ‘Such habits not on’y tended to develop the motor cortex itsilf,’ he says, ‘but thrained th’ tactile an’ th’ kin — th’ kin — I’ll spell it f’r ye — k-i-n-a-e-st-h-e-t-i-c — pronounce anny way ye plaze — senses an’ linked up their cortical areas in bonds iv more intimate assocyations withth’ visyool cortex —’”

“What kind iv a language is that?” Mr. Hennessy interrupted.

“It’s scientific language,” said Mr. Dooley. “I’ve been thryin’ to wurruk it out mesilf with th’ aid iv a ditchnry, but I cudden’t put it together till Dock O’Leary, who’s great at these puzzle pitchers, come in. Fr’m what he said I guess that th’ pro-fissor that wrote it meant to say that th’ raison man is betther thin th’ other animals is because iv what’s in his head. I suspicted as much befure an’ have often said so. But nobody has iver ast me to go befure a larned society an’ have me chest dhraped with medals f’r sayin’ it. I cudden’t fill up me time on th’ program. All I cud say wud be: ‘Fellow pro-fissors, th’ thing that give ye an’, me a shade over th’ squrl an’ th’ grasshopper is that we have more marrow in th’ bean. Thankin’ ye again f’r ye’er kind attintion, I will now lave ye while ye thranslate this almost onfathomable thought into a language that on’y a dhrug clerk can undherstand.’

“Fr’m what Dock O’Leary says, this here profissor has seen Darwin an’ histed him a couple iv billyon years. If ye’d like to hear about it I’ll tell ye. Well, thin, it was this way: Some time befure th’ big fire, whin I was wurrukin’ f’r Mullaney, th’ conthractor, dhrivin’ a team, a fellow be th’ name iv Darwin come along an’ made a monkey iv man. He showed that th’ principal diff’rence between us an’ th’ little frinds iv Italy was that we had lost our tails. We had to lave th’ old entailed estates an’ th’ ancesthral bamboo threes where our fam’ly had spint so many happy millyons iv years an’ come down to earth an’ be men. Our first ancestor had his tail docked, an’, havin’ lost this here member which was at wanst his manes iv rapid thransit an’ his aisy chair, th’ old gintleman cud no longer swing fr’m th’ branch iv th’ three an’ amuse th’ childher be pickin’ things off thim, but had to go to wurruk. In ordher to apply f’r a job he was forced to larn to walk an’ to talk. He manicured his front feet an’ made hands iv thim, an’, so he cud win th’ affections iv th’ fair, he was compelled to shed his comfortable an’ nachral hairy coat an’ buy clothes. Th’ fam’ly all took afther th’ old man an’ improved on him through th’ cinchries, till to-day ye have th’ magnificent jooks ye see all ar-round ye, dhressed up in quare garmints, puttin’ on supeeryor airs, wearin’ crowns, runnin’ f’r office, killin’ each other, dancin’ th’ turkey throt, an’ gin’rally behavin’ so foolish that whin th’ father iv a fam’ly iv monkeys sees a human bein’ comin’ along in th’ woods he calls out: ‘Mother, bring th’ little wans to th’ end iv this branch. Here comes wan iv our poor relations who has to wurruk f’r a livin’. He wud’ve been just as well off as we ar-re if his fam’ly hadn’t squandered their tails. Dhrop a cocynut on his head an’ see him jump. Ain’t he the funny sight?’

“I can well remimber how hot ivrybody was agan Darwin on account iv what he wrote. Nobody had been very proud iv Adam as an ancesthor, but still ye cud put up with him if ye took into account that he was dalin’ with new problems an’ was th’ first married man. But it hurted a good manny proud people to think that but f’r th’ luck iv th’ game they might all be up in Lincoln park makin’ faces through th’ glass at little boys an’ girls. So Darwin was excymunicated fr’m manny a church that he’d niver been in, an’ expelled fr’m th’ Knights iv Pythias, an’ gin’rally threated as he desarved f’r a long time. But afther awhile people begun to take more kindly to th’ idee an’ to say: ‘Well, annyhow, it’s more comfortable to feel that we’re a slight improvement on a monkey thin such a fallin’ off fr’m th’ angels. F’r awhile it looked as though we weren’t holdin’ our own. But now it looks as if we are on our way,’ an’ thought no more about it. An’ th’ monkeys had no access to th’ press, so they cudden’t write in kickin’ letthers signed ‘Indignant Monkey’ or th’ like iv that.

“But this pro-fissor has gone further thin Darwin in pursooin’ our lineege down to its disgraceful start. He has run acrost a lot iv old town records, marredge certyficates, birth registhers, an’ so on an’ has discovered that our original proginitor, th’ boy that give us our push tords respectability, th’ first mimber iv th’ fam’ly that moved uptown, th’ survivor iv th’ Fort Dearborn massacree, th’ pilgrim father that came out iv th’ jungle, th’ foundher iv th’ fam’ly fortune was — what d’ye think? Ye’ll niver guess if I give ye a thousand guesses. It was th’ jumpin’ shrew iv South America. It’s as I tell ye. Here ye see it in black an’ white befure ye’er eyes: ‘Man descinded fr’m th’ jumpin’ shrew.’ Hence our sunny dispositions an’ th’ presint campaign. I niver cud undherstand why if mankind come down fr’m th’ monkey we weren’t more janyal. But now I know. It’s th’ old shrew blood that still coorses through our veins that makes us so cross with each other.

“Yes, sir; this la-ad with th’ aid iv a microscope, a knife, an’ perhaps a dhream book has thraced us back to this inthrestin’ little crather. Prob’ly ye niver see a jumpin’ shrew. Ye wudden’t? There ar-re very few jumpin’ shrews in this neighborhood. But back in th’ old estate in South Africa they ar-re numerous an’ highly respicted. Manny iv th’ mimbers iv th’ original branch iv our fam’ly still live in th’ homes iv our ancistors an’ keep up th’ thraditional customs like th’ old fam’lies iv Boston. This scientific dock gives us a plazin’ pitcher iv their lives. ‘These three shrews,’ says he, ‘ar-re small squrl like animals which feed on insects an’ fruit. Whin feedin’ they often set on their haunches, holdin’ their food, afther th’ manner iv squrls, in their front paws.’ There, Hinnissy, ye have a view iv ye’ersilf as ye were befure th’ flood. Ye’ve often told me ye were descinded fr’m th’ kings iv Ireland, an’ manny is th’ time I’ve wondhered how ye’d look in a soot iv ir’n an’ bull skin, settin’ on a horse, holdin’ on to th’ mane with wan hand an’ to a spear with th’ other. But I injye more th’ thought iv ye still further back, perched on th’ branch iv a three makin’ a light lunch iv a peanut an’ an ant. Some day I’m goin’ to take a stepladdher an’ go to South Africa an’ visit these relations iv ye’ers an’ mine. An’ why not? If a man be the name iv Jones will spind money thryin’ to prove that he’s descinded fr’m a cillibrated holdup man iv th’ same name in th’ reign iv Queen Elizabeth why shudden’t he look up his rilitives, th’ jumpin’ shrews iv South Africa, an’ be took over th’ fam’ly risidence be a caretaker, f’r a shillin’, an’ see where th’ ol’ jook died defindin’ his threasures iv huckleberries an’ weevils against th’ night attack iv th’ ant eater an’ th’ banded armydillo? Tell me why. An’ why, now that this prof has thraced out th’ line, shuden’t we resume th’ fam’ly name? Be rights we’d all be called jumpin’ shrews. There’s a chance f’r a hyphen there that manny a mimber iv th’ stock exchange wud welcome.

“But I don’t think this here prof wint far enough in lookin’ f’r our start. Th’ jumpin’ shrews ar-re all right enough, but what come befure them? Accordin’ to this article it’s har’ly thirty billyon years since this gallant little fellow first hopped up a three. Ar-re we to f’rget our arlier ancestors? What about th’ patient lobster, th’ ca’m eyesther, th’ cheerful jelly fish, an’ back through th’ cinchries th’ first onobtrusive microbe, an’ befure that th’ vigeytables, an’ befure thim th’ mud at th’ bottom iv th’ sea? Rash, upstart jumpin’ shrew, d’ye niver ralize that it’s an own cousin ye’re atin’ fried on th’ beefsteak an’ maybe a shovelful iv th’ original stock ye’re hurlin’ into th’ barrow to give a ride down to th’ dump?

“But don’t feel bad about it. There’s always wan encouragin’ thing about th’ sad scientific facts that comes out ivry week in th’ pa-apers. They’re usually not thrue. I know there niver was a Dooley that lived in a three, because I niver see wan that cud climb a three. An’ annyhow I don’t care. Divvle th’ bit iv attintion I give to a fellow lookin’ at a glass iv wather through an eyeglass an’ guessin’ what happened in South Africa eighty-three billyon years ago. Mind ye, I don’t blame this dock f’r thryin’ to make us all — th’ Dooleys, an’ th’ Honezollerns, an’ th’ Vere de Veres — members iv th’ same fam’ly. His name is Smith. But if he’d f’rget about th’ origin iv th’ race an’ tell us not where man comes fr’m but where he’s goin’ to I’d take an intherpeter aroun’ an’ listen to him.”

“These men ar-re inimies iv religion,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“P’raps,” said Mr. Dooley. “But they’ll niver be dangerous ontil some wan comes along an’ thranslates their lectures into English. An’ I don’t think there’s a chance that cud be done.”

(Mr. Dooley on Making a Will and Other Necessary Evils)

“A prophet, Hinnissy, is a man that foresees throuble. No wan wud listen a minyit to anny prophet that prophesized pleasant days. A successful weather prophet is wan that predicts thunder storms, hurrycanes an’ earthquakes; a good financial prophet is wan that predicts panics; a pollytickal prophet must look into th’ tea leaves an’ see th’ institutions iv th’ wurruld cracked wide open an’ th’ smiling not to say grinnin’, fields iv this counthry iv ours or somebody’s laid waste with fire and soord. Hogan’s that kind iv a prophet. I’m onhappy about to-day but cheerful about to-morrah. Hogan is th’ happyest man in th’ wurruld about to-day but to-morrah something is goin’ to happen. I hate to-day because to-morrah looks so good. He’s happy to-day because it is so pleasant compared with what to-morrah is goin’ to be. Says I: ‘Cheer up; well have a good time at th’ picnic next Saturdah’. Says he: ‘It will rain at th’ picnic.'” (Mr. Dooley Says)

“Did ye iver see a man as proud iv annything as Hogan is iv that kid iv his?” said Mr. Dooley.

“Wait till he’s had iliven,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“Oh, iv coorse,” said Mr. Dooley. “Ye have contimpt f’r an amachoor father that has on’y wan offspring. An ol’ profissyonal parent like ye, that’s practically done nawthin’ all ye’er life but be a father to helpless childher, don’t understand th’ emotions iv th’ author iv a limited edition. But Hogan don’t care. So far as I am able to judge fr’m what he says, his is th’ on’y perfect an’ complete child that has been projooced this cinchry. He looks on you th’ way Hinnery James wud look on Mary Jane Holmes.

“I wint around to see this here projidy th’ other day. Hogan met me at th’ dure. ‘Wipe off ye’er feet” says he ‘Why, says I. ‘Baby,’ says he. “Mickrobes,’ he says. He thin conducted me to a basin iv water, an’ insthructed me to wash me hands in a preparation iv carbolic acid. Whin I was thurly perfumed he inthrajooced me to a toothless ol’ gintleman who was settin’ up in a cradle atin’ his right foot. ‘Ain’t he fine? says Hogan. ‘Wondherful,’ says I. ‘Did ye iver see such an expressyon?” says he. ‘Niver,’ says I, ‘as Hiven is me judge, niver!’ ‘Look at his hair’, he says. ‘I will’, says I. ‘Ain’t his eyes beautiful?’ ‘They ar-re,’ I says. ‘Ar-re they glass or on’y imitation? says I. ‘An’ thim cunning little feet,’ says he. ‘On close inspiction,’ says I, ‘yes, they ar-re. They ar’re feet. Ye’er offspring don’t know it, though. He thinks that wan is a doughnut.’ ‘He’s not as old as he looks,’ says Hogan. ‘He cudden’t be,’ says I. ‘He looks old enough to be a Dimmycratic candydate f’r Vice-Prisidint. Why, he’s lost most iv his teeth,’ I says. ‘Go wan,’ says he; ‘he’s just gettin’ thim. He has two uppers an’ four lowers,’ he says. ‘If he had a few more he’d be a sleepin’-car,’ says I. ‘Does he speak?’ says I. ‘Sure,’ says Hogan ‘Say poppa,’ he says. “Gah”, says young Hogan. ‘Hear that?’ says Hogan; ‘that’s poppa. Say momma,’ says he. “Gah”, says th’ projidy. ‘That’s momma,’ says Hogan. “See, here’s Misther Dooley”, says he. “Blub”, says th’ phenomynon. ‘Look at that,’ says Hogan; ‘he knows ye,’ he says.

“Well, ye know, Hinnissy, wan iv th’ things that has made me popylar in th’ ward is that I make a bluff at adorin’ childher. Between you an’ me, ’d as lave salute a dish-rag as a recent infant, but I always do it. So I put on an allurin’ smile, an’ says I, ‘Well, little ol’ goozy goo, will he give his Dooleyums a kiss?’ At that minyit Hogan seized me be th’ collar an’ dhragged me away fr’m th’ cradle. ‘Wud ye kill me child?’ says he. ‘How?’ says I. ‘With a kiss’, says he. ‘Am I that bad?’ says I. ‘Don’t ye know that there ar-re mickrobes that can be thransmitted to an infant in a kiss?’ says he. ‘Well’, says I, with indignation, ‘I’m not proud iv mesilf as an antiseptic American’, I says, ‘but in an encounther between me an’ that there young cannibal,’ I says, ‘I’ll lave it to th’ board iv health who takes th’ biggest chance,’ I says, an’ we wint out, followed be a howl fr’m th’ projidy. ‘He’s singin’? says Hogan. ‘He has lost his notes,’ says I.

“Whin we got down-stairs Hogan give me a lecture on th’ bringin’ up iv childher. As though I needed it, me that’s been consulted on bringin’ up half th’ childher in Archey Road. ‘In th’ old days,’ says he, ‘childher was brought up catch-as-catch-can,’ he says. ‘But it’s diff’rent now. They’re as carefully watched as a geeranyum in a consarvatory’, he says. ‘I have a book here on th’ subjick,’ he says. ‘Here it is. Th’ first thing that shud be done f’r a child is to deprive it iv its parents. Th’ less th’ infant sees iv poppa an momma th’ betther fr him. If they ar-re so base as to want to look at th’ little darlin’ they shud first be examined be a competent physician to see that there is nawthin’ wrong with thim that they cud give th’ baby. They will thin take a bath iv sulphuric acid, an’ havin’ carefully, attired thimsilves in a sturlized rubber suit, they will approach within eight feet iv th’ objeck iv their ignoble affection an’ lave at wanst. In no case must they kiss, hug, or fondle their projiny. Manny diseases, such as lumbago, pain in th’ chest, premachoor baldness, senile decrepitude, which are privalent among adults, can be communicated to a child fr’m th’ parent. Besides, it is bad f’r th’ moral nature iv th’ infant. Affection f’r its parents is wan iv th’ mos’ dangerous symptoms iv rickets. Th’ parents may not be worthy iv th’ love iv a thurly sturlized child. An infant’s first jooty is to th’ docthor, to whom it owes its bein’ an’ stayin’. Childher ar-re imitative, an’ if they see much iv their parents they may grow up to look like thim. That wud be a great misfortune. If parents see their childher befure they enther Harvard they ar-re f’rbidden to teach thim foolish wurruds like “poppa ” an’ “momma.” At two a properly brought up child shud be able to articulate distinctly th’ wurrud “Docthor Bolt on th’ Care an’ Feedin’ iv Infants,” which is betther thin sayin’ “momma,” an’ more exact.

“’Gr-reat care shud be taken iv th’ infant’s food. Durin’ th’ first two years it shud have nawthin’ but milk. At three a little canary-bur-rd seed can be added. At five an egg ivry other Choosdah. At siven an orange. At twelve th’ child may ate a shredded biscuit. At forty th’ little tot may have stewed prunes. An’ so on. At no time, howiver, shud th’ child be stuffed with greengages, pork an’ beans, onions, Boston baked brown-bread, saleratus biscuit, or other food.

“’It’s wondherful’, says Hogan, ‘how they’ve got it rayjooced to a science. They can almost make a short baby long or a blond baby black be addin’ to or rayjoocin’ th’ amount iv protides an’ casens in th’ milk,’ he says. ‘Haven’t ye iver kissed ye’er young?’ says I. ‘Wanst in awhile,’ he says, ‘whin I’m thurly disinfected I go up an’ blow a kiss at him through th’ window,’ he says.

“’Well,’ says I, ‘it may be all right,’ I says, ‘but if I cud have a son an’ heir without causin’ talk I bet ye I’d not apply f’r a permit fr’m th’ health boord fr him an’ me to come together. Parents was made befure childher, annyhow, an’ they have a prire claim to be considhered. Sure, it may be a good thing to bring thim up on a sanitary plan, but it seems to me they got along all right in th’ ol’ days whin number two had just larned to fall down-stairs at th’ time number three entered th’ wurruld. Maybe they were sthronger thin they ar-re now. Th’ docthor niver pretinded to see whether th’ milk was properly biled. He cudden’t very well. Th’ childher was allowed to set up at th’ table an’ have a good cup iv tay an’ a pickle at two. If there was more thin enough to go around, they got what nobody else wanted. They got plenty iv fresh air playin’ in alleys an’ vacant lots, an’ ivry wanst in a while they were allowed to go down an’ fall into th’ river. No attintion was paid to their dite. Th’ prisint race iv heroes who are now startlin’ th’ wurrould in finance, polytics, th’ arts an’ sciences, burglary, an’ lithrachoor, was brought up on wathermillon rinds, specked apples, raw onions stolen fr’m th’ grocer, an’ cocoa-nut-pie. Their nursery was th’ back yard. They larned to walk as soon as they were able, an’ if they got bow-legged ivrybody said they wud be sthrong men. As f’r annybody previntin’ a fond parent fr’m comin’ home Saturdah night an’ wallowin’ in his beaucheous child, th’ docthor that suggisted it wud have to move. No, sir,’ says I, ‘get as much amusemint as ye can out iv ye’er infant,’ says I. ‘Teach him to love ye now,’ I says, ‘before he knows. Afther a while he’ll get onto ye an’ it ll be too late?’”

“Ye know a lot about it,” said Mr. Hennessy.

“I do,” said Mr. Dooley, “Not bein’ an author, I’m a gr-reat critic.”

(Dissertations by Mr. Dooley)

“No one can approach to an understanding of the English institutions, or of others, which, being the growth of many centuries, exercise a wide sway over mixed populations, unless he divide them into two classes. In such constitutions there are two parts (not indeed separable with microscopic accuracy, for the genius of great affairs abhors nicety of division): first, those which excite and preserve the reverence of the population — the dignified parts, if I may so call them; and next, the efficient parts — those by which it, in fact, works and rules. There are two great objects which every constitution must attain to be successful, which every old and celebrated one must have wonderfully achieved: every constitution must first gain authority, and then use authority; it must first win the loyalty and confidence of mankind, and then employ that homage in the work of government.” (Walter Bagehot, The English Constitution)

“An’ there ye ar-re. Th’ times has changed, an’ th’ kings lives in th’ sthreet with th’ rest iv us. It ‘ll be th’ death iv thim. No wan respects annybody they know. To be a king an’ get away with it, a man must keep out iv sight. Th’ minyit people know that a king talks like other people, that he has th’ same kind iv aches that we have, that his head is bald, that his back teeth are filled, that he dhrinks too much, that him an’ his wife don’t get along, an’ that whin they quarrel they don’t make a reg’lar declaration iv war, but jaw at each other like Mullarky an’ his spouse, their subjicks say: ‘Why, this here fellow is no betther thin th’ rest iv us. How comes he to have so good a job? Down with him?’ An’ down he comes.” (Dissertations by Mr. Dooley)

“Over forty years ago, a colleague and I drew up a plan by which his department, which was English and Comparative Literature, and mine, which was History would encourage Ph.D. candidates to offer as their dissertation the edition of an important work that was out of print, or in print but in need of editing. The plan was coupled with a proposal to the university press for the publication of these books, some possibly in paperback for class use. We were turned down, of course, on all sides, with indulgent smiles at our youthful idiocy. And being young, we gave up. We should have kept at it. The press came to favor the idea, but by then my colleague had retired, and I, being chief academic officer of the university, had no right to entertain or push ideas for academic use.” (Jacques Barzun, The Bibliophile of the Future, 1976)

“Who can behold the fanatical animation of Homenas, as he apostrophizes the sacred decretals, without being aware of the essential temperament that comes out in the hundred-and-one manifestations of philosophical absolutism that are forever rife among us?”

‘When, ha! when [cries Homenas] shall this special gift of grace be bestowed on mankind, as to lay aside all other studies and concerns, to use you, to peruse you, to understand you, to know you by heart, to practice you, to incorporate you, to turn you into blood and incentre you into the deepest ventricles of their brains, the inmost marrow of their bones, the most intricate labyrinth of their arteries? Then, ha! then, and no sooner than then, nor otherwise than thus, shall the world be happy… Then, ha! then, no hail, frost, ice, snow, overflowing, or vis major; then, plenty of all earthly goods here below. Then, uninterrupted and eternal peace through the universe, an end of all wars, plunderings, drudgeries, robbing, assassinates (unless it be to destroy those cursed rebels, the heretics). Oh then, rejoicing, cheerfulness, jollity, solace, sports and delicious pleasures, over the face of the earth. Oh, what great learning, inestimable erudition and godlike precepts are knit, linked, rivetted and morticed in the divine chapters of these eternal decretals! Oh how wonderfully, if you read but one demi-canon, short paragraph, or single observation of these sacrosanct decretals — how wonderfully, I say, do you not perceive to kindle in your heart a furnace of divine love, charity towards your neighbour (provided he be no heretic), bold contempt of all casual and sublunary things, firm content in all your affections, and ecstatic elevation of soul even to the third heaven!’

“Might this not be the doctrinaire Marxian speaking, with a volume of Das Kapital in his hand; might it not be the doctrinaire free-trader, protectionist, prohibitionist, single-taxer; might it not be Mr. Henry Ford or Mr. Hoover, apostrophizing the doctrine of mass-production, and holding aloft the blue-prints and specifications of a completely industrialized society? ‘Then, ha! then, and no sooner than then, nor otherwise than thus, shall the world be happy’ — those words invariably recall us to ourselves, they bear us instantly across the field of every ephemeral, petty, and importunate absolutism, and give us a reviving vision of the victorious stretch of humanity that lies beyond it in an immeasurable future.” (Albert Jay Nock and C. R. Wilson, Francis Rabelais: The Man and His work, 1929)

“Speaking generally, American university-trustees and presidents regard buildings, endowments and student-population as the important thing, while on the Continent the professors are regarded as the important thing. A visiting German pundit the other day remarked this difference rather naively. ‘When Germans come to America’, he said, ‘you show them all over your buildings. When Americans visit our institutions, we introduce them to our professors’. We talked this over for quite a while, and decided that the Continental authorities had the common-sense view. After all, you can teach in a tent or a barn to as good purpose as in a palace, if you have the right kind of student-material and are the right kind of teacher; and failing these conditions, a palace is no help — you and your students are all dressed up, with nowhere to go, and hence nothing happens. Trustees and presidents who have a good eye for buildings, moreover, have a notoriously poor eye for men, and the Continental is right in seeing that men are all that count, for education is something that is communicated only by contagion, like measles. If you wish to catch measles, you have to go where measles is, maybe in a palace, maybe in a hovel, no matter — you’ll get it. But if there is nobody around who has measles, you won’t get it, palace or no palace, hovel or no hovel.” (Albert Jay Nock, A Journey into Rabelais’s France, 1934)

Available at: https://iwpbooks.me/books.

• Rabelais: The Man and His Work, 1929
• The Theory of Education in the United States, 1932
• A Journey Into Rabelais’s France, 1934
• A Journal of These Days, 1934
• Free Speech and Plain Language, 1937
• Henry George: An Essay, 1939
• Memoirs of a Superfluous Man, 1943
• Journal of Forgotten Days, 1948
• Letters from Albert Jay Nock, 1949

“7 December — Considered as a process, culture consists in an intensive learning and an intensive forgetting. Thus when a smart little Jewish boy from the East Side, or an alfalfa-fed girl from the great open spaces, comes to the college or university in search of culture, one should say, ‘Youngster, it is an affair of many years, many things, and much labour. You must learn much, and forget much, and the forgetting is as important as the learning’. Considered as a possession, culture might be described as the residuum left by a diligently forgotten learning. For example, someone tells you that Plato said so-and-so. You say, ‘I think not. What I have read of Plato and forgotten, and also of a great many other authors, likewise forgotten, has left the residual impression that Plato was extremely unlikely to have said anything of the kind’. Then you look it up, and find that you are right. But what would our modern schools think of a person who had this notion of culture? Oxford expresses somewhat this notion in a practical way, or did once express it, and therein largely lay the greatness of Oxford. I could never reconcile myself to the idea that the scientific school had any proper place in a university. A university implies faculties, and the function of a faculty is not the dissemination of useful knowledge, but the curatorship of useless knowledge; the kind of knowledge that, properly acquired and properly forgotten, leaves the residuum of culture. I have even had doubts about the position of the Faculty of Medicine in the traditional four faculties. I can see how it came to be included, and why in a sense it should be included still. Formerly it did not do much with the science of medicine, but mostly with its history and literature; and this was all very good, quite what a Faculty of Medicine should be doing now. For example, the Faculty of Medicine at Johns Hopkins ought not to be dealing out useful knowledge to medical students. Let a medical school do that. It ought to be winnowing and conserving the vast body of useless knowledge that has grown up around the profession. In short, it ought not to be making practitioners; it ought to be making practitioners like Pancoast and William Osler. Similarly, the Faculty of Law ought not to aim at turning out lawyers, but at turning out lawyers like Coleridge, Lord Penzance, or James Coolidge Carter. That seems to have been the more or less conscious aim of the medieval faculty; at least, its curriculum tended that way. Let us have all the science there is, let us have all the useful knowledge there is, but let us have them from the scientific schools, and leave the colleges and the universities free to employ themselves upon the enormous resources of useless knowledge, which are of such incalculable value, and are now so completely neglected that one could make out a pretty good case for the thesis that the world is perishing of inattention to the discipline of useless knowledge.” (Albert Jay Nock, A Journal of These Days, 1934)