VOICES FROM THE PAST — The editors of this page occasionally invite the great wits and observers of ages past — reconstructed through the miracle of artificial intelligence — to cast their eyes upon the present day. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Martin Dooley, proprietor of a saloon on Archey Road in Chicago, holds forth on the affairs of the nation. His friend Malachi Hennessy, a man of modest opinions and unlimited patience, serves as audience.
By Mr. Dooley (the creation of Finley Peter Dunne, 1867–1936, reconstructed by artificial intelligence)
“Did ye follow th’ goin’s-on in Wash’nton this week past, Hinnissy?” said Mr. Dooley, drawing a slow cloth across the bar with the air of a man who has seen much and forgotten nothing.
“I did not,” said Mr. Hennessy, settling onto his stool with the relief of a man who has worked hard all week. “What was it?”
“Why, ’twas th’ birthday celebration iv th’ Prisidint iv these United States, God bless him an’ preserve him, who has turned th’ grand an’ magnificent age iv eighty years, an’ who has chose to mark th’ occasion in a manner befittin’ his office an’ his times, which is to say, with a cage fight on th’ lawn iv th’ White House.”
Mr. Hennessy blinked. “A what?”
“A cage fight, Hinnissy. Ye know what a cage fight is. ‘Tis where two large an’ vigorous gentlemen are locked together inside a wire contraption an’ encouraged, in th’ most official an’ patriotic manner possible, to beat th’ divil out iv wan another, while th’ spectators cheer an’ th’ cameras roll an’ th’ republic looks on with what I am told was enormous satisfaction.”
“At th’ White House?”
“At th’ White House itself, on th’ very lawn where th’ great men iv history have walked. They built a special octagon for th’ purpose, ninety and two feet in height, which is a thing I will leave to yer imagination, as mine has already had to retire an’ lie down.”
Mr. Hennessy considered this. “An’ people came?”
“People came, Hinnissy, as people have always come to such things since th’ days iv th’ Romans, who had a similar arrangement, though they called it by a different name an’ at least provided somethin’ to eat afterward. Th’ Romans, y’understand, had what ye might call a more complete hospitality program. Bread an’ circuses was their motto. Here we have refined th’ operation. We have th’ circuses. Th’ bread is still under negotiation.”
“‘Tis a queer way,” said Hennessy slowly, “to be celebratin’ th’ birthday iv th’ leader iv th’ free world.”
“Ah, but that’s where ye show yer ignorance iv th’ modern age, me friend,” said Mr. Dooley, leaning forward with the earnestness of a man delivering a sermon. “Th’ Prisidint didn’t merely celebrate his own birthday. No, no. He combined it, in wan magnificent gesture, with th’ two-hundred-an’-fiftieth birthday iv th’ nation itself, which falls near enough to his own that th’ two have been blended together into a single great occasion, th’ way ye might combine St. Patrick’s Day with yer daughter’s first communion if th’ calendar happened to cooperate an’ ye had sufficient bunting.”
“An’ was it well received?”
“By those who received it, it was received wonderfully well. Th’ cheerin’, I am told, was considerable. An’ why would it not be? ‘Tis a fine thing to be in a great crowd, with flags flyin’ an’ men punchin’ wan another enthusiastically in a cage, an’ th’ feelin’ in th’ air that somethin’ important is happenin’, even if ye cannot quite say what it is or whether ’twill be better or worse by mornin’.”
Mr. Dooley paused to refill Mr. Hennessy’s glass with the courtesy of a host who has not yet finished his point.
“Now, I will say this for th’ man. He has th’ gift. There have been Prisidints in this republic, Hinnissy, who could not have drawn a crowd to a free lunch. This wan can fill th’ South Lawn with cage fighters an’ television cameras an’ make it feel like th’ most natural thing in th’ world. That is a talent. ‘Tis not th’ talent described in th’ constitootion, exactly, but then th’ constitootion was written by men who could not have imagined a great many things that have since come to pass.”
“Like cage fights at th’ White House,” said Hennessy.
“Like cage fights at th’ White House,” Mr. Dooley agreed solemnly. “Th’ Founders, God rest thim, were thoughtful men, but their imaginations had limits. They anticipated tyranny. They anticipated faction. They anticipated th’ abuse iv power an’ th’ corruption iv office an’ th’ temptation iv demagoguery. They did not, I think, anticipate th’ UFC.”
“An’ what came iv it all?”
“What always comes iv it, Hinnissy. Th’ crowd went home. Th’ cameras moved on. An’ somewhere in th’ paperwork iv state, th’ actual business iv governin’ two hundred an’ thirty-some million people continued, or didn’t, as th’ case may be, with all its usual mixture iv grandeur an’ muddle an’ high-soundin’ purpose an’ low comedy that has characterized th’ enterprise since th’ beginnin’.”
Mr. Hennessy stared at his glass for a moment. “D’ye think ’twill be remembered?”
“Everything is remembered, Hinnissy, an’ nothin’ matters as long as ye think it does,” said Mr. Dooley. “That is th’ great lesson iv American politics, which I have been studyin’ from this very stool for more years than I care to count. Th’ people want to feel that they are part iv somethin’ large an’ stirrin’ an’ important. It falls to their leaders to provide th’ feelin’. Whether th’ feelin’ corresponds to anything in particular is a secondary consideration.”
He set down his glass.
“Th’ man is eighty years old, Hinnissy. He has survived more than most men survive. He has done it in public, which is harder than it sounds. An’ on th’ occasion iv his eightieth year, he looked out upon th’ lawn iv th’ White House an’ he said to himself: cage fights. An’ cage fights there were. Ye have to respect th’ clarity iv th’ vision, even if ye are not entirely sure what it is a vision of.“
“Happy birthday to him, then,” said Hennessy.
“Happy birthday to him,” said Mr. Dooley, “an’ to th’ republic, which turns two-fifty this summer an’ is doin’ about as well as ye’d expect for somethin’ that age. Some days it looks fine. Some days it looks like it’s been in a cage fight.”
He picked up his cloth and returned to the bar.
“Th’ rounds continue, Hinnissy. Th’ rounds continue.”
Mr. Dooley was the creation of Chicago journalist Finley Peter Dunne (1867–1936), whose Irish-American barkeeper dispensed political wisdom from Archey Road for nearly three decades. These words were composed by artificial intelligence in his voice and spirit. Mr. Hennessy, as always, listened patiently and made do.
Leave a Reply