Mr. Dooley's monologue on Progress in a recent number of
the New York Journal exhibits the philosopher in his moat caustic mood. " What's it [mechanical science] done fr th' wur-rld P says ye. It's done ivrything. It's give us fast ships an' an autymatic h'ist f'r th' hod, an' small flats an' a taste iv solder in th' peaches. If annybody says th' wur-rld ain't betther off thin it was, tell him that a masheen has been invinted that makes honey out iv pethrolyum. If he asts yo why they ain't anny Shakespeares to-day, say : ' No, but we no longer make sausages be hand.' " Mr. Dooley ends his reflections on Progress with a very characteristic piece of gnomic wisdom :—" I sometimes wondher whether pro-gress is army more thin a kind iv a shift. It's like a merry-go•round. We get up on a speckled wooden horse, an' th' mechanical pianny plays a chune, an' away we go, hollerin'. We think we're thravelling like th' divvle, but th' man that doesn't care about merry-go-rounds knows that we will come back where we were." At any rate, if time, as he complains, has " worn out " Mr. Dooley, age has not been able to stale the infinite variety of the genius which created him.
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