“‘Our hayro,’ says th’ author,’ at this peeryod conthracted an unforchnit alliance that was destined to cast a deep gloom over his career.  At th’ age iv fifty, afther a life devoted to th’ pursoot iv such gayety as janiuses have always found niciss’ry to solace their avenin’s, he marrid a young an’ beautiful girl some thirty-two years his junior.  This wretched crather had no appreciation iv lithrachoor or lithry men.  She was frivolous an’ light-minded an’ ividintly considhered that nawthin’ was rally lithrachoor that cudden’t be thranslated into groceries.  Niver shall I f’rget th’ expression iv despair on th’ face iv this godlike man as he came into Casey’s saloon wan starry July avenin’ an’ staggered into his familyar seat, holdin’ in his hand a bit iv soiled paper which he tore into fragmints an’ hurled into th’ coal scuttle.  On that crumpled parchmint findin’ a sombre grave among th’ disinterred relics iv an age long past, to wit, th’ cariboniferious or coal age, was written th’ iver-mim’rable pome:  “Ode to Gin.”  Our frind had scribbled it hastily at th’ dinner iv th’ Betther-thin-Shakespere Club, an’ had attimpted to read it to his wife through th’ keyhole iv her bedroom 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 Angehel,’ ’To Queenie,’ an’ so foorth.  De Bonipoort in his cillybrated ‘Mimores,’ in which he tells ivrything unpleasant he see or heerd in his frinds’ houses, gives a sthrikin’ pitcher iv a scene that happened 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 vivonts was hard to wake up, but fin’lly we arrived 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 keepin’ with th’ 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’ assistance 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-cluded 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’ flure, where gentle sleep soon soothed th’ pangs iv a weary heart.  We left as quitely 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.