ld heart, citizen? says
he.
-- Never better, a chara, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?
And with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck
and, by Jesus, he near throttled him.
The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was
that of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired
freely freckled shaggybearded wide-mouthed largenosed longheaded deepvoiced
barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmed hero. From
shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and his rocklike mountainous
knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of his body wherever visible,
with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair in hue and toughness similar to
the mountain gorse (Ulex Europeus). The widewinged nostrils, from which
bristles of the same tawny hue projected, were of such capaciousness that
within their cavernous obscurity the field-lark might easily have lodged her
nest. The eyes in which a tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery were
of the dimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful current of warm
breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth
while in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his
formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the
lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble.
He wore a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching to
the knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by a girdle of
plaited straw and rushes. Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly
stitched with gut. His nether extremities were encased in high Balbriggan
buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feet being shod with brogues of salted
cowhide laced with the windpipe of the same beast. From his girdle hung a
row of seastones which dangled at every movement of his portentous frame and
on these were graven with rude yet striking art the tribal images of many
Irish heroes and heroines of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles,
Niall of nine hostages, Brian of Kincora, the Ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh,
Shane O'Neill, Father John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red Hugh
O'Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan O'Growney, Michael Dwyer,
Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M'Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas
Conneff, Peg Woffington, the Village Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain
Boycott, Dante Alighieri, Christopher Columbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan,
Marshal Mac-Mahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe Tone, the Mother of the
Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of Castille, the Man for
Galway, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man in the Gap, The
Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan,
Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton,
William Tell, Michelangelo, Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter
the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian
Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and
Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold Soldier
Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn,
Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth,
Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker,
Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of
Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle,
Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. A
couched spear of acuminated granite rested by him while at his feet reposed
a savage animal of the canine tribe whose stertorous gasps announced that he
was sunk in uneasy slumber, a supposition confirmed by hoarse growls and
spasmodic movements which his master repressed from time to time by
tranquillising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of paleolithic
stone.
So anyhow Terry brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob the
sight nearly left my eyes when I saw him land out a quid. O, as true as I'm
telling you. A goodlooking sovereign.
-- And there's more where that came from, says he.
-- Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I.
-- Sweat of my brow, says Joe. 'Twas the prudent member gave me the
wheeze.
-- I saw him before I met you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and
Greek street with his cod's eye counting up all the guts of the fish.
Who comes through Michan's land, bedight in sable armour? O'Bloom, the
son of Rory: it is he. Impervious to fear is Rory's son: he of the prudent
soul.
-- For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen, the
subsidised organ. The pledgebound party on the floor of the house. And look
at this blasted rag, says he. Look at this, says he. The Irish Independent,
if you please, founded by Parnell to be the workingman's friend. Listen to
the births and deaths in the Irish all for Ireland Independent and I'll
thank you and the marriages.
And he starts reading them out:
-- Gordon, Barnfield Crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne's
on Sea, the wife of William T. Redmayne, of a son. How's that, eh? Wright
and Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the late
George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham Road, Stockwell, Playwood and Ridsdale at
Saint Jude's Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest, Dean of Worcester,
eh? Deaths. Bristow, at Whitehall lane, London: Carr, Stoke Newington, of
gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the Moat house, Chepstow.
-- I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience.
-- Cockburn. Dimsey, wife of Davie Dimsey, late of the admiralty:
Miller, Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning Street,
Liverpool, Isabella Helen. How's that for a national press, eh, my brown
son? How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber?
-- Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose. Thanks be to God they
had the start of us. Drink that, citizen.
-- I will, says he, honourable person.
-- Health, Joe, says I. And all down the form.
Ah! Owl! Don't be talking! I was blue mouldy for the want of that pint.
Declare to God I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click.
And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came
swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, a comely youth, and behind him
there passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing the sacred
scrolls of law, and with him his lady wife, a dame of peerless lineage,
fairest of her race.
Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney's
snug, squeezed up with the laughing, and who was sitting up there in the
corner that I hadn't seen snoring drunk, blind to the world, only Bob Doran.
I didn't know what was up and Alf kept making signs out of the door. And
begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen in his bath
slippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxter and the wife
hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman trotting like a poodle. I
thought Alf would split.
-- Look at him, says he. Breen. He's traipsing all round Dublin with a
postcard someone sent him with u. p.: up on it to take a li...
And he doubled up.
-- Take a what? says I.
-- Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.
-- O hell! says I.
The bloody mongrel began to growl that'd put the fear of God in you
seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.
-- Bi i dho husht, says he.
-- Who? says Joe.
-- Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry Menton's and then he went
round to Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round
to the subsheriff's for a lark. O God, I've a pain laughing. U. p.: up. The
long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloody old
lunatic is gone round to Green Street to look for a G. man.
-- When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.
Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan?
-- Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a
pony. That bloody old fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen long
John's eye. U. p...
And he started laughing.
-- Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that Bergan?
-- Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.
Terence O'Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup full
of the foaming ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and
Bungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as the sons of
deathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and mass
and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour juices and
bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day from their
toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.
Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner born,
that nectarous beverage and you offered the crystal cup to him that
thirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals.
But he, the young chief of the O'Bergan's, could ill brook to be
outdone in generous deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture a testoon
of costliest bronze. Thereon embossed in excellent smithwork was seen the
image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house of Brunswick, Victoria
her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of God of the United Kingdom
of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British dominions beyond the sea,
queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even she, who bore rule, a
victress over many peoples, the well-beloved, for they knew and loved her
from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof, the pale, the dark,
the ruddy and the ethiop.
-- What's that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up
and down outside?
-- What's that? says Joe.
-- Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about
hanging. I'll show you something you never saw. Hangmen's letters. Look at
here.
So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his
pocket.
-- Are you codding? says I.
-- Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.
So Joe took up the letters.
-- Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran.
So I saw there was going to be bit of a dust. Bob's a queer chap when
the porter's up in him so says I just to make talk:
-- How's Willy Murray those times, Alf?
-- I don't know, says Alf. I saw him just now in Capel Street with
Paddy Dignam. Only I was running after that.
-- You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?
-- With Dignam, says Alf.
-- Is it Paddy? says Joe.
-- Yes, says Alf. Why?
-- Don't you know he's dead? says Joe.
-- Paddy Dignam dead? says Alf.
-- Ay, says Joe.
-- Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain
as a pikestaff.
-- Who's dead? says Bob Doran.
-- You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm.
-- What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five... What?... and Willie Murray
with him, the two of them there near what-doyoucallhim's... What? Dignam
dead?
-- What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who's talking about... ?
-- Dead! says Alf. He is no more dead than you are.
-- Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this
morning anyhow.
-- Paddy? says Alf.
-- Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him.
-- Good Christ! says Alf.
Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.
In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer by
tantras had been directed to the proper quarter a faint but increasing
luminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition of the
etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge of jivic
rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication was effected through
the pituitary body and also by means of the orangefiery and scarlet rays
emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus. Questioned by his
earthname as to his whereabouts in the heaven-world he stated that he was
now on the path of pralaya or return but was still submitted to trial at the
hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the lower astral levels. In reply
to a question as to his first sensations in the great divide beyond he
stated that previously he had seen as in a glass darkly but that those who
had passed over had summit possibilities of atmic development opened up to
them. Interrogated as to whether life there resembled our experience in the
flesh he stated that he had heard from more favoured beings now in the
spirit that their abodes were equipped with every modern home comfort such
as talafana, alavatar, hatakalda, wataklasat and that the highest adepts
were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very purest nature. Having requested
a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief. Asked
if he had any message for the living he exhorted all who were still at the
wrong side of Maya to acknowledge the true path for it was reported in
devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were out for mischief on the eastern
angle where the ram has power. It was then queried whether there were any
special desires on the part of the defunct and the reply was: We greet you,
friends of earth, who are still in the body. Mind C.K. doesn't pile it on.
It was ascertained that the reference was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, manager
of Messrs H.J. O'Neill's popular funeral establishment, a personal friend of
the defunct, who had been responsible for the carrying out of the interment
arrangements. Before departing he requested that it should be told to his
dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for was at
present under the commode in the return room and that the pair should be
sent to Cullen's to be soled only as the heels were still good. He stated
that this had greatly perturbed his peace of mind in the other region and
earnestly requested that his desire should be made known.
Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was
intimated that this had given satisfaction.
He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was
his foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with your
wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.
-- There he is again, says the citizen, staring out.
-- Who? says I.
-- Bloom, says he. He's on point duty up and down there for the last
ten minutes.
And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.
Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.
-- Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.
And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest
blackguard in Dublin when he's under the influence:
-- Who said Christ is good?
-- I beg your parsnips, says Alf.
-- Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little
Willy Dignam?
-- Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He's over all his
troubles.
But Bob Doran shouts out of him.
-- He's a bloody ruffian I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.
Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn't
want that kind of talk in a respectable licensed premises. And Bob Doran
starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you're there.
-- The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character.
The tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat.
Fitter for him to go home to the little sleepwalking bitch he married,
Mooney, the bumbailiff's daughter. Mother kept a kip in Hardwicke street
that used to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told me that was
stopping there at two in the morning without a stitch on her, exposing her
person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.
-- The noblest, the truest, says he. And he's gone, poor little Willy,
poor little Paddy Dignam.
And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that
beam of heaven.
Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round
the door.
-- Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says the citizen.
So Bloom slopes in with his cod's eye on the dog and he asks Terry was
Martin Cunningham there.
-- O, Christ M'Keown, says Joe, reading one of the letters. Listen to
this, will you?
And he starts reading out one.
7, Hunter Street, Liverpool.
To the High Sheriff of Dublin, Dublin.
Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the above-mentioned painful
case i hanged Joe Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 of February 1900 and i
hanged...
-- Show us, Joe, says I.
-- ... private Arthur Chace for fowl murder of Jessie Tilsit in
Pentonville prison and i was assistant when...
-- Jesus, says I.
-- ... Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith...
The citizen made a grab at the letter.
-- Hold hard, says Joe, i have a special nack of putting the noose once
in he can't get out hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir' my teas is
five ginnese.
H. Rumbold,
Master Barber.
-- And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen.
-- And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. Here, says he, take
them to hell out of my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, says he, what will you
have?
So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and
couldn't and excuse him no offence and all to that and then he said well
he'd just take a cigar. Gob, he's a prudent member and no mistake.
-- Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.
And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a mourning card with
a black border round it.
-- They're all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hang
their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.
And he was telling us there's two fellows waiting below to pull his
heels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then they chop
up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob a skull.
In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Their
deadly coil they grasp: yea, and therein they lead to Erebus whatsoever
wight hath done a deed of blood for I will on nowise suffer it even so saith
the Lord.
So they started talking about capital punishment and of course Bloom
comes out with the why and the wherefore and all the codology of the
business and the old dog smelling him all the time I'm told those Jewies
does have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs about I don't
know what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on.
-- There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, says Alf.
-- What's that? says Joe.
-- The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf.
-- That so? says Joe.
-- God's truth, says Alf. I heard that from the head warder that was in
Kilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. He told me when they
cut him down after the drop it was standing up in their faces like a poker.
-- Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe, as someone said.
-- That can be explained by science, says Bloom. It's only a natural
phenomenon, don't you see, because on account of the...
And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science
and this phenomenon and the other phenomenon.
The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered
medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the
cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would,
according to the best approved traditions of medical science, be calculated
to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus of
the nerve centres, causing the pores of the cobra cavernosa to rapidly
dilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to
that part of the human anatomy known as the penis or male organ resulting in
the phenomenon which has been dominated by the faculty a morbid upwards and
outwards philoprogenitive erection in articulo mortis per diminutionem
capitis.
So of course the citizen was only waiting for the wink of the word and
he starts gassing out of him about the invincibles and the old guard and the
men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe with him
about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported for the cause
by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, that and the other.
Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a new dog so he ought.
Mangy ravenous brute sniffling and sneezing all round the place and
scratching his scabs and round he goes to Bob Doran that was standing Alf a
half one sucking up for what he could get. So of course Bob Doran starts
doing the bloody fool with him:
-- Give us the paw! Give the paw, doggy! Good old doggy. Give us the
paw here! Give us the paw!
Arrah! bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him from
tumbling off the bloody stool atop of the bloody old dog and he talking all
kinds of drivel about training by kindness and thoroughbred dog and
intelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. Then he starts scraping a few bits
of old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacob's tin he told Terry to bring.
Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging out of him a
yard long for more. Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody mongrel.
And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the
brothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet and
die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara Curran and she's far
from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedown cigar putting on
swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon! The fat heap he married is a nice old
phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley. Time they were stopping up
in the City Arms Pisser Burke told me there was an old one there with a
cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom trying to get the soft side of
her doing the mollycoddle playing bØzique to come in for a bit of the wampum
in her will and not eating meat of a Friday because the old one was always
thumping her craw and taking the lout out for a walk. And one time he led
him the rounds of Dublin and, by the holy farmer, he never cried crack till
he brought him home as drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach
him the evils of alcohol and by herrings if the three women didn't near
roast him it's a queer story, the old one, Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that
kept the hotel. Jesus, I had to laugh at Pisser Burke taking them off
chewing the fat and Bloom with his but don't you see? and but on the other
hand. And sure, more be token, the lout I'm told was in Power's after, the
blender's, round in Cope street going home footless in a cab five times in
the week after drinking his way through all the samples in the bloody
establishment. Phenomenon!
-- The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and
glaring at Bloom.
-- Ay, ay, says Joe.
-- You don't grasp my point, says Bloom. What I mean is...
-- Sinn Fein! says the citizen. Sinn fein amhain! The friends we love
are by our side and the foes we hate before us.
The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries far
and near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around the
gloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drums
punctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafening claps
of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the ghastly
scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its supernatural pomp
to the already gruesome spectacle. A torrential rain poured down from the
floodgates of the angry heavens upon the bared heads of the assembled
multitude which numbered at the lowest computation five hundred thousand
persons. A posse of Dublin Metropolitan police superintended by the Chief
Commissioner in person maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York
Street brass and reed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably
rendering on their black draped instruments the matchless melody endeared to
us from the cradle by Speranza's plaintive muse. Special quick excursion
trains and upholstered charabancs had been provided for the comfort of our
country cousins of whom there were large contingents. Considerable amusement
was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who
sang The Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking
fashion. Our two inimitable drolls did a roaring trade with their
broadsheets among lovers of the comedy element and nobody who has a corner
in his heart for real Irish fun without vulgarity will grudge them their
hardearned pennies. The children of the Male and Female Foundling Hospital
who thronged the windows overlooking the scene were delighted with this
unexpected addition to the day's entertainment and a word of praise is due
to the Little Sisters of the Poor for their excellent idea of affording the
poor fatherless and motherless children a genuinely instructive treat. The
viceregal houseparty which included many wellknown ladies was chaperoned by
Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grand stand while
the picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends of the Emerald Isle
was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite. The delegation, present in
full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone (the
semi-paralysed doyen of the party who had to be assisted to his seat by the
aid of a powerful steam crane), Monsieur Pierrepaul PetitØpatant, the
Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von
Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Virdga KisÐszony PutrÐpesthi, Hiram
Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos. Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum
Effendi, Seïor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pecadillo y Palabras y Paternoster de
la Malora de la Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung Chang, Olaf
Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond
Prhklstr Kratchinabritchisitch, Herr Hurhausdirektorprasident Hans
Chuechli-Steuerli, Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanato
riumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocentgeneralhistoryspecialprofessordoctor
Kriegfried Ueberallgemein. All the delegates without exception expressed
themselves in the strongest possible heterogeneous terms concerning the
nameless barbarity which they had been called upon to witness. An animated
altercation (in which all took part) ensued among F.O.T.E.I. as to whether
the eighth or the ninth of March was the correct date of the birth of
Ireland's patron saint. In the course of the argument cannonballs,
scimitars, boomerangs, blunderbusses, stinkpots, meatchoppers, umbrellas,
catapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of pig iron were resorted to and
blows were freely exchanged. The baby policeman, Constable MacFadden,
summoned by special courier from Booterstown, quickly restored order and
with lightning promptitude proposed the seventeenth of the month as a
solution equally honourable for both contending parties. The readywitted
ninefooter's suggestion at once appealed to all and was unanimously
accepted. Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the
F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding profusely. Commendatore
Beninobenone having been extricated from underneath the presidential
armchair, It was explained by his legal adviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the
various articles secreted in his thirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by
him during the affray from the pockets of his Junior colleagues in the hope
of bringing them to their senses. The objects (which included several
hundred ladies' and gentlemen's gold and silver watches) were promptly
restored to their rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.
Quietly, unassumingly, Rumbold stepped on to the scaffold in faultless
morning dress and wearing his favourite flower the Gladiolus Cruentus. He
announced his presence by that gentle Rumboldian cough which so many have
tried (unsuccessfully) to imitate - short, painstaking yet withal so
characteristic of the man. The arrival of the world-renowned headsman was
greeted by a roar of acclamation from the huge concourse, the viceregal
ladies waving their handkerchiefs in their excitement while the even more
excitable foreign delegates cheered vociferously in a medley of cries, hoch,
banzai, eljen, zivio, chinchin, polla kronia, hiphip, vive, Allah, amid
which the ringing evviva of the delegate of the land of song (a high double
F recalling those piercingly lovely notes with which the eunuch Catalani
beglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers) was easily distinguishable. It was
exactly seventeen o'clock. The signal for prayer was then promptly given by
megaphone and in an instant all heads were bared, the commendatore's
patriarchal sombrero, which has been in the possession of his family since
the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by his medical adviser in
attendance, Dr Pippi. The learned prelate who administered the last comforts
of holy religion to the hero martyr when about to pay the death penalty
knelt in a most christian spirit in a pool of rainwater, his cassock above
his hoary head, and offered up to the throne of grace fervent prayers of
supplication. Hard by the block stood the grim figure of the executioner,
his visage being concealed in a tengallon pot with two circular perforated
apertures through which his eyes glowered furiously. As he awaited the fatal
signal he tested the edge of his horrible weapon by honing it upon his
brawny forearm or decapitated in rapid succession a flock of sheep which had
been provided by the admirers of his fell but necessary office. On a
handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the quartering knife,
the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances (specially supplied by
the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round and Sons, Sheffield), a
terracotta saucepan for the reception of the duodenum, colon, blind
intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted and two commodious
milkjugs destined to receive the most precious blood of the most precious
victim. The housesteward of the amalgamated cats' and dogs' home was in
attendance to convey these vessels when replenished to that beneficent
institution. Quite an excellent repast consisting of rashers and eggs, fried
steak and onions, done to a nicety, delicious hot breakfast rolls and
invigorating tea had been considerately provided by the authorities for the
consumption of the central figure of the tragedy who was in capital spirits
when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in the proceedings
from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare in these our times,
rose nobly to the occasion and expressed the dying wish (immediately acceded
to) that the meal should be divided in aliquot parts among the members of
the sick and indigent roomkeeper's association as a token of his regard and
esteem. The nec and non plus ultra of emotion were reached when the blushing
bride elect burst her way through the serried ranks of the bystanders and
flung herself upon the muscular bosom of him who was about to be launched
into eternity for her sake. The hero folded her willowy form in a loving
embrace murmuring fondly Sheila, my own. Encouraged by this use of her
christian name she kissed passionately all the various suitable areas of his
person which the decencies of prison garb permitted her ardour to reach. She
swore to him as they mingled the salt streams of their tears that she would
cherish his memory, that she would never forget her hero boy who went to his
death with a song on his lips as if he were but going to a hurling match in
Clonturk park. She brought back to his recollection the happy days of
blissful childhood together on the banks of Anna Liffey when they had
indulged in the innocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the
dreadful present, they both laughed heartily, all the spectators, including
the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment. That monster
audience simply rocked with delight. But anon they were overcome with grief
and clasped their hands for the last time. A fresh torrent of tears burst
from their lachrymal ducts and the vast concourse of people, touched to the
inmost core, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least affected being the
aged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of the peace and genial
giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of their
handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was not a dry eye in that
record assemblage. A most romantic incident occurred when a handsome young
Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex, stepped
forward and, presenting his visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree,
solicited the hand of the hapless young lady, requesting her to name the
day, and was accepted on the spot. Every lady in the audience was presented
with a tasteful souvenir of the occasion in the shape of a skull and
crossbones brooch, a timely and generous act which evoked a fresh outburst
of emotion: and when the gallant young Oxonian (the bearer, by the way, of
one of the most timehonoured names in Albion's history) placed on the finger
of his blushing fiancØe an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in
the form of a fourleaved shamrock excitement knew no bounds. Nay, even the
stern provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan
Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had blown a considerable
number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not now
restrain his natural emotion. With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a
furtive tear and was overheard by those privileged burghers who happened to
be in his immediate entourage to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone:
-- God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Blimey
it makes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does, when I sees her cause I
thinks of my old mashtub what's waiting for me down Limehouse way.
So then the citizens begin talking about the Irish language and the
corporation meeting and all to that and the shoneens that can't speak their
own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for a quid and
Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that he cadged off Joe
and talking about the Gaelic league and the antitreating league and drink,
the curse of Ireland. Antitreating is about the size of it. Gob, he'd let
you pour all manner of drink down his throat till the Lord would call him
before you'd ever see the froth of his pint. And one night I went in with a
fellow into one of their musical evenings, song and dance about she could
get up on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay, and there was a fellow
with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish and a lot
of colleen bawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals
and oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolagh
entertainment, don't be talking. Ireland sober is Ireland free. And then an
old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers shuffling
their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or two sky pilots having
an eye around that there was no goings on with the females, hitting below
the belt.
So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty
starts mousing around by Joe and me. I'd train him by kindness, so I would,
if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where it
wouldn't blind him.
-- Afraid he'll bite you? says the citizen, sneering.
-- No, says 1. But he might take my leg for a lampost.
So he calls the old dog over.
-- What's on you, Garry? says he.
Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and the
old towser growling, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera. Such
growling you never heard as they let off between them. Someone that has
nothing better to do ought to write a letter pm bono publico to the papers
about the muzzling order for a dog the like of that. Growling and grousing
and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the hydrophobia
dropping out of his jaws.
All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among the
lower animals (and their name is legion) should make a point of not missing
the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the famous old
Irish red wolfdog setter formerly known by the sobriquet of Garryowen and
recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and acquaintances Owen
Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of years of training by kindness
and a carefully thoughtout dietary system, comprises, among other
achievements, the recitation of verse. Our greatest living phonetic expert
(wild horses shall not drag it from us!) has left no stone unturned in his
efforts to delucidate and compare the verse recited and has found it bears a
striking resemblance (the italics are ours) to the ranns of ancient Celtic
bards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful lovesongs with which
the writer who conceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym of the
Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving world but rather (as a
contributor D. O. C. points out in an interesting communication published by
an evening contemporary) of the harsher and more personal note which is
found in the satirical effusions of the famous Raftery and of Donald
MacConsidine to say nothing of a more modern lyrist at present very much in
the public eye. We subjoin a specimen which has been rendered into English
by an eminent scholar whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to
disclose though we believe our readers will find the topical allusion rather
more than an indication. The metrical system of the canine original, which
recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welsh
englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will agree
that the spirit has been well caught. Perhaps it should be added that the
effect is greatly increased if Owen's verse be spoken somewhat slowly and
indistinctly in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour.
The curse of my curses
Seven days every day
And seven dry Thursdays
On you, Barney Kiernan,
Has no sup of water
To cool my courage,
And my guts red roaring
After Lowry's lights.
So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could
hear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have another.
-- I will, says he, a chara, to show there's no ill feeling.
Gob, he's not as green as he's cabbagelooking. Arsing around from one
pub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap's dog and
getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. Entertainment for man and
beast. And says Joe:
-- Could you make a hole in another pint?
-- Could a swim duck? says I.
-- Same again, Terry, says Joe. Are you sure you won't have