[ 12 ]
I was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the D. M. P. at the
corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep came along
and he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to let him have
the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter
only Joe Hynes.
—Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that bloody
chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?
—Soot’s luck, says Joe. Who’s the old ballocks you were talking
—Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I’m on two minds not to give
that fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms
—What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.
—Devil a much, says I. There’s a bloody big foxy thief beyond by the
garrison church at the corner of Chicken lane—old Troy was just giving
me a wrinkle about him—lifted any God’s quantity of tea and sugar
to pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off a
hop-of-my-thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury
—Circumcised? says Joe.
—Ay, says I. A bit off the top. An old plumber named Geraghty. I’m
hanging on to his taw now for the past fortnight and I can’t get a
penny out of him.
—That the lay you’re on now? says Joe.
—Ay, says I. How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and doubtful
debts. But that’s the most notorious bloody robber you’d meet in a
day’s walk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of
rain. Tell him, says he, I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him
to send you round here again or if he does, says he, I’ll have him
summonsed up before the court, so I will, for trading without a licence.
And he after stuffing himself till he’s fit to burst. Jesus, I had to
laugh at the little jewy getting his shirt out. He drink me my teas. He
eat me my sugars. Because he no pay me my moneys?
For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin’s
parade in the city of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter
called the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E. Geraghty,
esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city of Dublin, Arran quay ward,
gentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds
avoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence per
pound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed crystal,
at threepence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the
said vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterling for value
received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in
weekly instalments every seven calendar days of three shillings and no
pence sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or
pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall
be and remain and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the
said vendor to be disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the
said amount shall have been duly paid by the said purchaser to the said
vendor in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed between
the said vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the one
part and the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns
of the other part.
—Are you a strict t.t.? says Joe.
—Not taking anything between drinks, says I.
—What about paying our respects to our friend? says Joe.
—Who? says I. Sure, he’s out in John of God’s off his head, poor
—Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.
—Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.
—Come around to Barney Kiernan’s, says Joe. I want to see the
—Barney mavourneen’s be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful,
—Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.
—What was that, Joe? says I.
—Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to
give the citizen the hard word about it.
So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the
courthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he
has it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn’t get over
that bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a
licence, says he.
In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There
rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in
life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant land
it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the
gurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the
grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed coarse
fish generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to
be enumerated. In the mild breezes of the west and of the east the lofty
trees wave in different directions their firstclass foliage, the wafty
sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic
eucalyptus and other ornaments of the arboreal world with which
that region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovely maidens sit in close
proximity to the roots of the lovely trees singing the most lovely songs
while they play with all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden
ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings,
creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And heroes
voyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless
princes of unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth
sleek Leinster and of Cruachan’s land and of Armagh the splendid and
of the noble district of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings.
And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen
by mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for
that purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruits
of that land for O’Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain
descended from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring
foison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach,
pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs,
drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale,
York and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of
mushrooms and custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red
green yellow brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and
chips of strawberries and sieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious,
and strawberries fit for princes and raspberries from their canes.
I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him. Come out here, Geraghty, you
notorious bloody hill and dale robber!
And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed
ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers
and roaring mares and polled calves and longwools and storesheep and
Cuffe’s prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the
various different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus
heifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime
premiated milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling,
cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting,
champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from
pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy
vales of Thomond, from the M’Gillicuddy’s reeks the inaccessible and
lordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from the gentle declivities of the
place of the race of Kiar, their udders distended with superabundance
of milk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer’s firkins
and targets of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in great
hundreds, various in size, the agate with this dun.
So we turned into Barney Kiernan’s and there, sure enough, was the
citizen up in the corner having a great confab with himself and that
bloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the sky would
drop in the way of drink.
—There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and
his load of papers, working for the cause.
The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him would give you the creeps. Be
a corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of that bloody
dog. I’m told for a fact he ate a good part of the breeches off a
constabulary man in Santry that came round one time with a blue paper
about a licence.
—Stand and deliver, says he.
—That’s all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here.
—Pass, friends, says he.
Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he:
—What’s your opinion of the times?
Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal to
—I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his hand down his
So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says:
—Foreign wars is the cause of it.
And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:
—It’s the Russians wish to tyrannise.
—Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. I’ve a thirst on
me I wouldn’t sell for half a crown.
—Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.
—Wine of the country, says he.
—What’s yours? says Joe.
—Ditto MacAnaspey, says I.
—Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how’s the old heart, citizen?
—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
freelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed 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 fieldlark 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
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 jangled 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 MacMahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe Tone, the Mother
of the Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of Castile, 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 tranquilising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of
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
—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
—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 David 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! Ow! 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 bathslippers 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
—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 foamy 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
wellbeloved, 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 a 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 Willy Murray
with him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim’s... What?
—What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who’s talking about...?
—Dead! says Alf. He’s no more dead than you are.
—Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning
—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 heavenworld 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
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
—Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He’s over all his
But Bob Doran shouts out of him.
—He’s a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy
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
—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 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
—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,
 To the High Sheriff of Dublin,
Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the abovementioned painful
case i hanged Joe Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 of Febuary 1900 and i
—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
terms is five ginnees.
 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
So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn’t and
he 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
—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 tradition of medical science, be
calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent
ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus,
thereby causing the elastic pores of the corpora 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 denominated 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 sniffing 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 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 Jacobs’ 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
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
bézique 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 blackdraped 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 grandstand 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 semiparalysed doyen of the party who had to be assisted to his
seat by the aid of a powerful steam crane), Monsieur Pierrepaul
Petitépatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethankertscheff, the
Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha
Virága Kisászony Putrápesthi, Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos
Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Señor 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, Borus Hupinkoff, Herr
Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli,
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 the 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 worldrenowned 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 terra cotta 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 roomkeepers’ 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 ever 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 fiancée an expensive
engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a fourleaved shamrock
the 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 citizen begins 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 of 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, jeering.
—No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.
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 pro 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 setter wolfdog 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 Donal 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 that 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
—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 anything
in the way of liquid refreshment? says he.
—Thank you, no, says Bloom. As a matter of fact I just wanted to
meet Martin Cunningham, don’t you see, about this insurance of poor
Dignam’s. Martin asked me to go to the house. You see, he, Dignam, I
mean, didn’t serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the
time and nominally under the act the mortgagee can’t recover on the
—Holy Wars, says Joe, laughing, that’s a good one if old Shylock is
landed. So the wife comes out top dog, what?
—Well, that’s a point, says Bloom, for the wife’s admirers.
—Whose admirers? says Joe.
—The wife’s advisers, I mean, says Bloom.
Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act
like the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and for the benefit
of the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand that
Dignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow
contested the mortgagee’s right till he near had the head of me addled
with his mortgagor under the act. He was bloody safe he wasn’t run in
himself under the act that time as a rogue and vagabond only he had a
friend in court. Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal
Hungarian privileged lottery. True as you’re there. O, commend me to
an israelite! Royal and privileged Hungarian robbery.
So Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to tell Mrs Dignam he
was sorry for her trouble and he was very sorry about the funeral and
to tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there was
never a truer, a finer than poor little Willy that’s dead to tell her.
Choking with bloody foolery. And shaking Bloom’s hand doing the tragic
to tell her that. Shake hands, brother. You’re a rogue and I’m
—Let me, said he, so far presume upon our acquaintance which, however
slight it may appear if judged by the standard of mere time, is founded,
as I hope and believe, on a sentiment of mutual esteem as to request of
you this favour. But, should I have overstepped the limits of reserve
let the sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my boldness.
—No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full the motives which
actuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office you entrust to
me consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of sorrow,
this proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitterness of
—Then suffer me to take your hand, said he. The goodness of your
heart, I feel sure, will dictate to you better than my inadequate words
the expressions which are most suitable to convey an emotion whose
poignancy, were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even of
And off with him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at five
o’clock. Night he was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the
bobby, 14A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street after
closing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking
porter out of teacups. And calling himself a Frenchy for the shawls,
Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and he serving
mass in Adam and Eve’s when he was young with his eyes shut, who wrote
the new testament, and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. And
the two shawls killed with the laughing, picking his pockets, the bloody
fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawls
screeching laughing at one another. How is your testament? Have you got
an old testament? Only Paddy was passing there, I tell you what. Then
see him of a Sunday with his little concubine of a wife, and she wagging
her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots on her,
no less, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady. Jack
Mooney’s sister. And the old prostitute of a mother procuring rooms to
street couples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told him if he didn’t
patch up the pot, Jesus, he’d kick the shite out of him.
So Terry brought the three pints.
—Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen.
—Slan leat, says he.
—Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.
Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already. Want a small
fortune to keep him in drinks.
—Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? says Joe.
—Friend of yours, says Alf.
—Nannan? says Joe. The mimber?
—I won’t mention any names, says Alf.
—I thought so, says Joe. I saw him up at that meeting now with William
Field, M. P., the cattle traders.
—Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of
all countries and the idol of his own.
So Joe starts telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease
and the cattle traders and taking action in the matter and the citizen
sending them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with his
sheepdip for the scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and the
guaranteed remedy for timber tongue. Because he was up one time in a
knacker’s yard. Walking about with his book and pencil here’s my
head and my heels are coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the
boot for giving lip to a grazier. Mister Knowall. Teach your grandmother
how to milk ducks. Pisser Burke was telling me in the hotel the wife
used to be in rivers of tears some times with Mrs O’Dowd crying her
eyes out with her eight inches of fat all over her. Couldn’t loosen
her farting strings but old cod’s eye was waltzing around her showing
her how to do it. What’s your programme today? Ay. Humane methods.
Because the poor animals suffer and experts say and the best known
remedy that doesn’t cause pain to the animal and on the sore spot
administer gently. Gob, he’d have a soft hand under a hen.
Ga Ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen. She lays eggs for
us. When she lays her egg she is so glad. Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Then
comes good uncle Leo. He puts his hand under black Liz and takes her
fresh egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook.
—Anyhow, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over tonight to London
to ask about it on the floor of the house of commons.
—Are you sure, says Bloom, the councillor is going? I wanted to see
him, as it happens.
—Well, he’s going off by the mailboat, says Joe, tonight.
—That’s too bad, says Bloom. I wanted particularly. Perhaps only Mr
Field is going. I couldn’t phone. No. You’re sure?
—Nannan’s going too, says Joe. The league told him to ask a question
tomorrow about the commissioner of police forbidding Irish games in the
park. What do you think of that, citizen? The Sluagh na h-Eireann.
Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arising out of the question of
my honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right
honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these
animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming
as to their pathological condition?
Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourable members are already in
possession of the evidence produced before a committee of the whole
house. I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. The answer to the
honourable member’s question is in the affirmative.
Mr Orelli O’Reilly (Montenotte. Nat.): Have similar orders been issued
for the slaughter of human animals who dare to play Irish games in the
Mr Allfours: The answer is in the negative.
Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable gentleman’s famous
Mitchelstown telegram inspired the policy of gentlemen on the Treasury
bench? (O! O!)
Mr Allfours: I must have notice of that question.
Mr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Don’t hesitate to shoot.
(Ironical opposition cheers.)
The speaker: Order! Order!
(The house rises. Cheers.)
—There’s the man, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival.
There he is sitting there. The man that got away James Stephens. The
champion of all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot. What was your
best throw, citizen?
—Na bacleis, says the citizen, letting on to be modest. There was a
time I was as good as the next fellow anyhow.
—Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody sight better.
—Is that really a fact? says Alf.
—Yes, says Bloom. That’s well known. Did you not know that?
So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of
lawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soil
and building up a nation once again and all to that. And of course Bloom
had to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower’s heart violent
exercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up a straw
from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: Look at, Bloom. Do you
see that straw? That’s a straw. Declare to my aunt he’d talk about
it for an hour so he would and talk steady.
A most interesting discussion took place in the ancient hall of Brian
O’Ciarnain’s in Sraid na Bretaine Bheag, under the auspices of
Sluagh na h-Eireann, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports and the
importance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and
ancient Rome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the race.
The venerable president of the noble order was in the chair and the
attendance was of large dimensions. After an instructive discourse by
the chairman, a magnificent oration eloquently and forcibly expressed,
a most interesting and instructive discussion of the usual high standard
of excellence ensued as to the desirability of the revivability of
the ancient games and sports of our ancient Panceltic forefathers. The
wellknown and highly respected worker in the cause of our old tongue, Mr
Joseph M’Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation
of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised morning and evening
by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the best traditions of manly
strength and prowess handed down to us from ancient ages. L. Bloom, who
met with a mixed reception of applause and hisses, having espoused the
negative the vocalist chairman brought the discussion to a close, in
response to repeated requests and hearty plaudits from all parts of
a bumper house, by a remarkably noteworthy rendering of the immortal
Thomas Osborne Davis’ evergreen verses (happily too familiar to
need recalling here) A nation once again in the execution of which the
veteran patriot champion may be said without fear of contradiction
to have fairly excelled himself. The Irish Caruso-Garibaldi was in
superlative form and his stentorian notes were heard to the greatest
advantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as only our citizen can sing
it. His superb highclass vocalism, which by its superquality greatly
enhanced his already international reputation, was vociferously
applauded by the large audience among which were to be noticed many
prominent members of the clergy as well as representatives of the press
and the bar and the other learned professions. The proceedings then
Amongst the clergy present were the very rev. William Delany, S. J., L.
L. D.; the rt rev. Gerald Molloy, D. D.; the rev. P. J. Kavanagh, C. S.
Sp.; the rev. T. Waters, C. C.; the rev. John M. Ivers, P. P.; the rev.
P. J. Cleary, O. S. F.; the rev. L. J. Hickey, O. P.; the very rev. Fr.
Nicholas, O. S. F. C.; the very rev. B. Gorman, O. D. C.; the rev. T.
Maher, S. J.; the very rev. James Murphy, S. J.; the rev. John Lavery,
V. F.; the very rev. William Doherty, D. D.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O.
M.; the rev. T. Brangan, O. S. A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C. C.; the
rev. M. A. Hackett, C. C.; the rev. W. Hurley, C. C.; the rt rev. Mgr
M’Manus, V. G.; the rev. B. R. Slattery, O. M. I.; the very rev. M.
D. Scally, P. P.; the rev. F. T. Purcell, O. P.; the very rev. Timothy
canon Gorman, P. P.; the rev. J. Flanagan, C. C. The laity included P.
Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc.
—Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, were you at that
—No, says Joe.
—I heard So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says Alf.
—Who? Blazes? says Joe.
And says Bloom:
—What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training
—Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Myler was on the beer to run up
the odds and he swatting all the time.
—We know him, says the citizen. The traitor’s son. We know what put
English gold in his pocket.
—True for you, says Joe.
And Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis and the circulation of the
blood, asking Alf:
—Now, don’t you think, Bergan?
—Myler dusted the floor with him, says Alf. Heenan and Sayers was only
a bloody fool to it. Handed him the father and mother of a beating. See
the little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. God,
he gave him one last puck in the wind, Queensberry rules and all, made
him puke what he never ate.
It was a historic and a hefty battle when Myler and Percy were scheduled
to don the gloves for the purse of fifty sovereigns. Handicapped as
he was by lack of poundage, Dublin’s pet lamb made up for it by
superlative skill in ringcraft. The final bout of fireworks was a
gruelling for both champions. The welterweight sergeantmajor had tapped
some lively claret in the previous mixup during which Keogh had been
receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman putting in some
neat work on the pet’s nose, and Myler came on looking groggy. The
soldier got to business, leading off with a powerful left jab to which
the Irish gladiator retaliated by shooting out a stiff one flush to the
point of Bennett’s jaw. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted
him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one. The men came to
handigrips. Myler quickly became busy and got his man under, the bout
ending with the bulkier man on the ropes, Myler punishing him. The
Englishman, whose right eye was nearly closed, took his corner where he
was liberally drenched with water and when the bell went came on gamey
and brimful of pluck, confident of knocking out the fistic Eblanite in
jigtime. It was a fight to a finish and the best man for it. The two
fought like tigers and excitement ran fever high. The referee twice
cautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the pet was tricky and his
footwork a treat to watch. After a brisk exchange of courtesies during
which a smart upper cut of the military man brought blood freely from
his opponent’s mouth the lamb suddenly waded in all over his man and
landed a terrific left to Battling Bennett’s stomach, flooring him
flat. It was a knockout clean and clever. Amid tense expectation the
Portobello bruiser was being counted out when Bennett’s second Ole
Pfotts Wettstein threw in the towel and the Santry boy was declared
victor to the frenzied cheers of the public who broke through the
ringropes and fairly mobbed him with delight.
—He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. I hear he’s
running a concert tour now up in the north.
—He is, says Joe. Isn’t he?
—Who? says Bloom. Ah, yes. That’s quite true. Yes, a kind of summer
tour, you see. Just a holiday.
—Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn’t she? says Joe.
—My wife? says Bloom. She’s singing, yes. I think it will be a
He’s an excellent man to organise. Excellent.
Hoho begob says I to myself says I. That explains the milk in the
cocoanut and absence of hair on the animal’s chest. Blazes doing the
tootle on the flute. Concert tour. Dirty Dan the dodger’s son off
Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to
fight the Boers. Old Whatwhat. I called about the poor and water rate,
Mr Boylan. You what? The water rate, Mr Boylan. You whatwhat? That’s
the bucko that’ll organise her, take my tip. ’Twixt me and you
Pride of Calpe’s rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy.
There grew she to peerless beauty where loquat and almond scent the
air. The gardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of olives knew
and bowed. The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful
And lo, there entered one of the clan of the O’Molloy’s, a comely
hero of white face yet withal somewhat ruddy, his majesty’s counsel
learned in the law, and with him the prince and heir of the noble line
—God save you, says the citizen.
—Save you kindly, says J. J. What’ll it be, Ned?
—Half one, says Ned.
So J. J. ordered the drinks.
—Were you round at the court? says Joe.
—Yes, says J. J. He’ll square that, Ned, says he.
—Hope so, says Ned.
Now what were those two at? J. J. getting him off the grand jury
list and the other give him a leg over the stile. With his name in
Stubbs’s. Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank
glass in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and
garnishee orders. Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street
where no-one would know him in the private office when I was there with
Pisser releasing his boots out of the pop. What’s your name, sir?
Dunne, says he. Ay, and done says I. Gob, he’ll come home by weeping
cross one of those days, I’m thinking.
—Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? says Alf. U. p:
—Yes, says J. J. Looking for a private detective.
—Ay, says Ned. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court only
Corny Kelleher got round him telling him to get the handwriting examined
—Ten thousand pounds, says Alf, laughing. God, I’d give anything to
hear him before a judge and jury.
—Was it you did it, Alf? says Joe. The truth, the whole truth and
nothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.
—Me? says Alf. Don’t cast your nasturtiums on my character.
—Whatever statement you make, says Joe, will be taken down in evidence
—Of course an action would lie, says J. J. It implies that he is not
compos mentis. U. p: up.
—Compos your eye! says Alf, laughing. Do you know that he’s balmy?
Look at his head. Do you know that some mornings he has to get his hat
on with a shoehorn.
—Yes, says J. J., but the truth of a libel is no defence to an
indictment for publishing it in the eyes of the law.
—Ha ha, Alf, says Joe.
—Still, says Bloom, on account of the poor woman, I mean his wife.
—Pity about her, says the citizen. Or any other woman marries a half
—How half and half? says Bloom. Do you mean he...
—Half and half I mean, says the citizen. A fellow that’s neither
fish nor flesh.
—Nor good red herring, says Joe.
—That what’s I mean, says the citizen. A pishogue, if you know what
Begob I saw there was trouble coming. And Bloom explaining he meant on
account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the
old stuttering fool. Cruelty to animals so it is to let that bloody
povertystricken Breen out on grass with his beard out tripping him,
bringing down the rain. And she with her nose cockahoop after she
married him because a cousin of his old fellow’s was pewopener to
the pope. Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney’s
moustaches, the signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal
Zouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street.
And who was he, tell us? A nobody, two pair back and passages, at seven
shillings a week, and he covered with all kinds of breastplates bidding
defiance to the world.
—And moreover, says J. J., a postcard is publication. It was held to
be sufficient evidence of malice in the testcase Sadgrove v. Hole. In my
opinion an action might lie.
Six and eightpence, please. Who wants your opinion? Let us drink our
pints in peace. Gob, we won’t be let even do that much itself.
—Well, good health, Jack, says Ned.
—Good health, Ned, says J. J.
—-There he is again, says Joe.
—Where? says Alf.
And begob there he was passing the door with his books under his oxter
and the wife beside him and Corny Kelleher with his wall eye looking in
as they went past, talking to him like a father, trying to sell him a
—How did that Canada swindle case go off? says Joe.
—Remanded, says J. J.
One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of James
Wought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers
saying he’d give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. What? Do you see
any green in the white of my eye? Course it was a bloody barney. What?
Swindled them all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and
his own kidney too. J. J. was telling us there was an ancient Hebrew
Zaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on him,
swearing by the holy Moses he was stuck for two quid.
—Who tried the case? says Joe.
—Recorder, says Ned.
—Poor old sir Frederick, says Alf, you can cod him up to the two eyes.
—Heart as big as a lion, says Ned. Tell him a tale of woe about
arrears of rent and a sick wife and a squad of kids and, faith, he’ll
dissolve in tears on the bench.
—Ay, says Alf. Reuben J was bloody lucky he didn’t clap him in the
dock the other day for suing poor little Gumley that’s minding stones,
for the corporation there near Butt bridge.
And he starts taking off the old recorder letting on to cry:
—A most scandalous thing! This poor hardworking man! How many
children? Ten, did you say?
—Yes, your worship. And my wife has the typhoid.
—And the wife with typhoid fever! Scandalous! Leave the court
immediately, sir. No, sir, I’ll make no order for payment. How
dare you, sir, come up before me and ask me to make an order! A poor
hardworking industrious man! I dismiss the case.
And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month of the oxeyed goddess and
in the third week after the feastday of the Holy and Undivided Trinity,
the daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in her first
quarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them to the
halls of law. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave
his rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in the
probate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the first
chargeant upon the property in the matter of the will propounded and
final testamentary disposition in re the real and personal estate of the
late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased, versus Livingstone, an
infant, of unsound mind, and another. And to the solemn court of Green
street there came sir Frederick the Falconer. And he sat him there about
the hour of five o’clock to administer the law of the brehons at the
commission for all that and those parts to be holden in and for the
county of the city of Dublin. And there sat with him the high sinhedrim
of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the tribe of
Patrick and of the tribe of Hugh and of the tribe of Owen and of the
tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of Fergus and
of the tribe of Finn and of the tribe of Dermot and of the tribe of
Cormac and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of Caolte and of the
tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men and true. And he
conjured them by Him who died on rood that they should well and
truly try and true deliverance make in the issue joined between their
sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at the bar and true verdict
give according to the evidence so help them God and kiss the book. And
they rose in their seats, those twelve of Iar, and they swore by
the name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do His
rightwiseness. And straightway the minions of the law led forth from
their donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended
in consequence of information received. And they shackled him hand and
foot and would take of him ne bail ne mainprise but preferred a charge
against him for he was a malefactor.
—Those are nice things, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland
filling the country with bugs.
So Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts talking with Joe,
telling him he needn’t trouble about that little matter till the first
but if he would just say a word to Mr Crawford. And so Joe swore high
and holy by this and by that he’d do the devil and all.
—Because, you see, says Bloom, for an advertisement you must have
repetition. That’s the whole secret.
—Rely on me, says Joe.
—Swindling the peasants, says the citizen, and the poor of Ireland. We
want no more strangers in our house.
—O, I’m sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom. It’s just
that Keyes, you see.
—Consider that done, says Joe.
—Very kind of you, says Bloom.
—The strangers, says the citizen. Our own fault. We let them come in.
We brought them in. The adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxon
—Decree nisi, says J. J.
And Bloom letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a
spider’s web in the corner behind the barrel, and the citizen scowling
after him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite and
—A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that’s what’s the cause of
all our misfortunes.
—And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling over the Police Gazette
with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint.
—Give us a squint at her, says I.
And what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrows off
of Corny Kelleher. Secrets for enlarging your private parts. Misconduct
of society belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy Chicago contractor, finds
pretty but faithless wife in lap of officer Taylor. Belle in her
bloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for her tickles
and Norman W. Tupper bouncing in with his peashooter just in time to be
late after she doing the trick of the loop with officer Taylor.
—O jakers, Jenny, says Joe, how short your shirt is!
—There’s hair, Joe, says I. Get a queer old tailend of corned beef
off of that one, what?
So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a face on
him as long as a late breakfast.
—Well, says the citizen, what’s the latest from the scene of action?
What did those tinkers in the city hall at their caucus meeting decide
about the Irish language?
O’Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the
puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of
that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most obedient
city, second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there, after
due prayers to the gods who dwell in ether supernal, had taken solemn
counsel whereby they might, if so be it might be, bring once more into
honour among mortal men the winged speech of the seadivided Gael.
—It’s on the march, says the citizen. To hell with the bloody brutal
Sassenachs and their patois.
So J. J. puts in a word, doing the toff about one story was good till
you heard another and blinking facts and the Nelson policy, putting your
blind eye to the telescope and drawing up a bill of attainder to impeach
a nation, and Bloom trying to back him up moderation and botheration and
their colonies and their civilisation.
—Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. To hell with
them! The curse of a goodfornothing God light sideways on the bloody
thicklugged sons of whores’ gets! No music and no art and no
literature worthy of the name. Any civilisation they have they stole
from us. Tonguetied sons of bastards’ ghosts.
—The European family, says J. J....
—They’re not European, says the citizen. I was in Europe with Kevin
Egan of Paris. You wouldn’t see a trace of them or their language
anywhere in Europe except in a cabinet d’aisance.
And says John Wyse:
—Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo:
—Conspuez les Anglais! Perfide Albion!
He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands the
medher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal slogan Lamh
Dearg Abu, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mighty
valorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster
silent as the deathless gods.
—What’s up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look like a fellow that
had lost a bob and found a tanner.
—Gold cup, says he.
—Who won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry.
—Throwaway, says he, at twenty to one. A rank outsider. And the rest
—And Bass’s mare? says Terry.
—Still running, says he. We’re all in a cart. Boylan plunged two
quid on my tip Sceptre for himself and a lady friend.
—I had half a crown myself, says Terry, on Zinfandel that Mr Flynn
gave me. Lord Howard de Walden’s.
—Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse. Throwaway,
says he. Takes the biscuit, and talking about bunions. Frailty, thy name
So he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if there was
anything he could lift on the nod, the old cur after him backing his
luck with his mangy snout up. Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard.
—Not there, my child, says he.
—Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She’d have won the money only for
the other dog.
And J. J. and the citizen arguing about law and history with Bloom
sticking in an odd word.
—Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others’ eyes but they
can’t see the beam in their own.
—Raimeis, says the citizen. There’s no-one as blind as the fellow
that won’t see, if you know what that means. Where are our missing
twenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four, our lost
tribes? And our potteries and textiles, the finest in the whole world!
And our wool that was sold in Rome in the time of Juvenal and our flax
and our damask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick lace, our
tanneries and our white flint glass down there by Ballybough and our
Huguenot poplin that we have since Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk
and our Foxford tweeds and ivory raised point from the Carmelite convent
in New Ross, nothing like it in the whole wide world. Where are the
Greek merchants that came through the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar
now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and Tyrian purple to
sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? Read Tacitus and Ptolemy, even
Giraldus Cambrensis. Wine, peltries, Connemara marble, silver from
Tipperary, second to none, our farfamed horses even today, the Irish
hobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering to pay customs duties for
the right to fish in our waters. What do the yellowjohns of Anglia owe
us for our ruined trade and our ruined hearths? And the beds of the
Barrow and Shannon they won’t deepen with millions of acres of marsh
and bog to make us all die of consumption?
—As treeless as Portugal we’ll be soon, says John Wyse, or
Heligoland with its one tree if something is not done to reafforest the
land. Larches, firs, all the trees of the conifer family are going fast.
I was reading a report of lord Castletown’s...
—Save them, says the citizen, the giant ash of Galway and the
chieftain elm of Kildare with a fortyfoot bole and an acre of foliage.
Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair
hills of Eire, O.
—Europe has its eyes on you, says Lenehan.
The fashionable international world attended en masse this afternoon
at the wedding of the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief
ranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of Pine
Valley. Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash,
Mrs Holly Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs Clyde
Twelvetrees, Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss Virginia
Creeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss Blanche Maple, Mrs
Maud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla Elderflower, Miss
Bee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa San, Miss Rachel
Cedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity Aspenall,
Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs Liana
Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis
graced the ceremony by their presence. The bride who was given away by
her father, the M’Conifer of the Glands, looked exquisitely charming
in a creation carried out in green mercerised silk, moulded on an
underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke of broad emerald and
finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued fringe, the scheme being
relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acorn bronze. The maids
of honour, Miss Larch Conifer and Miss Spruce Conifer, sisters of the
bride, wore very becoming costumes in the same tone, a dainty motif
of plume rose being worked into the pleats in a pinstripe and repeated
capriciously in the jadegreen toques in the form of heron feathers of
paletinted coral. Senhor Enrique Flor presided at the organ with his
wellknown ability and, in addition to the prescribed numbers of the
nuptial mass, played a new and striking arrangement of Woodman, spare
that tree at the conclusion of the service. On leaving the church of
Saint Fiacre in Horto after the papal blessing the happy pair were
subjected to a playful crossfire of hazelnuts, beechmast, bayleaves,
catkins of willow, ivytod, hollyberries, mistletoe sprigs and quicken
shoots. Mr and Mrs Wyse Conifer Neaulan will spend a quiet honeymoon in
the Black Forest.
—And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen. We had our trade with
Spain and the French and with the Flemings before those mongrels were
pupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedark waterway.
—And will again, says Joe.
—And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says the
citizen, clapping his thigh. Our harbours that are empty will be full
again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom
of Kerry, Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with a
fleet of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O’Reillys and the
O’Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with
the emperor Charles the Fifth himself. And will again, says he, when the
first Irish battleship is seen breasting the waves with our own flag
to the fore, none of your Henry Tudor’s harps, no, the oldest flag
afloat, the flag of the province of Desmond and Thomond, three crowns on
a blue field, the three sons of Milesius.
And he took the last swig out of the pint. Moya. All wind and piss like
a tanyard cat. Cows in Connacht have long horns. As much as his bloody
life is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled
multitude in Shanagolden where he daren’t show his nose with the Molly
Maguires looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbing the
holding of an evicted tenant.
—Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. What will you have?
—An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.
—Half one, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up. Terry! Are you
—Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir.
Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of
attending to the general public. Picture of a butting match, trying to
crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with his head
down like a bull at a gate. And another one: Black Beast Burned in
Omaha, Ga. A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a
Sambo strung up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under
him. Gob, they ought to drown him in the sea after and electrocute and
crucify him to make sure of their job.
—But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes at
—I’ll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Hell upon earth it
is. Read the revelations that’s going on in the papers about flogging
on the training ships at Portsmouth. A fellow writes that calls himself
So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew
of tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats and the
parson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad
brought out, howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the buttend of
—A rump and dozen, says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir
John Beresford called it but the modern God’s Englishman calls it
caning on the breech.
And says John Wyse:
—’Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance.
Then he was telling us the master at arms comes along with a long cane
and he draws out and he flogs the bloody backside off of the poor lad
till he yells meila murder.
—That’s your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that bosses
the earth. The fellows that never will be slaves, with the only
hereditary chamber on the face of God’s earth and their land in the
hands of a dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons. That’s the great
empire they boast about of drudges and whipped serfs.
—On which the sun never rises, says Joe.
—And the tragedy of it is, says the citizen, they believe it. The
unfortunate yahoos believe it.
They believe in rod, the scourger almighty, creator of hell upon earth,
and in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast,
born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was scarified,
flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third day he arose
again from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend till
further orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid.
—But, says Bloom, isn’t discipline the same everywhere. I mean
wouldn’t it be the same here if you put force against force?
Didn’t I tell you? As true as I’m drinking this porter if he was at
his last gasp he’d try to downface you that dying was living.
—We’ll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our
greater Ireland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house and home
in the black 47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside
were laid low by the batteringram and the Times rubbed its hands and
told the whitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland
as redskins in America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But
the Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full
of crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay,
they drove out the peasants in hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in
the coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free remember
the land of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no
cravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan.
—Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was...
—We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. Since
the poor old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed at
—Ay, says John Wyse. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us
against the Williamites and they betrayed us. Remember Limerick and the
broken treatystone. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the wild
geese. Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield and O’Donnell, duke of Tetuan
in Spain, and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria
Teresa. But what did we ever get for it?
—The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do you know
what it is? They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Aren’t
they trying to make an Entente cordiale now at Tay Pay’s dinnerparty
with perfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were.
—Conspuez les Français, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.
—And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven’t we
had enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George
the elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that’s
Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old one
with the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal palace every night of
God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman carting
her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by the
whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about Ehren on the Rhine and
come where the boose is cheaper.
—Well, says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.
—Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. There’s a bloody sight more
pox than pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin!
—And what do you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests
and bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic
Majesty’s racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses
his jockeys rode. The earl of Dublin, no less.
—They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says
And says J. J.:
—Considerations of space influenced their lordships’ decision.
—Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.
—Yes, sir, says he. I will.
—You? says Joe.
—Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your shadow never grow less.
—Repeat that dose, says Joe.
Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with
his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about.
—Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it.
Perpetuating national hatred among nations.
—But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.
—Yes, says Bloom.
—What is it? says John Wyse.
—A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same
—By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for
I’m living in the same place for the past five years.
So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to muck
out of it:
—Or also living in different places.
—That covers my case, says Joe.
—What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen.
—Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.
The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and,
gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.
—After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his handkerchief to
swab himself dry.
—Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take that in your right hand and
repeat after me the following words.
The muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish facecloth
attributed to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh, authors
of the Book of Ballymote, was then carefully produced and called forth
prolonged admiration. No need to dwell on the legendary beauty of the
cornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can distinctly discern each
of the four evangelists in turn presenting to each of the four masters
his evangelical symbol, a bogoak sceptre, a North American puma (a far
nobler king of beasts than the British article, be it said in passing),
a Kerry calf and a golden eagle from Carrantuohill. The scenes depicted
on the emunctory field, showing our ancient duns and raths and cromlechs
and grianauns and seats of learning and maledictive stones, are as
wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate as when the Sligo
illuminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy long long ago in
the time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovely lakes of Killarney,
the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins,
Ireland’s Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh Patrick, the
brewery of Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company (Limited), Lough
Neagh’s banks, the vale of Ovoca, Isolde’s tower, the Mapas obelisk,
Sir Patrick Dun’s hospital, Cape Clear, the glen of Aherlow, Lynch’s
castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown Union Workhouse at Loughlinstown,
Tullamore jail, Castleconnel rapids, Kilballymacshonakill, the cross
at Monasterboice, Jury’s Hotel, S. Patrick’s Purgatory, the Salmon
Leap, Maynooth college refectory, Curley’s hole, the three birthplaces
of the first duke of Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen,
the Henry Street Warehouse, Fingal’s Cave—all these moving scenes
are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters
of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of
—Show us over the drink, says I. Which is which?
—That’s mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.
—And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.
Also now. This very moment. This very instant.
Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.
—Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs
to us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold
by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle.
—Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.
—I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.
—Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.
That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old
lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he’d adorn a
sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him. And
then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as
limp as a wet rag.
—But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that.
That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody
knows that it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.
—What? says Alf.
—Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says
he to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is
there. If he comes just say I’ll be back in a second. Just a moment.
Who’s hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning.
—A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.
—Well, says John Wyse. Isn’t that what we’re told. Love your
—That chap? says the citizen. Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love,
moya! He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.
Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A
loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. M.
B. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo,
the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with the ear
trumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in the
brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her
Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love
a certain person. And this person loves that other person because
everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.
—Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power,
—Hurrah, there, says Joe.
—The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen.
And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.
—We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket.
What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women
and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text God is love
pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did you read that skit
in the United Irishman today about that Zulu chief that’s visiting
—What’s that? says Joe.
So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts
—A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented
yesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in Waiting,
Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty the heartfelt
thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in his
dominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of which
the dusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech, freely translated
by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod Barebones,
tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the cordial
relations existing between Abeakuta and the British empire, stating that
he treasured as one of his dearest possessions an illuminated bible,
the volume of the word of God and the secret of England’s greatness,
graciously presented to him by the white chief woman, the great squaw
Victoria, with a personal dedication from the august hand of the Royal
Donor. The Alaki then drank a lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh to the
toast Black and White from the skull of his immediate predecessor in the
dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty Warts, after which he visited the
chief factory of Cottonopolis and signed his mark in the visitors’
book, subsequently executing a charming old Abeakutic wardance, in the
course of which he swallowed several knives and forks, amid hilarious
applause from the girl hands.
—Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn’t doubt her. Wonder did he put that
bible to the same use as I would.
—Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful land
the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.
—Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse.
—No, says the citizen. It’s not signed Shanganagh. It’s only
—And a very good initial too, says Joe.
—That’s how it’s worked, says the citizen. Trade follows the flag.
—Well, says J. J., if they’re any worse than those Belgians in the
Congo Free State they must be bad. Did you read that report by a man
what’s this his name is?
—Casement, says the citizen. He’s an Irishman.
—Yes, that’s the man, says J. J. Raping the women and girls and
flogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber they can
out of them.
—I know where he’s gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers.
—Who? says I.
—Bloom, says he. The courthouse is a blind. He had a few bob on
Throwaway and he’s gone to gather in the shekels.
—Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed a
horse in anger in his life?
—That’s where he’s gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons going to
back that horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the
tip. Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He’s
the only man in Dublin has it. A dark horse.
—He’s a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe.
—Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out.
—There you are, says Terry.
Goodbye Ireland I’m going to Gort. So I just went round the back of
the yard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings to five) while I was
letting off my (Throwaway twenty to) letting off my load gob says I
to myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and one in
Slattery’s off) in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillings
is five quid) and when they were in the (dark horse) pisser Burke was
telling me card party and letting on the child was sick (gob, must have
done about a gallon) flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube she’s
better or she’s (ow!) all a plan so he could vamoose with the pool if
he won or (Jesus, full up I was) trading without a licence (ow!)
Ireland my nation says he (hoik! phthook!) never be up to those bloody
(there’s the last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) cuckoos.
So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it
was Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper
all kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes off
of the government and appointing consuls all over the world to walk
about selling Irish industries. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Gob, that
puts the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show.
Give us a bloody chance. God save Ireland from the likes of that bloody
mouseabout. Mr Bloom with his argol bargol. And his old fellow before
him perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the robbing bagman, that
poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country
with his baubles and his penny diamonds. Loans by post on easy terms.
Any amount of money advanced on note of hand. Distance no object. No
security. Gob, he’s like Lanty MacHale’s goat that’d go a piece of
the road with every one.
—Well, it’s a fact, says John Wyse. And there’s the man now
that’ll tell you all about it, Martin Cunningham.
Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power
with him and a fellow named Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of
the collector general’s, an orangeman Blackburn does have on the
registration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around the
country at the king’s expense.
Our travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their
—Ho, varlet! cried he, who by his mien seemed the leader of the party.
Saucy knave! To us!
So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice.
Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard.
—Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow.
—Bestir thyself, sirrah! cried he who had knocked. Look to our steeds.
And for ourselves give us of your best for ifaith we need it.
—Lackaday, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare
larder. I know not what to offer your lordships.
—How now, fellow? cried the second of the party, a man of pleasant
countenance, So servest thou the king’s messengers, master Taptun?
An instantaneous change overspread the landlord’s visage.
—Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly. An you be the king’s
messengers (God shield His Majesty!) you shall not want for aught. The
king’s friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go afasting in my
house I warrant me.
—Then about! cried the traveller who had not spoken, a lusty
trencherman by his aspect. Hast aught to give us?
Mine host bowed again as he made answer:
—What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of
venison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog’s bacon, a boar’s
head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and a
flagon of old Rhenish?
—Gadzooks! cried the last speaker. That likes me well. Pistachios!
—Aha! cried he of the pleasant countenance. A poor house and a bare
larder, quotha! ’Tis a merry rogue.
So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom.
—Where is he? says Lenehan. Defrauding widows and orphans.
—Isn’t that a fact, says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizen
about Bloom and the Sinn Fein?
—That’s so, says Martin. Or so they allege.
—Who made those allegations? says Alf.
—I, says Joe. I’m the alligator.
—And after all, says John Wyse, why can’t a jew love his country
like the next fellow?
—Why not? says J. J., when he’s quite sure which country it is.
—Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the
hell is he? says Ned. Or who is he? No offence, Crofton.
—Who is Junius? says J. J.
—We don’t want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.
—He’s a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it
was he drew up all the plans according to the Hungarian system. We know
that in the castle.
—Isn’t he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? says Jack Power.
—Not at all, says Martin. Only namesakes. His name was Virag, the
father’s name that poisoned himself. He changed it by deedpoll, the
—That’s the new Messiah for Ireland! says the citizen. Island of
saints and sages!
—Well, they’re still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. For
that matter so are we.
—Yes, says J. J., and every male that’s born they think it may
be their Messiah. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I
believe, till he knows if he’s a father or a mother.
—Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan.
—O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of
his that died was born. I met him one day in the south city markets
buying a tin of Neave’s food six weeks before the wife was delivered.
—En ventre sa mère, says J. J.
—Do you call that a man? says the citizen.
—I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe.
—Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power.
—And who does he suspect? says the citizen.
Gob, there’s many a true word spoken in jest. One of those mixed
middlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once a
month with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what
I’m telling you? It’d be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow
the like of that and throw him in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide,
so it would. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a
pint of stuff like a man. Give us your blessing. Not as much as would
blind your eye.
—Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. But where is he? We can’t
—A wolf in sheep’s clothing, says the citizen. That’s what he is.
Virag from Hungary! Ahasuerus I call him. Cursed by God.
—Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? says Ned.
—Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J. J. and S.
—You, Jack? Crofton? Three half ones, Terry.
—Saint Patrick would want to land again at Ballykinlar and convert
us, says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our
—Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God bless all here is my
—Amen, says the citizen.
—And I’m sure He will, says Joe.
And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with
acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and
subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors
and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto,
Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians
and Vallombrosans, and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines,
Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the children of Peter
Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Elijah prophet
led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced and other: and
friars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers,
minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons of
Dominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of Vincent: and the monks
of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of the
christian brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice. And
after came all saints and martyrs, virgins and confessors: S. Cyr and
S. Isidore Arator and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S.
Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and
S. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde
and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and
S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and
S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence
and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous
and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S.
Synonymous and S. Laurence O’Toole and S. James of Dingle and
Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S.
Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S.
Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S.
Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany
and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth
S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmans
and the saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and S. Bride and S.
Kieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuam and S. Finbarr
and S. Pappin of Ballymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificus and Brother
Louis Bellicosus and the saints Rose of Lima and of Viterbo and S.
Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid and
S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and
the Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S.
Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. And all came
with nimbi and aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swords
and olive crowns, in robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols of
their efficacies, inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters, axes,
trees, bridges, babes in a bathtub, shells, wallets, shears, keys,
dragons, lilies, buckshot, beards, hogs, lamps, bellows, beehives,
soupladles, stars, snakes, anvils, boxes of vaseline, bells, crutches,
forceps, stags’ horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones, eyes on a
dish, wax candles, aspergills, unicorns. And as they wended their way
by Nelson’s Pillar, Henry street, Mary street, Capel street, Little
Britain street chanting the introit in Epiphania Domini which beginneth
Surge, illuminare and thereafter most sweetly the gradual Omnes which
saith de Saba venient they did divers wonders such as casting out
devils, raising the dead to life, multiplying fishes, healing the halt
and the blind, discovering various articles which had been mislaid,
interpreting and fulfilling the scriptures, blessing and prophesying.
And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the reverend Father
O’Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. And when the good fathers
had reached the appointed place, the house of Bernard Kiernan and Co,
limited, 8, 9 and 10 little Britain street, wholesale grocers, wine and
brandy shippers, licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for
consumption on the premises, the celebrant blessed the house and censed
the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and
the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches
and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with
blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had
blessed the house of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and make the angels of
His light to inhabit therein. And entering he blessed the viands and the
beverages and the company of all the blessed answered his prayers.
—Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini.
—Qui fecit cœlum et terram.
—Et cum spiritu tuo.
And he laid his hands upon that he blessed and gave thanks and he prayed
and they all with him prayed:
—Deus, cuius verbo sanctificantur omnia, benedictionem tuam effunde
super creaturas istas: et praesta ut quisquis eis secundum legem et
voluntatem Tuam cum gratiarum actione usus fuerit per invocationem
sanctissimi nominis Tui corporis sanitatem et animæ tutelam Te auctore
percipiat per Christum Dominum nostrum.
—And so say all of us, says Jack.
—Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or Crawford.
—Right, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. And butter for fish.
I was just looking around to see who the happy thought would strike when
be damned but in he comes again letting on to be in a hell of a hurry.
—I was just round at the courthouse, says he, looking for you. I hope
—No, says Martin, we’re ready.
Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and silver.
Mean bloody scut. Stand us a drink itself. Devil a sweet fear! There’s
a jew for you! All for number one. Cute as a shithouse rat. Hundred to
—Don’t tell anyone, says the citizen.
—Beg your pardon, says he.
—Come on boys, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. Come along
—Don’t tell anyone, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him.
It’s a secret.
And the bloody dog woke up and let a growl.
—Bye bye all, says Martin.
And he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or
whatever you call him and him in the middle of them letting on to be all
at sea and up with them on the bloody jaunting car.
—Off with you, says Martin to the jarvey.
The milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and, rising in the golden poop the
helmsman spread the bellying sail upon the wind and stood off forward
with all sail set, the spinnaker to larboard. A many comely nymphs drew
nigh to starboard and to larboard and, clinging to the sides of
the noble bark, they linked their shining forms as doth the cunning
wheelwright when he fashions about the heart of his wheel the
equidistant rays whereof each one is sister to another and he binds them
all with an outer ring and giveth speed to the feet of men whenas they
ride to a hosting or contend for the smile of ladies fair. Even so did
they come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters. And
they laughed, sporting in a circle of their foam: and the bark clave the
But begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint when I saw the
citizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing and blowing with the
dropsy, and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book and
candle in Irish, spitting and spatting out of him and Joe and little Alf
round him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.
—Let me alone, says he.
And begob he got as far as the door and they holding him and he bawls
out of him:
—Three cheers for Israel!
Arrah, sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ’
sake and don’t be making a public exhibition of yourself. Jesus,
there’s always some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murder
about bloody nothing. Gob, it’d turn the porter sour in your guts, so
And all the ragamuffins and sluts of the nation round the door and
Martin telling the jarvey to drive ahead and the citizen bawling and Alf
and Joe at him to whisht and he on his high horse about the jews and
the loafers calling for a speech and Jack Power trying to get him to sit
down on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch over
his eye starts singing If the man in the moon was a jew, jew, jew and a
slut shouts out of her:
—Eh, mister! Your fly is open, mister!
And says he:
—Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. And
the Saviour was a jew and his father was a jew. Your God.
—He had no father, says Martin. That’ll do now. Drive ahead.
—Whose God? says the citizen.
—Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a jew. Christ was a
jew like me.
Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.
—By Jesus, says he, I’ll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy
By Jesus, I’ll crucify him so I will. Give us that biscuitbox here.
—Stop! Stop! says Joe.
A large and appreciative gathering of friends and acquaintances from
the metropolis and greater Dublin assembled in their thousands to bid
farewell to Nagyaságos uram Lipóti Virag, late of Messrs Alexander
Thom’s, printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure
for the distant clime of Százharminczbrojúgulyás-Dugulás (Meadow
of Murmuring Waters). The ceremony which went off with great éclat was
characterised by the most affecting cordiality. An illuminated scroll
of ancient Irish vellum, the work of Irish artists, was presented to
the distinguished phenomenologist on behalf of a large section of the
community and was accompanied by the gift of a silver casket, tastefully
executed in the style of ancient Celtic ornament, a work which reflects
every credit on the makers, Messrs Jacob agus Jacob. The departing guest
was the recipient of a hearty ovation, many of those who were present
being visibly moved when the select orchestra of Irish pipes struck
up the wellknown strains of Come Back to Erin, followed immediately
by Rakóczsy’s March. Tarbarrels and bonfires were lighted along the
coastline of the four seas on the summits of the Hill of Howth, Three
Rock Mountain, Sugarloaf, Bray Head, the mountains of Mourne, the
Galtees, the Ox and Donegal and Sperrin peaks, the Nagles and the
Bograghs, the Connemara hills, the reeks of M’Gillicuddy, Slieve
Aughty, Slieve Bernagh and Slieve Bloom. Amid cheers that rent the
welkin, responded to by answering cheers from a big muster of
henchmen on the distant Cambrian and Caledonian hills, the mastodontic
pleasureship slowly moved away saluted by a final floral tribute from
the representatives of the fair sex who were present in large numbers
while, as it proceeded down the river, escorted by a flotilla of barges,
the flags of the Ballast office and Custom House were dipped in salute
as were also those of the electrical power station at the Pigeonhouse
and the Poolbeg Light. Visszontlátásra, kedvés barátom!
Visszontlátásra! Gone but not forgotten.
Gob, the devil wouldn’t stop him till he got hold of the bloody tin
anyhow and out with him and little Alf hanging on to his elbow and he
shouting like a stuck pig, as good as any bloody play in the Queen’s
—Where is he till I murder him?
And Ned and J. J. paralysed with the laughing.
—Bloody wars, says I, I’ll be in for the last gospel.
But as luck would have it the jarvey got the nag’s head round the
other way and off with him.
—Hold on, citizen, says Joe. Stop!
Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly. Mercy of God the
sun was in his eyes or he’d have left him for dead. Gob, he near sent
it into the county Longford. The bloody nag took fright and the old
mongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the populace shouting and
laughing and the old tinbox clattering along the street.
The catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect. The
observatory of Dunsink registered in all eleven shocks, all of the fifth
grade of Mercalli’s scale, and there is no record extant of a similar
seismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of 1534, the year
of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. The epicentre appears to have been
that part of the metropolis which constitutes the Inn’s Quay ward and
parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods
and one square pole or perch. All the lordly residences in the vicinity
of the palace of justice were demolished and that noble edifice itself,
in which at the time of the catastrophe important legal debates were in
progress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which it is to be
feared all the occupants have been buried alive. From the reports of
eyewitnesses it transpires that the seismic waves were accompanied by
a violent atmospheric perturbation of cyclonic character. An article of
headgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk of the
crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle
with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of
the erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick
Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, have been discovered by search parties
in remote parts of the island respectively, the former on the third
basaltic ridge of the giant’s causeway, the latter embedded to the
extent of one foot three inches in the sandy beach of Holeopen bay near
the old head of Kinsale. Other eyewitnesses depose that they observed
an incandescent object of enormous proportions hurtling through the
atmosphere at a terrifying velocity in a trajectory directed southwest
by west. Messages of condolence and sympathy are being hourly received
from all parts of the different continents and the sovereign pontiff
has been graciously pleased to decree that a special missa pro defunctis
shall be celebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of each and every
cathedral church of all the episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual
authority of the Holy See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful
departed who have been so unexpectedly called away from our midst.
The work of salvage, removal of débris, human remains etc has been
entrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street,
and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77, 78, 79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by
the men and officers of the Duke of Cornwall’s light infantry under
the general supervision of H. R. H., rear admiral, the right honourable
sir Hercules Hannibal Habeas Corpus Anderson, K. G., K. P., K. T., P.
C., K. C. B., M. P., J. P., M. B., D. S. O., S. O. D., M. F. H., M. R.
I. A., B. L., Mus. Doc., P. L. G., F. T. C. D., F. R. U. I., F. R. C. P.
I. and F. R. C. S. I.
You never saw the like of it in all your born puff. Gob, if he got that
lottery ticket on the side of his poll he’d remember the gold cup, he
would so, but begob the citizen would have been lagged for assault and
battery and Joe for aiding and abetting. The jarvey saved his life by
furious driving as sure as God made Moses. What? O, Jesus, he did. And
he let a volley of oaths after him.
—Did I kill him, says he, or what?
And he shouting to the bloody dog:
—After him, Garry! After him, boy!
And the last we saw was the bloody car rounding the corner and old
sheepsface on it gesticulating and the bloody mongrel after it with his
lugs back for all he was bloody well worth to tear him limb from limb.
Hundred to five! Jesus, he took the value of it out of him, I promise
When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld
the chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. And they beheld Him in
the chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, having raiment
as of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not
look upon Him. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: Elijah!
Elijah! And He answered with a main cry: Abba! Adonai! And they beheld
Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to
the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over
Donohoe’s in Little Green street like a shot off a shovel.