Joyce J. Ulysses

attendance, Dr Pippi. The learned prelate who administered the last comforts
of holy religion to the hero martyr when about to pay the death penalty
knelt in a most christian spirit in a pool of rainwater, his cassock above
his hoary head, and offered up to the throne of grace fervent prayers of
supplication. Hard by the block stood the grim figure of the executioner,
his visage being concealed in a tengallon pot with two circular perforated
apertures through which his eyes glowered furiously. As he awaited the fatal
signal he tested the edge of his horrible weapon by honing it upon his
brawny forearm or decapitated in rapid succession a flock of sheep which had
been provided by the admirers of his fell but necessary office. On a
handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the quartering knife,
the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances (specially supplied by
the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round and Sons, Sheffield), a
terracotta saucepan for the reception of the duodenum, colon, blind
intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted and two commodious
milkjugs destined to receive the most precious blood of the most precious
victim. The housesteward of the amalgamated cats' and dogs' home was in
attendance to convey these vessels when replenished to that beneficent
institution. Quite an excellent repast consisting of rashers and eggs, fried
steak and onions, done to a nicety, delicious hot breakfast rolls and
invigorating tea had been considerately provided by the authorities for the
consumption of the central figure of the tragedy who was in capital spirits
when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in the proceedings
from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare in these our times,
rose nobly to the occasion and expressed the dying wish (immediately acceded
to) that the meal should be divided in aliquot parts among the members of
the sick and indigent roomkeeper's association as a token of his regard and
esteem. The nec and non plus ultra of emotion were reached when the blushing
bride elect burst her way through the serried ranks of the bystanders and
flung herself upon the muscular bosom of him who was about to be launched
into eternity for her sake. The hero folded her willowy form in a loving
embrace murmuring fondly Sheila, my own. Encouraged by this use of her
christian name she kissed passionately all the various suitable areas of his
person which the decencies of prison garb permitted her ardour to reach. She
swore to him as they mingled the salt streams of their tears that she would
cherish his memory, that she would never forget her hero boy who went to his
death with a song on his lips as if he were but going to a hurling match in
Clonturk park. She brought back to his recollection the happy days of
blissful childhood together on the banks of Anna Liffey when they had
indulged in the innocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the
dreadful present, they both laughed heartily, all the spectators, including
the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment. That monster
audience simply rocked with delight. But anon they were overcome with grief
and clasped their hands for the last time. A fresh torrent of tears burst
from their lachrymal ducts and the vast concourse of people, touched to the
inmost core, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least affected being the
aged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of the peace and genial
giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of their
handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was not a dry eye in that
record assemblage. A most romantic incident occurred when a handsome young
Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex, stepped
forward and, presenting his visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree,
solicited the hand of the hapless young lady, requesting her to name the
day, and was accepted on the spot. Every lady in the audience was presented
with a tasteful souvenir of the occasion in the shape of a skull and
crossbones brooch, a timely and generous act which evoked a fresh outburst
of emotion: and when the gallant young Oxonian (the bearer, by the way, of
one of the most timehonoured names in Albion's history) placed on the finger
of his blushing fiancиe an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in
the form of a fourleaved shamrock excitement knew no bounds. Nay, even the
stern provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan
Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had blown a considerable
number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not now
restrain his natural emotion. With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a
furtive tear and was overheard by those privileged burghers who happened to
be in his immediate entourage to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone:
-- God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Blimey
it makes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does, when I sees her cause I
thinks of my old mashtub what's waiting for me down Limehouse way.
So then the citizens begin talking about the Irish language and the
corporation meeting and all to that and the shoneens that can't speak their
own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for a quid and
Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that he cadged off Joe
and talking about the Gaelic league and the antitreating league and drink,
the curse of Ireland. Antitreating is about the size of it. Gob, he'd let
you pour all manner of drink down his throat till the Lord would call him
before you'd ever see the froth of his pint. And one night I went in with a
fellow into one of their musical evenings, song and dance about she could
get up on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay, and there was a fellow
with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish and a lot
of colleen bawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals
and oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolagh
entertainment, don't be talking. Ireland sober is Ireland free. And then an
old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers shuffling
their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or two sky pilots having
an eye around that there was no goings on with the females, hitting below
the belt.
So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty
starts mousing around by Joe and me. I'd train him by kindness, so I would,
if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where it
wouldn't blind him.
-- Afraid he'll bite you? says the citizen, sneering.
-- No, says 1. But he might take my leg for a lampost.
So he calls the old dog over.
-- What's on you, Garry? says he.
Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and the
old towser growling, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera. Such
growling you never heard as they let off between them. Someone that has
nothing better to do ought to write a letter pm bono publico to the papers
about the muzzling order for a dog the like of that. Growling and grousing
and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the hydrophobia
dropping out of his jaws.
All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among the
lower animals (and their name is legion) should make a point of not missing
the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the famous old
Irish red wolfdog setter formerly known by the sobriquet of Garryowen and
recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and acquaintances Owen
Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of years of training by kindness
and a carefully thoughtout dietary system, comprises, among other
achievements, the recitation of verse. Our greatest living phonetic expert
(wild horses shall not drag it from us!) has left no stone unturned in his
efforts to delucidate and compare the verse recited and has found it bears a
striking resemblance (the italics are ours) to the ranns of ancient Celtic
bards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful lovesongs with which
the writer who conceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym of the
Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving world but rather (as a
contributor D. O. C. points out in an interesting communication published by
an evening contemporary) of the harsher and more personal note which is
found in the satirical effusions of the famous Raftery and of Donald
MacConsidine to say nothing of a more modern lyrist at present very much in
the public eye. We subjoin a specimen which has been rendered into English
by an eminent scholar whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to
disclose though we believe our readers will find the topical allusion rather
more than an indication. The metrical system of the canine original, which
recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welsh
englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will agree
that the spirit has been well caught. Perhaps it should be added that the
effect is greatly increased if Owen's verse be spoken somewhat slowly and
indistinctly in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour.
The curse of my curses
Seven days every day
And seven dry Thursdays
On you, Barney Kiernan,
Has no sup of water
To cool my courage,
And my guts red roaring
After Lowry's lights.
So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could
hear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have another.
-- I will, says he, a chara, to show there's no ill feeling.
Gob, he's not as green as he's cabbagelooking. Arsing around from one
pub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap's dog and
getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. Entertainment for man and
beast. And says Joe:
-- Could you make a hole in another pint?
-- Could a swim duck? says I.
-- Same again, Terry, says Joe. Are you sure you won't have 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 policy.
-- 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 the 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 another.
-- 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 the cup.
-- 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 speech.
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,
14 A. 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 snugging. 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 sometimes 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 (Montenotte. Nat): Have similar orders been issued for the
slaughter of human animals who dare to play Irish games in the Phnix
park?
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. Do you not know that?
So off they started about Irish sport and shoneen games the like of the
lawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soil and
building up a nation once again and all of 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
this 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 o! 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 power 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 enchanced his already international
reputation, was vociferously applauded by the large audience amongst 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 terminated.
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
Keogh-Bennett match?
-- 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
of the eye.
-- Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Myler was on the beer to run
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
success too. 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 Caddereesh.
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 bosoms.
And lo, there entered one of the clan of the O'Molloys, 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 of Lambert.
-- Hello, Ned.
-- Hello, Alf.
-- Hello, Jack.
-- Hello, Joe.
-- 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,
drinking 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,
ye'll come home by weeping cross one of these days, I'm thinking.
-- Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there, says Alf. U. p.
up.
-- 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
first.
-- 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 against you.
-- 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
and 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
that is.
Begob I saw there was trouble coming. And Bloom explained 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 pew opener to the pope. Picture of
him on the wall with his smashall sweeney's moustaches. The signor 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
secondhand coffin.
-- 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 a 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 claims 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 delivrance 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 books. 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. The adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxon robbers
here.
-- 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 when.
-- 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 fancy man 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 cityhall 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! Perde 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
nowhere.
-- 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 is
Sceptre.
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 far-famed 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