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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
asleep?
-- 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 on
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
bay?
-- I'Il 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
Disgusted One.
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 gun.
-- 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
Killala.
-- 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 Franгais, 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 dead?
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
little Alf.
And says J. J.:
-- Considerations of space influenced their lordship's 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
place.
-- 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 a 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, 8 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 time. _ -- Shove us over the drink, says I. Which is which?
-- That's mine, says Joe, as the devil laid 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 off in Morocco like slaves or cattles.
-- 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
neighbours.
-- 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 genteman. 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,
citizen.
-- 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 England?
-- What's that? says Joe.
So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts
reading out:
-- 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 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 an 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
initialled: P.
-- 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 whiteyed 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 to 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 idea 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 everyone.
-- Well, it's a fact, says John Wyse. And there's the man now that'll
tell you 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
palfreys.
-- 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 faith 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.
-- We don't want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.
-- Who is Junius? says J. J.
-- 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 deed poll, the father
did.
-- 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 mere, 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
wait.
-- 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
shores.
-- Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God bless all here is my
prayer.
-- 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, Premonstratesians, 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.
-- Que fecit clum et terram .
-- Dominus vobiscum.
-- Et cum spiritu tuo.
And he laid his hands upon the blessed and gave thanks and he prayed
and they all with him prayed:
-- Deus, cuius vet sanctificantur omnia, benedictionem tuam effunde
super creaturas istas: et pasta ut quisquis eis secundum legem et voluntatem
Tuam cum gratiarum actione usus fuerit per invocationem sanctissimi nominis
Tui corporis sanitatem et anima 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 round 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
I'm not...
-- 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 five.
-- Don't tell anyone, says the citizen.
-- Beg your pardon, says he.
-- Come on boys, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. Come along
now.
-- Don't tell anyone, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him. It's
a secret.
And-he 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 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 waves.
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 it would.
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'Il brain that bloody jewman for using the holy
name. 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 Nagyasаgos uram Lipсti Virag, late of Messrs Alexander Thom's,
printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure for the distant
clime of Szаzharminczbrojзgulyаs-Dugulаs (Meadow of Murmuring _Waters). The
ceremony which went off with great иclat 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 Rakoczy'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, Sugar-loaf, 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
Pigeon-house. Visszontlаtlаsаra, kedvиs barаton! Visszontlаtаsra! 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 royal
theatre.
-- Where is he till I murder him?
And Ned and J. G. 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 one 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 Tesidences 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, 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 south west 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
debris human remains etc has been entrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son,
159, Great Brunswick Street and Messrs T. 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., H.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
sheepface 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 you.
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.
THE SUMMER EVENING HAD BEGUN TO FOLD THE WORLD IN ITS mysterious
embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all
too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud
promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on the
weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, on the quiet
church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness the voice of
prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the storm-tossed
heart of man, Mary, star of the sea.
The three girl friends were seated on the rocks, enjoying the evening
scene and the air which was fresh but not too chilly. Many a time and oft
were they wont to come there to that favourite nook to have a cosy chat
beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters feminine, Cissy Caffrey and
Edy Boardman with the baby in the pushcar and Tommy and Jacky Caffrey, two
little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits with caps to match and the
name H.M.S. Belleisle printed on both. For Tommy and Jacky Caffrey were
twins, scarce four years old and very noisy and spoiled twins sometimes but
for all that darling little fellows with bright merry faces and endearing
ways about them. They were dabbling in the sand with their spades and
buckets, building castles as children do, or playing with their big coloured
ball, happy as the day was long. And Edy Boardman was rocking the chubby
baby to and fro in the pushcar while that young gentleman fairly chuckled
with delight. He was but eleven months and nine days old and, though still a
tiny toddler, was just beginning to lisp his first babyish words. Cissy
Caffrey bent over him to tease his fat little plucks and the dainty dimple
in his chin.
-- Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out big, big. I want a drink of
water.
And baby prattled after her:
-- A jink a jink a jawbo. _Cissy Caffrey cuddled the wee chap for she
was awfully fond of children, so patient with little sufferers and Tommy
Caffrey could never be got to take his castor oil unless it was Cissy
Caffrey that held his nose and promised him the scatty heel of the loaf of
brown bread with golden syrup on. What a persuasive power that girl had! But
to be sure baby was as good as gold, a perfect little dote in his new fancy
bib. None of your spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort, was Cissy Caffrey.
A truerhearted lass never drew the breath of life, always with a laugh in
her gipsylike eyes and a frolicsome word on her cherryripe red lips, a girl
lovable in the extreme. And Edy Boardman laughed too at the quaint language
of little brother.
But just then there was a slight altercation between Master Tommy and
Master Jacky. Boys will be boys and our two twins were no exception to this
golden rule. The apple of discord was a certain castle of sand which Master
Jacky had built and Master Tommy would have it right go wrong that it was to
be architecturally improved by a frontdoor like the Martello tower had. But
if Master Tommy was headstrong Master Jacky was selfwilled too and, true to
the maxim that every little Irishman's house is his castle, he fell upon his
hated rival and to such purpose that the would be assailant came to grief
and (alas to relate!) the coveted castle too. Needless to say the cries of
discomfited Master Tommy drew the attention of the girl friends.
-- Come here, Tommy, his sister called imperatively, at once! And you,
Jacky, for shame to throw poor Tommy in the dirty sand. Wait till I catch
you for that.
His eyes misty with unshed tears Master Tommy came at her call for
their big sister's word was law with the twins. And in a sad plight he was
after his misadventure. His little man-o'-war top and unmentionables were
full of sand but Cissy was a past mistress in the art of smoothing over
life's tiny troubles and very quickly not one speck of sand was to be seen
on his smart little suit. Still the blue eyes were glistening with hot tears
that would well up so she kissed away the hurtness and shook her hand at
Master Jacky the culprit and said if she was near him she wouldn't be far
from him, her eyes dancing in admonition.
-- Nasty bold Jacky! she cried.
She put an arm round the little mariner and coaxed winningly:
-- What's your name? Butter and cream?
-- Tell us who is your sweetheart, spoke Edy Boardman. Is Cissy your
sweetheart?
-- Nao, tearful Tommy said.
-- Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissy queried.
-- Nao, Tommy said.
-- I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an arch glance from
her shortsighted eyes. I know who is Tommy's sweetheart, Gerty is Tommy's
sweetheart.
-- Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears.
Cissy's quick motherwit guessed what was amiss and she whispered to Edy
Boardman to take him there behind the pushcar where the gentlemen couldn't
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
asleep?
-- 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 on
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
bay?
-- I'Il 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
Disgusted One.
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 gun.
-- 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
Killala.
-- 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 Franгais, 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 dead?
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
little Alf.
And says J. J.:
-- Considerations of space influenced their lordship's 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
place.
-- 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 a 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, 8 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 time. _ -- Shove us over the drink, says I. Which is which?
-- That's mine, says Joe, as the devil laid 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 off in Morocco like slaves or cattles.
-- 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
neighbours.
-- 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 genteman. 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,
citizen.
-- 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 England?
-- What's that? says Joe.
So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts
reading out:
-- 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 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 an 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
initialled: P.
-- 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 whiteyed 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 to 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 idea 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 everyone.
-- Well, it's a fact, says John Wyse. And there's the man now that'll
tell you 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
palfreys.
-- 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 faith 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.
-- We don't want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.
-- Who is Junius? says J. J.
-- 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 deed poll, the father
did.
-- 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 mere, 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
wait.
-- 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
shores.
-- Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God bless all here is my
prayer.
-- 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, Premonstratesians, 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.
-- Que fecit c
-- Dominus vobiscum.
-- Et cum spiritu tuo.
And he laid his hands upon the blessed and gave thanks and he prayed
and they all with him prayed:
-- Deus, cuius vet sanctificantur omnia, benedictionem tuam effunde
super creaturas istas: et pasta ut quisquis eis secundum legem et voluntatem
Tuam cum gratiarum actione usus fuerit per invocationem sanctissimi nominis
Tui corporis sanitatem et anima
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 round 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
I'm not...
-- 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 five.
-- Don't tell anyone, says the citizen.
-- Beg your pardon, says he.
-- Come on boys, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. Come along
now.
-- Don't tell anyone, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him. It's
a secret.
And-he 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 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 waves.
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 it would.
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'Il brain that bloody jewman for using the holy
name. 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 Nagyasаgos uram Lipсti Virag, late of Messrs Alexander Thom's,
printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure for the distant
clime of Szаzharminczbrojзgulyаs-Dugulаs (Meadow of Murmuring _Waters). The
ceremony which went off with great иclat 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 Rakoczy'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, Sugar-loaf, 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
Pigeon-house. Visszontlаtlаsаra, kedvиs barаton! Visszontlаtаsra! 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 royal
theatre.
-- Where is he till I murder him?
And Ned and J. G. 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 one 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 Tesidences 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, 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 south west 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
debris human remains etc has been entrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son,
159, Great Brunswick Street and Messrs T. 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., H.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
sheepface 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 you.
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.
THE SUMMER EVENING HAD BEGUN TO FOLD THE WORLD IN ITS mysterious
embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all
too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud
promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on the
weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, on the quiet
church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness the voice of
prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the storm-tossed
heart of man, Mary, star of the sea.
The three girl friends were seated on the rocks, enjoying the evening
scene and the air which was fresh but not too chilly. Many a time and oft
were they wont to come there to that favourite nook to have a cosy chat
beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters feminine, Cissy Caffrey and
Edy Boardman with the baby in the pushcar and Tommy and Jacky Caffrey, two
little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits with caps to match and the
name H.M.S. Belleisle printed on both. For Tommy and Jacky Caffrey were
twins, scarce four years old and very noisy and spoiled twins sometimes but
for all that darling little fellows with bright merry faces and endearing
ways about them. They were dabbling in the sand with their spades and
buckets, building castles as children do, or playing with their big coloured
ball, happy as the day was long. And Edy Boardman was rocking the chubby
baby to and fro in the pushcar while that young gentleman fairly chuckled
with delight. He was but eleven months and nine days old and, though still a
tiny toddler, was just beginning to lisp his first babyish words. Cissy
Caffrey bent over him to tease his fat little plucks and the dainty dimple
in his chin.
-- Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out big, big. I want a drink of
water.
And baby prattled after her:
-- A jink a jink a jawbo. _Cissy Caffrey cuddled the wee chap for she
was awfully fond of children, so patient with little sufferers and Tommy
Caffrey could never be got to take his castor oil unless it was Cissy
Caffrey that held his nose and promised him the scatty heel of the loaf of
brown bread with golden syrup on. What a persuasive power that girl had! But
to be sure baby was as good as gold, a perfect little dote in his new fancy
bib. None of your spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort, was Cissy Caffrey.
A truerhearted lass never drew the breath of life, always with a laugh in
her gipsylike eyes and a frolicsome word on her cherryripe red lips, a girl
lovable in the extreme. And Edy Boardman laughed too at the quaint language
of little brother.
But just then there was a slight altercation between Master Tommy and
Master Jacky. Boys will be boys and our two twins were no exception to this
golden rule. The apple of discord was a certain castle of sand which Master
Jacky had built and Master Tommy would have it right go wrong that it was to
be architecturally improved by a frontdoor like the Martello tower had. But
if Master Tommy was headstrong Master Jacky was selfwilled too and, true to
the maxim that every little Irishman's house is his castle, he fell upon his
hated rival and to such purpose that the would be assailant came to grief
and (alas to relate!) the coveted castle too. Needless to say the cries of
discomfited Master Tommy drew the attention of the girl friends.
-- Come here, Tommy, his sister called imperatively, at once! And you,
Jacky, for shame to throw poor Tommy in the dirty sand. Wait till I catch
you for that.
His eyes misty with unshed tears Master Tommy came at her call for
their big sister's word was law with the twins. And in a sad plight he was
after his misadventure. His little man-o'-war top and unmentionables were
full of sand but Cissy was a past mistress in the art of smoothing over
life's tiny troubles and very quickly not one speck of sand was to be seen
on his smart little suit. Still the blue eyes were glistening with hot tears
that would well up so she kissed away the hurtness and shook her hand at
Master Jacky the culprit and said if she was near him she wouldn't be far
from him, her eyes dancing in admonition.
-- Nasty bold Jacky! she cried.
She put an arm round the little mariner and coaxed winningly:
-- What's your name? Butter and cream?
-- Tell us who is your sweetheart, spoke Edy Boardman. Is Cissy your
sweetheart?
-- Nao, tearful Tommy said.
-- Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissy queried.
-- Nao, Tommy said.
-- I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an arch glance from
her shortsighted eyes. I know who is Tommy's sweetheart, Gerty is Tommy's
sweetheart.
-- Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears.
Cissy's quick motherwit guessed what was amiss and she whispered to Edy
Boardman to take him there behind the pushcar where the gentlemen couldn't