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broke into heartrending sobs, not the least affected being
the aged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of
the peace and genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary,
were making frank use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe
to say that there was not a dry eye in that record
assemblage. A most romantic incident occurred when a
handsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry
towards the fair sex, stepped forward and, presenting his
visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree, solicited the
hand of the hapless young lady, requesting her to name
the day, and was accepted on the spot. Every lady in the
audience was presented with a tasteful souvenir of the
occasion in the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a
timely and generous act which evoked a fresh outburst of
emotion: and when the gallant young Oxonian (the
bearer, by the way, of one of the most timehonoured
names in Albion’s history) placed on the finger of his
blushing fiancée an expensive engagement ring with
emeralds set in the form of a fourleaved shamrock the
excitement knew no bounds. Nay, even the ster
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
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not now restrain his natural emotion. With his mailed
gauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was overheard,
by those privileged burghers who happened to be in his
immediate entourage, to murmur to himself in a faltering
undertone:
—God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding
tart. Blimey it makes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it
does, when I sees her cause I thinks of my old mashtub
what’s waiting for me down Limehouse way.
So then the citizen begins talking about the Irish
language and the corporation meeting and all to that and
the shoneens that can’t speak their own language and Joe
chipping in because he stuck someone for a quid and
Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump
that he cadged off of Joe and talking about the Gaelic
league and the antitreating league and drink, the curse of
Ireland. Antitreating is about the size of it. Gob, he’d let
you pour all manner of drink down his throat till the Lord
would call him before you’d ever see the froth of his pint.
And one night I went in with a fellow into one of their
musical evenings, song and dance about she could get up
on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay and there was
a fellow with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out
of him in Irish and a lot of colleen bawns going about
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Ulysses
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with temperance beverages and selling medals and oranges
and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolagh
entertainment, don’t be talking. Ireland sober is Ireland
free. And then an old fellow starts blowing into his
bagpipes and all the gougers shuffling their feet to the tune
the old cow died of. And one or two sky pilots having an
eye around that there was no goings on with the females,
hitting below the belt.
So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the
tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. I’d
train him by kindness, so I would, if he was my dog. Give
him a rousing fine kick now and again where it wouldn’t
blind him.
—Afraid he’ll bite you? says the citizen, jeering.
—No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.
So he calls the old dog over.
—What’s on you, Garry? says he.
Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him
in Irish and the old towser growling, letting on to answer,
like a duet in the opera. Such growling you never heard as
they let off between them. Someone that has nothing
better to do ought to write a letter pro bono publico to the
papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of that.
Growling and grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the
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Ulysses
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drouth is in it and the hydrophobia dropping out of his
jaws.
All those who are interested in the spread of human
culture among the lower animals (and their name is
legion) should make a point of not missing the really
marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the famous
old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the
sobriquet of Garryowen and recently rechristened by his
large circle of friends and acquaintances Owen Garry. The
exhibition, which is the result of years of training by
kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system,
comprises, among other achievements, the recitation of
verse. Our greatest living phonetic expert (wild horses
shall not drag it from us!) has left no stone unturned in his
efforts to delucidate and compare the verse recited and has
found it bears a striking resemblance (the italics are ours) to
the ranns of ancient Celtic bards. We are not speaking so
much of those delightful lovesongs with which the writer
who conceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym
of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving
world but rather (as a contributor D. O. C. points out in
an interesting communication published by an evening
contemporary) of the harsher and more personal note
which is found in the satirical effusions of the famous
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Ulysses
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Raftery and of Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a
more modern lyrist at present very much in the public
eye. We subjoin a specimen which has been rendered into
English by an eminent scholar whose name for the
moment we are not at liberty to disclose though we
believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather
more than an indication. The metrical system of the
canine original, which recalls the intricate alliterative and
isosyllabic rules of the Welsh englyn, is infinitely more
complicated but we believe our readers will agree that the
spirit has been well caught. Perhaps it should be added that
the effect is greatly increased if Owen’s verse be spoken
somewhat slowly and indistinctly in a tone suggestive of
suppressed rancour.
The
curse
of
my
curses
Seven
days
every
day
And
seven
dry
Thursdays
On
you,
Barney
Kiernan,
Has
no
sup
of
water
To
cool
my
courage,
And
my
guts
red
roaring
After Lowry’s lights.
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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?
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—Well, that’s a point, says Bloom, for the wife’s
admirers.
—Whose admirers? says Joe.
—The wife’s advisers, I mean, says Bloom.
Then he starts all confused mucking it up about
mortgagor under the act like the lord chancellor giving it
out on the bench and for the benefit of the wife and that a
trust is created but on the other hand that Dignam owed
Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow
contested the mortgagee’s right till he near had the head of
me addled with his mortgagor under the act. He was
bloody safe he wasn’t run in himself under the act that
time as a rogue and vagabond only he had a friend in
court. Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal
Hungarian privileged lottery. True as you’re there. O,
commend me to an israelite! Royal and privileged
Hungarian robbery.
So Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to
tell Mrs Dignam he was sorry for her trouble and he was
very sorry about the funeral and to tell her that he said and
everyone who knew him said that there was never a truer,
a finer than poor little Willy that’s dead to tell her.
Choking with bloody foolery. And shaking Bloom’s hand
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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, 14A. Blind to the
Documents you may be interested
Documents you may be interested
