world up in a shebeen in Bride street after closing time,
fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking
porter out of teacups. And calling himself a Frenchy for
the shawls, Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic
religion, and he serving mass in Adam and Eve’s when he
was young with his eyes shut, who wrote the new
testament, and the old testament, and hugging and
smugging. And the two shawls killed with the laughing,
picking his pockets, the bloody fool and he spilling the
porter all over the bed and the two shawls screeching
laughing at one another. How is your testament? Have you
got an old testament? Only Paddy was passing there, I tell
you what. Then see him of a Sunday with his little
concubine of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the aisle
of the chapel with her patent boots on her, no less, and
her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady. Jack Mooney’s
sister. And the old prostitute of a mother procuring rooms
to street couples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told
him if he didn’t patch up the pot, Jesus, he’d kick the shite
out of him.
So Terry brought the three pints.
—Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen.
—Slan leat, says he.
—Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.
Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler
already. Want a small fortune to keep him in drinks.
—Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty,
Alf? says Joe.
—Friend of yours, says Alf.
—Nannan? says Joe. The mimber?
—I won’t mention any names, says Alf.
—I thought so, says Joe. I saw him up at that meeting
now with William Field, M. P., the cattle traders.
—Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano,
the darling of all countries and the idol of his own.
So Joe starts telling the citizen about the foot and
mouth disease and the cattle traders and taking action in
the matter and the citizen sending them all to the
rightabout and Bloom coming out with his sheepdip for
the scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and the
guaranteed remedy for timber tongue. Because he was up
one time in a knacker’s yard. Walking about with his
book and pencil here’s my head and my heels are coming
till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the boot for giving lip
to a grazier. Mister Knowall. Teach your grandmother
how to milk ducks. Pisser Burke was telling me in the
hotel the wife used to be in rivers of tears some times with
Mrs O’Dowd crying her eyes out with her eight inches of
fat all over her. Couldn’t loosen her farting strings but old
cod’s eye was waltzing around her showing her how to do
it. What’s your programme today? Ay. Humane methods.
Because the poor animals suffer and experts say and the
best known remedy that doesn’t cause pain to the animal
and on the sore spot administer gently. Gob, he’d have a
soft hand under a hen.
Ga Ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen.
She lays eggs for us. When she lays her egg she is so glad.
Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Then comes good uncle Leo.
He puts his hand under black Liz and takes her fresh egg.
Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook.
—Anyhow, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over
tonight to London to ask about it on the floor of the
house of commons.
—Are you sure, says Bloom, the councillor is going? I
wanted to see him, as it happens.
—Well, he’s going off by the mailboat, says Joe,
—That’s too bad, says Bloom. I wanted particularly.
Perhaps only Mr Field is going. I couldn’t phone. No.
—Nannan’s going too, says Joe. The league told him to
ask a question tomorrow about the commissioner of police
forbidding Irish games in the park. What do you think of
that, citizen? The Sluagh na h-Eireann.
Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arising out
of the question of my honourable friend, the member for
Shillelagh, may I ask the right honourable gentleman
whether the government has issued orders that these
animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is
forthcoming as to their pathological condition?
Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourable members
are already in possession of the evidence produced before a
committee of the whole house. I feel I cannot usefully add
anything to that. The answer to the honourable member’s
question is in the affirmative.
Mr Orelli O’Reilly (Montenotte. Nat.): Have similar
orders been issued for the slaughter of human animals who
dare to play Irish games in the Phoenix park?
Mr Allfours: The answer is in the negative.
Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable
gentleman’s famous Mitchelstown telegram inspired the
policy of gentlemen on the Treasury bench? (O! O!)
Mr Allfours: I must have notice of that question.
Mr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Don’t hesitate to
(Ironical opposition cheers.)
The speaker: Order! Order!
(The house rises. Cheers.)
—There’s the man, says Joe, that made the Gaelic
sports revival. There he is sitting there. The man that got
away James Stephens. The champion of all Ireland at
putting the sixteen pound shot. What was your best
—Na bacleis, says the citizen, letting on to be modest.
There was a time I was as good as the next fellow
—Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody
—Is that really a fact? says Alf.
—Yes, says Bloom. That’s well known. Did you not
So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games
the like of lawn tennis and about hurley and putting the
stone and racy of the soil and building up a nation once
again and all to that. And of course Bloom had to have his
say too about if a fellow had a rower’s heart violent
exercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took
up a straw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom:
Look at, Bloom. Do you see that straw? That’s a straw.
Declare to my aunt he’d talk about it for an hour so he
would and talk steady.
A most interesting discussion took place in the ancient
hall of Brian O’ciarnain’s in Sraid na Bretaine Bheag, under
the auspices of Sluagh na h-Eireann, on the revival of
ancient Gaelic sports and the importance of physical
culture, as understood in ancient Greece and ancient
Rome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the
race. The venerable president of the noble order was in
the chair and the attendance was of large dimensions. After
an instructive discourse by the chairman, a magnificent
oration eloquently and forcibly expressed, a most
interesting and instructive discussion of the usual high
standard of excellence ensued as to the desirability of the
revivability of the ancient games and sports of our ancient
Panceltic forefathers. The wellknown and highly respected
worker in the cause of our old tongue, Mr Joseph
M’Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the
resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes,
practised morning and evening by Finn MacCool, as
calculated to revive the best traditions of manly strength
and prowess handed down to us from ancient ages. L.
Bloom, who met with a mixed reception of applause and
hisses, having espoused the negative the vocalist chairman
brought the discussion to a close, in response to repeated
requests and hearty plaudits from all parts of a bumper
house, by a remarkably noteworthy rendering of the
immortal Thomas Osborne Davis’ evergreen verses
(happily too familiar to need recalling here) A nation once
again in the execution of which the veteran patriot
champion may be said without fear of contradiction to
have fairly excelled himself. The Irish Caruso-Garibaldi
was in superlative form and his stentorian notes were
heard to the greatest advantage in the timehonoured
anthem sung as only our citizen can sing it. His superb
highclass vocalism, which by its superquality greatly
enhanced his already international reputation, was
vociferously applauded by the large audience among
which were to be noticed many prominent members of
the clergy as well as representatives of the press and the bar
and the other learned professions. The proceedings then
Amongst the clergy present were the very rev. William
Delany, S. J., L. L. D.; the rt rev. Gerald Molloy, D. D.;
the rev. P. J. Kavanagh, C. S. Sp.; the rev. T. Waters, C.
C.; the rev. John M. Ivers, P. P.; the rev. P. J. Cleary, O.
S. F.; the rev. L. J. Hickey, O. P.; the very rev. Fr.
Nicholas, O. S. F. C.; the very rev. B. Gorman, O. D. C.;
the rev. T. Maher, S. J.; the very rev. James Murphy, S. J.;
the rev. John Lavery, V. F.; the very rev. William
Doherty, D. D.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O. M.; the rev. T.
Brangan, O. S. A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C. C.; the rev. M. A.
Hackett, C. C.; the rev. W. Hurley, C. C.; the rt rev. Mgr
M’Manus, V. G.; the rev. B. R. Slattery, O. M. I.; the
very rev. M. D. Scally, P. P.; the rev. F. T. Purcell, O. P.;
the very rev. Timothy canon Gorman, P. P.; the rev. J.
Flanagan, C. C. The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke,
—Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, were you at
that Keogh-Bennett match?
—No, says Joe.
—I heard So and So made a cool hundred quid over it,
—Who? Blazes? says Joe.
And says Bloom:
—What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility
and training the eye.
—Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Myler was on
the beer to run up the odds and he swatting all the time.
—We know him, says the citizen. The traitor’s son.
We know what put English gold in his pocket.
—-True for you, says Joe.
And Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis and the
circulation of the blood, asking Alf:
—Now, don’t you think, Bergan?
—Myler dusted the floor with him, says Alf. Heenan
and Sayers was only a bloody fool to it. Handed him the
father and mother of a beating. See the little kipper not up
to his navel and the big fellow swiping. God, he gave him
one last puck in the wind, Queensberry rules and all, made
him puke what he never ate.
It was a historic and a hefty battle when Myler and
Percy were scheduled to don the gloves for the purse of
fifty sovereigns. Handicapped as he was by lack of
poundage, Dublin’s pet lamb made up for it by superlative
skill in ringcraft. The final bout of fireworks was a
gruelling for both champions. The welterweight
sergeantmajor had tapped some lively claret in the
previous mixup during which Keogh had been
receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman putting
in some neat work on the pet’s nose, and Myler came on
looking groggy. The soldier got to business, leading off
with a powerful left jab to which the Irish gladiator
retaliated by shooting out a stiff one flush to the point of
Bennett’s jaw. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted
him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one.
The men came to handigrips. Myler quickly became busy
and got his man under, the bout ending with the bulkier
man on the ropes, Myler punishing him. The Englishman,
whose right eye was nearly closed, took his corner where
he was liberally drenched with water and when the bell
went came on gamey and brimful of pluck, confident of
knocking out the fistic Eblanite in jigtime. It was a fight to
a finish and the best man for it. The two fought like tigers
and excitement ran fever high. The referee twice
cautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the pet was
tricky and his footwork a treat to watch. After a brisk
exchange of courtesies during which a smart upper cut of
the military man brought blood freely from his opponent’s
mouth the lamb suddenly waded in all over his man and
landed a terrific left to Battling Bennett’s stomach, flooring
him flat. It was a knockout clean and clever. Amid tense
expectation the Portobello bruiser was being counted out
when Bennett’s second Ole Pfotts Wettstein threw in the
towel and the Santry boy was declared victor to the
frenzied cheers of the public who broke through the
ringropes and fairly mobbed him with delight.
—He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. I
hear he’s running a concert tour now up in the north.
—He is, says Joe. Isn’t he?
Documents you may be interested
Documents you may be interested