Section 32 of 74 - Table of Contents
So they started talking about capital punishment and of course Bloom
comes out with the why and the wherefore and all the codology of the
business and the old dog smelling him all the time I'm told those jewies
does have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs about I don't
know what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on.
--There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, says Alf.
--What's that? says Joe.
--The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf.
--That so? says Joe.
--God's truth, says Alf. I heard that from the head warder that was in
Kilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. He told me when
they cut him down after the drop it was standing up in their faces like a
poker.
--Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe, as someone said.
--That can be explained by science, says Bloom. It's only a natural
phenomenon, don't you see, because on account of the ...
And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and
science and this phenomenon and the other phenomenon.
The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft
tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of
the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would,
according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be calculated
to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus
of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus, thereby causing the elastic
pores of the CORPORA CAVERNOSA to rapidly dilate in such a way as to
instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the human
anatomy known as the penis or male organ resulting in the phenomenon which
has been denominated by the faculty a morbid upwards and outwards
philoprogenitive erection IN ARTICULO MORTIS PER DIMINUTIONEM CAPITIS.
So of course the citizen was only waiting for the wink of the word and
he starts gassing out of him about the invincibles and the old guard and
the men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe with
him about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported for the
cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, that and
the other. Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a new dog so
he ought. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing all round the place
and scratching his scabs. And round he goes to Bob Doran that was
standing Alf a half one sucking up for what he could get. So of course Bob
Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him:
--Give us the paw! Give the paw, doggy! Good old doggy! Give the paw
here! Give us the paw!
Arrah, bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him
from tumbling off the bloody stool atop of the bloody old dog and he
talking all kinds of drivel about training by kindness and thoroughbred
dog and intelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. Then he starts scraping
a few bits of old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacobs' tin he told Terry
to bring. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging
out of him a yard long for more. Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody
mongrel.
And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the
brothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert
Emmet and die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara
Curran and she's far from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his
knockmedown cigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon!
The fat heap he married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a
ballalley. Time they were stopping up in the CITY ARMS pisser Burke told
me there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and
Bloom trying to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playing
bezique to come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat
of a Friday because the old one was always thumping her craw and taking
the lout out for a walk. And one time he led him the rounds of Dublin and,
by the holy farmer, he never cried crack till he brought him home as drunk
as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils of alcohol
and by herrings, if the three women didn't near roast him, it's a queer
story, the old one, Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that kept the hotel.
Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking them off chewing the fat.
And Bloom with his BUT DON'T YOU SEE? and BUT ON THE OTHER HAND. And sure,
more be token, the lout I'm told was in Power's after, the blender's,
round in Cope street going home footless in a cab five times in the week
after drinking his way through all the samples in the bloody
establishment. Phenomenon!
--The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and
glaring at Bloom.
--Ay, ay, says Joe.
--You don't grasp my point, says Bloom. What I mean is ...
--SINN FEIN! says the citizen. SINN FEIN AMHAIN! The friends we love are
by our side and the foes we hate before us.
The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries far
and near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around the
gloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drums
punctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafening
claps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the
ghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its
supernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle. A torrential rain
poured down from the floodgates of the angry heavens upon the bared heads
of the assembled multitude which numbered at the lowest computation five
hundred thousand persons. A posse of Dublin Metropolitan police
superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person maintained order in
the vast throng for whom the York street brass and reed band whiled away
the intervening time by admirably rendering on their blackdraped
instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by
Speranza's plaintive muse. Special quick excursion trains and upholstered
charabancs had been provided for the comfort of our country cousins of
whom there were large contingents. Considerable amusement was caused
by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang THE
NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED in their usual mirth-provoking fashion.
Our two inimitable drolls did a roaring trade with their broadsheets among
lovers of the comedy element and nobody who has a corner in his heart for
real Irish fun without vulgarity will grudge them their hardearned
pennies. The children of the Male and Female Foundling Hospital who
thronged the windows overlooking the scene were delighted with this
unexpected addition to the day's entertainment and a word of praise is due
to the Little Sisters of the Poor for their excellent idea of affording
the poor fatherless and motherless children a genuinely instructive treat.
The viceregal houseparty which included many wellknown ladies was
chaperoned by Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the
grandstand while the picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends
of the Emerald Isle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite.
The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore
Bacibaci Beninobenone (the semiparalysed DOYEN of the party who had
to be assisted to his seat by the aid of a powerful steam crane),
Monsieur Pierrepaul Petitepatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire
Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von
Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Viraga Kisaszony Putrapesthi,
Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh
Rahat Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pecadillo y
Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri,
Hi Hung Chang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps,
Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchisitch,
Borus Hupinkoff, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli,
Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocent-
generalhistoryspecialprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein.
All the delegates without exception expressed themselves in the
strongest possible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless
barbarity which they had been called upon to witness. An animated
altercation (in which all took part) ensued among the F. O. T. E. I.
as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March was the correct
date of the birth of Ireland's patron saint. In the course of the
argument cannonballs, scimitars, boomerangs, blunderbusses, stinkpots,
meatchoppers, umbrellas, catapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of pig
iron were resorted to and blows were freely exchanged. The baby
policeman, Constable MacFadden, summoned by special courier from
Booterstown, quickly restored order and with lightning promptitude
proposed the seventeenth of the month as a solution equally honourable for
both contending parties. The readywitted ninefooter's suggestion at once
appealed to all and was unanimously accepted. Constable MacFadden was
heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were
bleeding profusely. Commendatore Beninobenone having been extricated
from underneath the presidential armchair, it was explained by his legal
adviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the various articles secreted in his
thirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by him during the affray from the
pockets of his junior colleagues in the hope of bringing them to their
senses. The objects (which included several hundred ladies' and
gentlemen's gold and silver watches) were promptly restored to their
rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.
Quietly, unassumingly Rumbold stepped on to the scaffold in faultless
morning dress and wearing his favourite flower, the GLADIOLUS CRUENTUS.
He announced his presence by that gentle Rumboldian cough which so
many have tried (unsuccessfully) to imitate--short, painstaking yet withal
so characteristic of the man. The arrival of the worldrenowned headsman
was greeted by a roar of acclamation from the huge concourse, the
viceregal ladies waving their handkerchiefs in their excitement while the
even more excitable foreign delegates cheered vociferously in a medley of
cries, HOCH, BANZAI, ELJEN, ZIVIO, CHINCHIN, POLLA KRONIA, HIPHIP, VIVE,
ALLAH, amid which the ringing EVVIVA of the delegate of the land of song
(a high double F recalling those piercingly lovely notes with which the
eunuch Catalani beglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers) was easily
distinguishable. It was exactly seventeen o'clock. The signal for prayer
was then promptly given by megaphone and in an instant all heads were
bared, the commendatore's patriarchal sombrero, which has been in the
possession of his family since the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by
his medical adviser in attendance, Dr Pippi. The learned prelate who
administered the last comforts of holy religion to the hero martyr when
about to pay the death penalty knelt in a most christian spirit in a pool
of rainwater, his cassock above his hoary head, and offered up to the
throne of grace fervent prayers of supplication. Hand by the block stood
the grim figure of the executioner, his visage being concealed in a
tengallon pot with two circular perforated apertures through which
his eyes glowered furiously. As he awaited the fatal signal he
tested the edge of his horrible weapon by honing it upon his
brawny forearm or decapitated in rapid succession a flock of
sheep which had been provided by the admirers of his fell but necessary
office. On a handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the
quartering knife, the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances
(specially supplied by the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round
and Sons, Sheffield), a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the
duodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully
extracted and two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the most
precious blood of the most precious victim. The housesteward of the
amalgamated cats' and dogs' home was in attendance to convey these
vessels when replenished to that beneficent institution. Quite an
excellent repast consisting of rashers and eggs, fried steak and onions,
done to a nicety, delicious hot breakfast rolls and invigorating tea had
been considerately provided by the authorities for the consumption
of the central figure of the tragedy who was in capital spirits
when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in the
proceedings from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare
in these our times, rose nobly to the occasion and expressed the
dying wish (immediately acceded to) that the meal should be
divided in aliquot parts among the members of the sick and indigent
roomkeepers' association as a token of his regard and esteem. The NEC and
NON PLUS ULTRA of emotion were reached when the blushing bride elect burst
her way through the serried ranks of the bystanders and flung herself upon
the muscular bosom of him who was about to be launched into eternity for
her sake. The hero folded her willowy form in a loving embrace murmuring
fondly SHEILA, MY OWN. Encouraged by this use of her christian name she
kissed passionately all the various suitable areas of his person which the
decencies of prison garb permitted her ardour to reach. She swore to him
as they mingled the salt streams of their tears that she would ever
cherish his memory, that she would never forget her hero boy who went to
his death with a song on his lips as if he were but going to a hurling
match in Clonturk park. She brought back to his recollection the happy
days of blissful childhood together on the banks of Anna Liffey when they
had indulged in the innocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the
dreadful present, they both laughed heartily, all the spectators,
including the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment. That
monster audience simply rocked with delight. But anon they were overcome
with grief and clasped their hands for the last time. A fresh torrent of
tears burst from their lachrymal ducts and the vast concourse of people,
touched to the inmost core, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least
affected being the aged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of
the peace and genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary,
were making frank use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say
that there was not a dry eye in that record assemblage. A most
romantic incident occurred when a handsome young Oxford graduate,
noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex, stepped forward and,
presenting his visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree,
solicited the hand of the hapless young lady, requesting her to
name the day, and was accepted on the spot. Every lady in the
audience was presented with a tasteful souvenir of the occasion
in the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a timely and generous
act which evoked a fresh outburst of emotion: and when the gallant
young Oxonian (the bearer, by the way, of one of the most timehonoured
names in Albion's history) placed on the finger of his blushing FIANCEE
an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a
fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. Nay, even the stern
provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan Tomlinson,
who presided on the sad occasion, he who had blown a considerable number
of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not now restrain
his natural emotion. With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a furtive
tear and was overheard, by those privileged burghers who happened to be
in his immediate ENTOURAGE, to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone:
--God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Blimey it
makes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does, when I sees her cause I
thinks of my old mashtub what's waiting for me down Limehouse way.
So then the citizen begins talking about the Irish language and the
corporation meeting and all to that and the shoneens that can't speak
their own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for
a quid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that
he cadged off of Joe and talking about the Gaelic league and the
antitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. Antitreating
is about the size of it. Gob, he'd let you pour all manner of drink
down his throat till the Lord would call him before you'd ever
see the froth of his pint. And one night I went in with a fellow
into one of their musical evenings, song and dance about she could
get up on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow
with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish and a lot
of colleen bawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals
and oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolagh
entertainment, don't be talking. Ireland sober is Ireland free. And then
an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers
shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or two sky
pilots having an eye around that there was no goings on with the females,
hitting below the belt.
So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty
starts mousing around by Joe and me. I'd train him by kindness, so I
would, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where
it wouldn't blind him.
--Afraid he'll bite you? says the citizen, jeering.
--No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.
So he calls the old dog over.
--What's on you, Garry? says he.
Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and
the old towser growling, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera.
Such growling you never heard as they let off between them. Someone that
has nothing better to do ought to write a letter PRO BONO PUBLICO to the
papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of that. Growling and
grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the
hydrophobia dropping out of his jaws.
All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among
the lower animals (and their name is legion) should make a point of not
missing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the
famous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the SOBRIQUET of
Garryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and
acquaintances Owen Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of years of
training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system, comprises,
among other achievements, the recitation of verse. Our greatest living
phonetic expert (wild horses shall not drag it from us!) has left no stone
unturned in his efforts to delucidate and compare the verse recited and has
found it bears a STRIKING resemblance (the italics are ours) to the ranns
of ancient Celtic bards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful
lovesongs with which the writer who conceals his identity under the
graceful pseudonym of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the
bookloving world but rather (as a contributor D. O. C. points out in an
interesting communication published by an evening contemporary) of the
harsher and more personal note which is found in the satirical effusions
of the famous Raftery and of Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a more
modern lyrist at present very much in the public eye. We subjoin a
specimen which has been rendered into English by an eminent scholar
whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though
we believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather
more than an indication. The metrical system of the canine original,
which recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of
the Welsh englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our
readers will agree that the spirit has been well caught. Perhaps
it should be added that the effect is greatly increased if Owen's
verse be spoken somewhat slowly and indistinctly in a tone suggestive
of suppressed rancour.
THE CURSE OF MY CURSES
SEVEN DAYS EVERY DAY
AND SEVEN DRY THURSDAYS
ON YOU, BARNEY KIERNAN,
HAS NO SUP OF WATER
TO COOL MY COURAGE,
AND MY GUTS RED ROARING
AFTER LOWRY'S LIGHTS.
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