No More Learning

says Joe.

--Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry Menton's and then he went round
to Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round to
the subsheriff's for a lark. O God, I've a pain laughing. U. p: up. The
long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloody old
lunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man.

--When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.

--Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan?

--Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a
pony. That bloody old fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen
long John's eye. U. p. . .

And he started laughing.

--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that Bergan?

--Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.

Terence O'Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup
full of the foamy ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and
Bungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as the sons of
deathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and
mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour
juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day
from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.

Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner born,
that nectarous beverage and you offered the crystal cup to him that
thirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals.

But he, the young chief of the O'Bergan's, could ill brook to be outdone
in generous deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture a testoon of
costliest bronze. Thereon embossed in excellent smithwork was seen
the image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house of Brunswick,
Victoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of God of the
United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British dominions
beyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even
she, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the wellbeloved, for
they knew and loved her from the rising of the sun to the going down
thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.

--What's that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up and
down outside?

--What's that? says Joe.

--Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging,
I'll show you something you never saw. Hangmen's letters. Look at here.

So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his pocket.

--Are you codding? says I.

--Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.

So Joe took up the letters.

--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran.

So I saw there was going to be a bit of a dust Bob's a queer chap when
the porter's up in him so says I just to make talk:

--How's Willy Murray those times, Alf?

--I don't know, says Alf I saw him just now in Capel street with Paddy
Dignam. Only I was running after that. . .

--You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?

--With Dignam, says Alf.

--Is it Paddy? says Joe.

--Yes, says Alf. Why?

--Don't you know he's dead? says Joe.

--Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf.

--Ay, says Joe.

--Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain as
a pikestaff.

--Who's dead? says Bob Doran.

--You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm.

--What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five. . . What? . . . And Willy Murray
with him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim's. . . What? Dignam
dead?

--What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who's talking about. . . ?

--Dead! says Alf. He's no more dead than you are.

--Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning
anyhow.

--Paddy? says Alf.

--Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him.

--Good Christ! says Alf.

Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.

In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer by
tantras had been directed to the proper quarter a faint but increasing
luminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition of
the etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge
of jivic rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication was
effected through the pituitary body and also by means of the orangefiery
and scarlet rays emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus.
Questioned by his earthname as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld he
stated that he was now on the path of pr l ya or return but was still
submitted to trial at the hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the
lower astral levels. In reply to a question as to his first sensations
in the great divide beyond he stated that previously he had seen as in a
glass darkly but that those who had passed over had summit possibilities
of atmic development opened up to them. Interrogated as to whether life
there resembled our experience in the flesh he stated that he had heard
from more favoured beings now in the spirit that their abodes were
equipped with every modern home comfort such as talafana, alavatar,
hatakalda, wataklasat and that the highest adepts were steeped in
waves of volupcy of the very purest nature. Having requested a quart of
buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief. Asked if he
had any message for the living he exhorted all who were still at the
wrong side of Maya to acknowledge the true path for it was reported
in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were out for mischief on the
eastern angle where the ram has power. It was then queried whether there
were any special desires on the part of the defunct and the reply was:
_We greet you, friends of earth, who are still in the body. Mind C. K.
doesn't pile it on. _ It was ascertained that the reference was to Mr
Cornelius Kelleher, manager of Messrs H. J. O'Neill's popular
funeral establishment, a personal friend of the defunct, who had been
responsible for the carrying out of the interment arrangements. Before
departing he requested that it should be told to his dear son Patsy that
the other boot which he had been looking for was at present under the
commode in the return room and that the pair should be sent to Cullen's
to be soled only as the heels were still good. He stated that this had
greatly perturbed his peace of mind in the other region and earnestly
requested that his desire should be made known.

Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was
intimated that this had given satisfaction.

He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was
his foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with
your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.

--There he is again, says the citizen, staring out.

--Who? says I.

--Bloom, says he. He's on point duty up and down there for the last ten
minutes.

And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.

Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.

--Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.

And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest
blackguard in Dublin when he's under the influence:

--Who said Christ is good?

--I beg your parsnips, says Alf.

--Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy
Dignam?

--Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He's over all his troubles.

But Bob Doran shouts out of him.

--He's a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.

Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn't
want that kind of talk in a respectable licensed premises. And Bob Doran
starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you're there.

--The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character.

The tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat. Fitter
for him go home to the little sleepwalking bitch he married, Mooney, the
bumbailiff's daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwicke street, that
used to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told me that was
stopping there at two in the morning without a stitch on her, exposing
her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.

--The noblest, the truest, says he. And he's gone, poor little Willy,
poor little Paddy Dignam.

And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that
beam of heaven.

Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round
the door.

--Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says the citizen.

So Bloom slopes in with his cod's eye on the dog and he asks Terry was
Martin Cunningham there.

--O, Christ M'Keown, says Joe, reading one of the letters. Listen to
this, will you?

And he starts reading out one.

_7 Hunter Street, Liverpool. To the High Sheriff of Dublin, Dublin. _

_Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the abovementioned painful
case i hanged Joe Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 of Febuary 1900 and i
hanged. . . _

--Show us, Joe, says I.

--_. . . private Arthur Chace for fowl murder of Jessie Tilsit in
Pentonville prison and i was assistant when. . . _

--Jesus, says I.

--_. . . Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith. . . _

The citizen made a grab at the letter.

--Hold hard, says Joe, _i have a special nack of putting the noose once
in he can't get out hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir, my
terms is five ginnees. _

_H. RUMBOLD, MASTER BARBER. _

--And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen.

--And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. Here, says he, take them
to hell out of my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, says he, what will you have?

So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and he
couldn't and excuse him no offence and all to that and then he said well
he'd just take a cigar. Gob, he's a prudent member and no mistake.

--Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.

And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a mourning card with a
black border round it.

--They're all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hang
their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.

And he was telling us there's two fellows waiting below to pull his
heels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then they
chop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob a skull.

In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Their
deadly coil they grasp: yea, and therein they lead to Erebus whatsoever
wight hath done a deed of blood for I will on nowise suffer it even so
saith the Lord.

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
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 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. _

So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could
hear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have
another.

--I will, says he, _a chara_, to show there's no ill feeling.

Gob, he's not as green as he's cabbagelooking. Arsing around from one
pub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap's dog
and getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. Entertainment for
man and beast. And says Joe:

--Could you make a hole in another pint?

--Could a swim duck? says I.

--Same again, Terry, says Joe. Are you sure you won't have anything in
the way of liquid refreshment? says he.

--Thank you, no, says Bloom. As a matter of fact I just wanted to meet
Martin Cunningham, don't you see, about this insurance of poor Dignam's.
Martin asked me to go to the house. You see, he, Dignam, I mean, didn't
serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and
nominally under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy.

--Holy Wars, says Joe, laughing, that's a good one if old Shylock is
landed. So the wife comes out top dog, what?

--Well, that's a point, says Bloom, for the wife's admirers.

--Whose admirers? says Joe.

--The wife's advisers, I mean, says Bloom.

Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act
like the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and for the benefit
of the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand that
Dignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow
contested the mortgagee's right till he near had the head of me addled
with his mortgagor under the act. He was bloody safe he wasn't run in
himself under the act that time as a rogue and vagabond only he had a
friend in court. Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal
Hungarian privileged lottery. True as you're there. O, commend me to an
israelite! Royal and privileged Hungarian robbery.

So Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to tell Mrs Dignam he
was sorry for her trouble and he was very sorry about the funeral and
to tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there was
never a truer, a finer than poor little Willy that's dead to tell her.
Choking with bloody foolery. And shaking Bloom's hand doing the tragic
to tell her that. Shake hands, brother. You're a rogue and I'm another.

--Let me, said he, so far presume upon our acquaintance which, however
slight it may appear if judged by the standard of mere time, is founded,
as I hope and believe, on a sentiment of mutual esteem as to request of
you this favour. But, should I have overstepped the limits of reserve
let the sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my boldness.

--No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full the motives which
actuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office you entrust to
me consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of sorrow,
this proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitterness of
the cup.

--Then suffer me to take your hand, said he. The goodness of your heart,
I feel sure, will dictate to you better than my inadequate words
the expressions which are most suitable to convey an emotion whose
poignancy, were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even of
speech.

And off with him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at five
o'clock. Night he was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the
bobby, 14A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street after
closing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking
porter out of teacups. And calling himself a Frenchy for the shawls,
Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and he serving
mass in Adam and Eve's when he was young with his eyes shut, who wrote
the new testament, and the old testament, and hugging and 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.