by James Joyce
Meirdreach an Oincuish!
But a new complexion was put upon the matter when to the perplexedly uncondemnatory bench (whereon punic judgeship strove with penal law) the senior king of all, Pegger Festy, as soon as the outer layer of stuccko-muck had been removed at the request of a few live jurors, declared in a loudburst of poesy through his Brythonic interpreter on his oath, mhuith peisth mhuiseas fearra bheura muirre hriosmas, whereas take notice be the relics of the bones of the storybouchal that was ate be Cliopatrick (the sow) princess of parked porkers, afore God and all their honours and king’s commons that, what he would swear to the Tierney of Dundalgan or any other Tierney, yif live thurkells folloged him about sure that was no steal and that, nevertheless what was deposited from that eyebold earbig noseknaving gutthroat, he did not fire a stone either before or after he was born down and up to that time. And, incidentalising that they might talk about Markarthy or they might walk to Baalastartey or they might join the nabour party and come on to Porterfeud, this the sockdologer had the neck to endorse with the head bowed on him over his outturned noreaster by protesting to his lipreaders with a justbeencleaned barefacedness, abeam of moonlight’s hope, in the same trelawney what he would impart, pleas bench, to the Llwyd Josas and the gentlemen in Jury’s and the four of Masterers, who had been all those yarns yearning for that good one about why he left Dublin, that, amreeta beaker coddling doom, as an Inishman was as goods as any cantonnatal, if he was to parish by the market steak befare the dorming of the mawn he skuld never ask to see sight or light of this world or the other world or any either world of Tyre-nan-Og, as true as he was there in that jackabox that minute, or wield or wind (no thanks t’yous!) the inexousthausthible wassailhorn of iskybaush tot the hailth up the wailth of the endknown abgod of the fire of the moving way of the hawks with our hairoes in Warhorror, if ever in all his exchequered career he up or lave a chancery hand to take or throw the sign of a mortal stick or stone at man, yoelamb or salvation army either before or after being puptised down to that most holy and ever blessed hour. Awham.
Here, upon the halfkneed castleknocker’s attempting kithoguishly (in his excitement the laddo had broken exthro Castilian into which the whole audience perseguired and pursuited him olla podrida) to lilt his holymess the paws and make the sign of the Roman Godhelic faix (xaroshie, zdrst!), outbroke much yellachters from the owners in the heall (Ha!) in which, under the mollification of methaglin, the testifighter reluctingly, but with ever so ladylike indecorum, joined. (Ha! Ha!)
The hilariohoot of Pegger’s Windup cumjostled as neatly with the tristitone of the Wet Pinter’s as were they, isce et ille, equals of opposites, evolved by a onesame power of nature or of spirit, iste, as the sole condition and means of its himundher manifestation and polarised for reunion by the symphysis of their antipathies. Distinctly different were their duadestinies.
Whereas the maidies of the bar (a pairless trentene, a lunarised score), when the eranthus myrrmyrred Show’m the Posed, fluttered and flattered around the willingly pressed, nominating him for the swiney prize, complimenting him, the captivating youth, on his having all his senses about him, stincking thyacinths through his curls (O feen! O deur!) and bringing busses to his cheeks, their masculine Oirisher Rose (his neece cleur!), and legando round his nice new neck for him and pizzicagnoling his woolly-wags, with their dindy dandy sugar de candy, couriermechree me postheen flown, to believe them of all his untiring young dames and send them treats in their times, Ymen, it was not unobserved of those presents, their worships, how, of one among all, her deputised to defeme him by the Lunar Sisters’ Celibacy Club, a lovelooking leapgirl, all all alonely, Gemma Gentia of the Makegiddyculling Reeks, he, wan and pale in his unmixed admiration, seemed blindly, mutely, tastelessly, tactlessly innamorate, with heruponhim in shining aminglement, the shaym of his hisn shifting into the shimmering of her hers (youthsy, beautsy, hee’s her chap and shey’ll tell memmas when she gays whom) till the wild wishwish of her sheeshea melted moist musically mid the dark deepdeep of his shayshaun.
And whereas distracted (for was not just this in effect which had just caused that the effect of that which it had caused to occur?) the four justicers laid their wigs together, Untius, Muncius, Punchus and Pylax, but could do no worse than promulgate their standing verdict of Nolans Brumans whereonafter King, having murdered all the English he knew, picked out his pockets and left the tribunal scotfree, trailing his Tommeylommey’s tunic in his hurry, thereinunder proudly showing off the blink pitch to his britgits to prove himself (an’t plase yous!) a rael genteel. To the Switz bobbyguard’s curial but courtlike: Commodore valley O hairy, Arthre jennyrosy?, the firewaterloover returted with such a vinesmelling fortytudor ages rawdownhams tanyouhide as would turn the latten stomach even of a tumass equinous (we were prepared for the chap’s clap cap, the accent, but, took us as, by, surprise and now we’re geshing it like gush gash from a burner!) so that all the twofromthirty advocatesses within echo, pulling up their briefs at the krigkry Shun the Punman!, safely and soundly soccered that fenemine Parish Poser (how dare he!) umprumptu rightoway hames, much to his thanks, gratiasagam, to all the wrong donatrices (for like your true venuson Esau he was dovetimid as the dears at Bottome), to biss Drinkbottle’s Dingy Dwellings (toegang) where he shat in (zoo) like the muddy goalbird who he was (dun), the chassetitties belles conclaiming: You and your gift of your gaft of your garbage abaht our Farvver! and gaingridando: Hon! Verg! Nau! Putor! Skam! Schams! Shames!
And so it all ended. Artha kama dharma moksa. Ask Kavya for the kay. And so everybody heard their plaint and all listened to their plause. The letter! The litter! And the soother the bitther! Of eyebrow pencilled, by lip-stipple penned. Borrowing a word and begging the question and stealing tinder and slipping like soap. From dark Rosa Lane a sigh and a weep, from Lesbia Looshe the beam in her eye, from lone Coogan Barry his arrow of song, from Sean Kelly’s anagrim a blush at the name, from I am the Sullivan that trumpeting tramp, from Suffering Dufferin the sit of her style, from Kathleen May Vernon her mebbe fair efforts, from Fillthepot Curran his scotchlove machreether, from hymn Op 2 Phil Adolphos the weary O, the leery, O, from Samyouwill Leaver or Damyouwell Lover that jolly old molly bit or that bored saunter by, from Timm Finn again’s weak, tribes, loss of strength to his sowheel, from the wedding on the greene, agirlies, the gretnass of joyboys, from Pat Mullen, Tom Mallon, Dan Meldon, Don Maldon a slickstick picnic made in Moate by Muldoons. The solid man saved by his sillied woman. Crackajolking away like a hearse on fire. The elm that whimpers at the top told the stone that moans when stricken. Wind broke it. Wave bore it. Reed wrote of it. Syce ran with it. Hand tore it and wild went war. Hen trieved it and plight pledged peace. It was folded with cunning, sealed with crime, uptied by a harlot, undone by a child. It was life but was it fair? It was free but was it art? The old hunks on the hill read it to perlection. It made ma make merry and sissy so shy and rubbed some shine off Shem and put some shame into Shaun. Yet Una and Ita spell famine with drought and Agrippa, the propastored, spills tripulations in his threne. Ah, furchte fruchte, timid Danaides! Ena milo melomou, frai is frau and swee is too, swee is two when swoo is free, ana mala woe is we! A pair of sycopanties with amygdaleine eyes, one old obster lumpky pumpkin and three meddlars on their slies. And that was how, framm sin fromm son, acity arose, finfin funfun, asitting arows. Now tell me, tell me, tell me then!
What was it?
A..….!
?..… O!
So there you are now there they were, when all was over again, the four with them, setting around upin their judges’ chambers, in the muniment room of their marshalsea, under the auspices of Lally, around their old traditional tables of the law like somany solans to talk it over allthesameagain. Well and druly dry. Suffering law the dring. Accourting to king’s evelyns. So help her goat and kiss the bouc. Festives and highajinks and jintyaun and her beetyrossy bettydoaty and not to forget now a’duna o’darnel. The four of them and thank court now there were no more
of them. So pass the push, for port’ sake. Be it soon. Ah ho! And do you remember Singabob, the bad-father, the same, the great Howdoyoucallem, and his old nickname, Dirty Daddy Pantaloons, in his monopoleums, behind the war of the two roses, with Michael Victory, the sheemen’s preester, before he caught his paper dispillsation from the poke, old Minace and Minster York? Do I mind? I mind the gush off the mon like Ballybock manure works on a tradewinds day. And the O’Moyly gracies and the O’Briny rossies chassing him bluchface and playing him pranks. How do you do todo, North Mister? Get into my way! Ah dearome forsailorshe! Gone over the bays! When ginabawdy meadabawdy! Yerra, why would she heed that old gasometer with his hooping coppin and his dyinboosycough and all the birds of the southside after her, Minxy Cunningham, their dear divorcee darling, jimmies and jonnies, to be her jo? Hold hard. There’s three other corners to our isle’s cork float. Sure, ’tis well I can telesmell him, H2CE3 that would take a township’s breath away! Gob and I nose him too as well as I do meself, heaving up the Kay Wall by the 32 to 11 with his limelooking horsebags full of sesameseed, the Whiteside Kaffir, and his sayman’s effluvium and his scentpainted voice, puffing out his thundering big brown cabbage! Pa! Thawt I’m glad a gull for his pawsdeen fiunn! Goborro, sez he, Lankyshies! Gobugga ye, sez I, O breezes! I sniffed that lad long before anyone. It was when I was in my farfather out at the west and she and myself, the redheaded girl, firstnighters down Sycomore Lane. Fine feelplay we had of it mid the kissabetts frisking in the kool kurkle dusk of the lushiness. My perfume of the pampas, says she (meaning me), putting out her netherlights, I’d sooner one precious sip at your pure mountain dew than enrich my acquaintance with that big brewer’s belch.
And now a drink is shorter than a story. And so they went on, the four-bottle men, the analists, unquam and nunquam and lunquam again, their anschluss, about her whosebefore and his wheresafter and how she was lost away away in the fern and how he was founded deap on deep in anear and the rustlings and the twitterings and the raspings and the snappings and the sighings and the pantings and the ukukukings and the (hist!) the springapartings and the (hast!) the bybyscuttlings and all the scandalmunkers and the pure craigs that used to be (up) that time living and lying and rating and riding round Nunsbelly Square. And all the buds in the bush. And the laughing jackass. Harik! Harik! Harik! The rose is white in the darik! And sunfella’s nose has got rhinoceritis from haunting the roes in the parik! So all rogues lean to rhyme. And contradrinking themselves about Lillytrilly law pon hilly and Mrs Niall of the Nine Corsages and the old markiss, their besterfar, and, arrah, sure there was never a marcus at all at all among the manlies, and dear sir armoury, queer sir rumoury, and the old house by the churpelizod and all the goings on so very wrong long before when they were going on retreat in the old gammeldags, the four of them, in Milton’s Park under lovely Father Whisperer and making her love with his stuffstuff in the languish of flowers and feeling to find was she mushymushy, and wasn’t that very both of them, the saucicissters, a drahereen o machree!, and (peep!) meeting waters most improper (peepette!) ballround the garden, trickle trickle trickle triss, please, miman, may I go flirting? farmer’s gone with a groom, how they used her, mused her, licksed her and cuddled. I differ with ye! Are you sure of yourself now? You’re a liar, excuse me! I will not and you’re another! And Lully holding their breach of the peace for them. Pool loll Lolly! To give and to take! And to forgo the pasht! And all will be forgotten! Ah ho! It was too too bad to be falling out about her kindness pet and the shape of ooooooooourang’s time. Well, all right, Lelly. And shakeahand. And schenkusmore. For Craig sake. Be it suck.
Well?
Well, even should not the framing up of such figments in the evidential order bring the true truth to light as fortuitously as a dimseer’s setting of a starchart might (heaven helping it!) uncover the nakedness of an unknown body in the fields of blue or as forehearingly as the sibspeeches of all mankind have foliated (earth seizing them!) from the root of somefunner’s stotter, all the soundest sense to be found immense our special mentalists now holds (securus iudicat orbis terrarum) that by such playing possum our hagious curious encestor bestly saved his brush with his posterity, you, charming coparcenors, us, heirs of his tailsie. Gundogs of all breeds were beagling with renounced urbiandorbic bugles, hot to run him, given law, on a scent breasthigh, keen for the worry. View! From his holt outratted, across the Juletide’s genial corsslands of Humfries Chase from Mullinahob and Peacockstown, then bearing right upon Tankardstown, the outlier, a white noelan which Mr Loewensteil FitzUrse’s basset beaters had first misbadgered for a bruin of some swart, led bayers the run, then through Raystown and Harlockstown and, louping the loup, to Tankardstown again. Ear canny hare for doubling, through Cheeverstown they raced him, through Loughlinstown and Nutstown to wind him by the Boolies. But from the good turn when he last was lost, check, upon Ye Hill of Rut in full winter coat with ticker pads, pointing for his rooming house in his rolltoproyal hessians, a deaf fuchser’s volponism hid him close in covert, miraculously ravenfed and buoyed up, in rumer, reticule, onasum and abomasum, upon (may Allbrewham have his mead!) the creamclotted sherriness of cinnamon syllabub. Mikkelraved, Nikkelsaved. Hence hounds hied home. Preservative perseverance in the reeducation of his intestines was thus the rebuttal by whilk he sort of git the big bulge on the whole bunch of spasoakers, dieting against glues and gravies, in that sometime prestreet protown. Vainly violence, virulence and vituperation sought wellnigh utterly to attax and abridge, to derail and depontify, to enrate and inroad, to ongoad and unhume the great shipping mogul and underlinen overlord.
But the spoil of hesitants, the spell of hesitency. His atake is it ashe, tittery taw tatterytail, hasitense humponadimply, heyheyheyhey a winceywencky.
Assemblymen murmured. Reynard is slow!
One feared for his days. Did there yawn? ’Twas his stommick. Eruct? The libber. A gush? From his visceals. Pung? Delivver him, orelode! He had laid violent hands on himself, it was brought in Fugger’s Newsletter, lain down, all in, fagged out, with equally melancholy death. For the triduum of Saturnalia his goatservant had paraded hiz willingsons in the Forum while the jenny infanted the lass to be greeted raucously with houx and epheus and (the Yard stated) measured with missiles too from a hundred of manhood and a wimmering of weibes. Big went the bang: then wildewide was quiet: a report: badoldkaraktercommonorrumcanbung: silence: last Fama put it under ether. The noase or the loal had dreven him blem, blem, stun blem. Sparks flew. He had fled again (open shunshema!) this country of exile, sloughed off, sidleshomed via his old nordest subterranean tunnel shored with bedboards, stowed away and ankered in a dutch bottom, tunk the Arsa, hod S.S. Finlandia, and was even now, under an islamitic newname, occupying, in his seventh generation, a physical body, Cornelius Magrath’s, in Asia Major, where as Turk of the theatre (the first house all flatty: the king, eleven sharps) he had bepiastered the buikdanseuses from the opulence of his omnibox while as Arab at the streetdoor he had bepestered the bumbashaws for the alms of a para’s pence. Wires hummed. Peacefully general astonishment assisted by regrettitude had put a term till his existence: he saw the family saggarth, resigned himself, put off his remainders, was recalled and scrapheaped by the Maker. Chirpings crossed. An infamous private ailment (vulgovariovenereal) had claimed endright, closed his vicious circle, snap. Jams jarred. He had walked towards the middle of an ornamental lilypond when innebriated up to the point where braced shirts meet knickerbockers, as wangfish daring the buoyant waters, when rodmen’s firstaiding hands had rescued un from very possibly several feet of demifrish water. Mush spread. On Umbrella Street, where he did drinks from a pumps, a kind workman, Mr Whitlock, gave him a piece of his wood. What words of power were made fas between them, ekenames and auchnomes, acnomina ecnumina, that, O that, did Hansard tell us, would gar ganz Dub’s ear wag in every pub of all the citta! Batty believes a baton while Hogan hears a hod yet Peer prefers a punsil shapner and Cope and Bull go cup and ball. And the Cassidy-Craddock r
ome and reme round e’er a wiege ne’er a waage is still immer and immor awagering over it, a cradle with a care in it or a casket with a kick behind. Toties testies quoties questies. The war is in words and the wood is the world. Maply me, willowy we, hickory he and yew yourselves. Howforhim chirrupeth evereachbird! From golddawn glory to glowworm gleam. We were low quacks did we not tacit turn. Elsewere there here no concern of the Guinnesses. Cracklings crickled. A human pest cycling (pist!) and recycling (past!) about the sledgy streets of the garden -city, here he was (pust!) again! He was loose at large and (O baby!) might be anywhere, but only the ruining of the rain has heard. Morse nuisance noised when a disguised exnun of huge standbuild and masculine manners in her fairly fat forties, Carpulenta Gygasta, hattracted hattention by harbitrary conduct with a hominibuzz. Aerials bizzed to coastal listeners of an oertax collector’s budget, fullybigs, sporran, tie, tuft, tabard and bloody antichill cloak, its tailor’s (Baernfather’s) tab reading V.P.H., found nigh Scald-brothar’s Hole, and divers shivered to think what kaind of beast, wolves, croppies or fourpenny friars had devoured him. C.W. cast wide. Hvidfinns lyk, drohneth svertgleam, Valkir lockt. On his pinksir’s postern, the boys had it, at Whitweekend had been nailed an inkedup name and title, inscribed in the national cursives, accelerated, regressive, filiform, turreted, and envemoloped in piggotry: Move up, Mumpty! Mike room for Rumpty! By order, Nickellous Plugg! And this go, no pentecostal jest about it, how gregarious his race soever or skilful learned wise cunning knowledgable clear profound his saying fortitudofraught or prudentiaproven, were he chief, count, general, fieldmarshal, prince, king or Myles the Slasher in his person, with a moliamordhar mansion in the Breffnian empire and a place of inauguration on the hill of Tullymongan, there had been real murder of the ragheallach royghal raxacraxian variety: the MacMahon chaps, it was, that had done him in. On the field of Verdor the rampant combatants had left him lion with his dexter handcoup wresterected in a puree de paumee bloody proper. Indeed not a few thick and thin wellwishers, mostly of the clontarfminded class (Colonel John Bawle O’Roarke, feroxamplus), even ventured so far as to loan or beg copies of D. Blayny’s trilingual triweekly, Scatterbrains’ Aftening Posht, so as to make certain sure onetime and be satisfied of their quasicontribusodalitarian’s having become genuinely quite beetly dead whether by land whither by water. Transocean atalaclamoured him: The latter! The latter! Shall their hope then be silent or Macfarlane lack of lamentation? He lay under leagues of it in deep Bartholomew’s Deep.