Episode 11: Sirens (Literary technique: Fuga per canonem (fugue or polyphony by rule: weaving of various voices and motifs in counterpoint to one another). Art: Music. Time: 38 40 pm. Place: Ormond Hotel

Style 12: In the manner of Jonathan Swift’s A Tale of a Tub, in which Swift lampoons the Catholic church’s use of papal bulls

Download 1.73 Mb.
Size1.73 Mb.
1   ...   14   15   16   17   18   19   20   21   ...   29

Style 12: In the manner of Jonathan Swift’s A Tale of a Tub, in which Swift lampoons the Catholic church’s use of papal bulls.
an Irish bull in an

English chinashop. I conceive you, says Mr Dixon. It is that same bull

that was sent to our island by farmer Nicholas, the bravest cattlebreeder

of them all, with an emerald ring in his nose. True for you, says Mr

Vincent cross the table, and a bullseye into the bargain, says he, and a

plumper and a portlier bull, says he, never shit on shamrock. He had

horns galore, a coat of cloth of gold and a sweet smoky breath coming out

of his nostrils so that the women of our island, leaving doughballs and

rollingpins, followed after him hanging his bulliness in daisychains.

What for that, says Mr Dixon, but before he came over farmer Nicholas

that was a eunuch had him properly gelded by a college of doctors who

were no better off than himself. So be off now, says he, and do all my

cousin german the lord Harry tells you and take a farmer's blessing, and

with that he slapped his posteriors very soundly. But the slap and the

blessing stood him friend, says Mr Vincent, for to make up he taught him

a trick worth two of the other so that maid, wife, abbess and widow to

this day affirm that they would rather any time of the month whisper in

his ear in the dark of a cowhouse or get a lick on the nape from his long

holy tongue than lie with the finest strapping young ravisher in the four

fields of all Ireland. Another then put in his word: And they dressed

him, says he, in a point shift and petticoat with a tippet and girdle and

ruffles on his wrists and clipped his forelock and rubbed him all over

with spermacetic oil and built stables for him at every turn of the road

with a gold manger in each full of the best hay in the market so that he

could doss and dung to his heart's content. By this time the father of

the faithful (for so they called him) was grown so heavy that he could

scarce walk to pasture. To remedy which our cozening dames and damsels

brought him his fodder in their apronlaps and as soon as his belly was

full he would rear up on his hind uarters to show their ladyships a

mystery and roar and bellow out of him in bulls' language and they all

after him. Ay, says another, and so pampered was he that he would suffer

nought to grow in all the land but green grass for himself (for that was

the only colour to his mind) and there was a board put up on a hillock in

the middle of the island with a printed notice, saying: By the Lord

Harry, Green is the grass that grows on the ground. And, says Mr Dixon,

if ever he got scent of a cattleraider in Roscommon or the wilds of

Connemara or a husbandman in Sligo that was sowing as much as a handful

of mustard or a bag of rapeseed out he'd run amok over half the

countryside rooting up with his horns whatever was planted and all by

lord Harry's orders. There was bad blood between them at first, says Mr

Vincent, and the lord Harry called farmer Nicholas all the old Nicks in

the world and an old whoremaster that kept seven trulls in his house and

I'll meddle in his matters, says he. I'll make that animal smell hell,

says he, with the help of that good pizzle my father left me. But one

evening, says Mr Dixon, when the lord Harry was cleaning his royal pelt

to go to dinner after winning a boatrace (he had spade oars for himself

but the first rule of the course was that the others were to row with

pitchforks) he discovered in himself a wonderful likeness to a bull and

on picking up a blackthumbed chapbook that he kept in the pantry he found

sure enough that he was a lefthanded descendant of the famous champion

bull of the Romans, BOS BOVUM, which is good bog Latin for boss of the

show. After that, says Mr Vincent, the lord Harry put his head into a

cow's drinkingtrough in the presence of all his courtiers and pulling it

out again told them all his new name. Then, with the water running off

him, he got into an old smock and skirt that had belonged to his

grandmother and bought a grammar of the bulls' language to study but he

could never learn a word of it except the first personal pronoun which he

copied out big and got off by heart and if ever he went out for a walk he

filled his pockets with chalk to write it upon what took his fancy, the

side of a rock or a teahouse table or a bale of cotton or a corkfloat. In

short, he and the bull of Ireland were soon as fast friends as an arse

and a shirt. They were, says Mr Stephen, and the end was that the men of

the island seeing no help was toward, as the ungrate women were all of

one mind, made a wherry raft, loaded themselves and their bundles of

chattels on shipboard, set all masts erect, manned the yards, sprang

their luff, heaved to, spread three sheets in the wind, put her head

between wind and water, weighed anchor, ported her helm, ran up the jolly

Roger, gave three times three, let the bullgine run, pushed off in their

bumboat and put to sea to recover the main of America. Which was the

occasion, says Mr Vincent, of the composing by a boatswain of that

rollicking chanty:


Style 13: In the style of Joseph Addison and Richard Steele’s periodical essays in the Tatler and Spectator.
Our worthy acquaintance Mr Malachi Mulligan now appeared in the doorway

as the students were finishing their apologue accompanied with a friend

whom he had just rencountered, a young gentleman, his name Alec Bannon,

who had late come to town, it being his intention to buy a colour or a

cornetcy in the fencibles and list for the wars. Mr Mulligan was civil

enough to express some relish of it all the more as it jumped with a

project of his own for the cure of the very evil that had been touched

on. Whereat he handed round to the company a set of pasteboard cards

which he had had printed that day at Mr Quinnell's bearing a legend


LAMBAY ISLAND. His project, as he went on to expound, was to withdraw

from the round of idle pleasures such as form the chief business of sir

Fopling Popinjay and sir Milksop Quidnunc in town and to devote himself

to the noblest task for which our bodily organism has been framed. Well,

let us hear of it, good my friend, said Mr Dixon. I make no doubt it

smacks of wenching. Come, be seated, both. 'Tis as cheap sitting as

standing. Mr Mulligan accepted of the invitation and, expatiating upon

his design, told his hearers that he had been led into this thought by a

consideration of the causes of sterility, both the inhibitory and the

prohibitory, whether the inhibition in its turn were due to conjugal

vexations or to a parsimony of the balance as well as whether the

prohibition proceeded from defects congenital or from proclivities

acquired. It grieved him plaguily, he said, to see the nuptial couch

defrauded of its dearest pledges: and to reflect upon so many agreeable

females with rich jointures, a prey to the vilest bonzes, who hide their

flambeau under a bushel in an uncongenial cloister or lose their womanly

bloom in the embraces of some unaccountable muskin when they might

multiply the inlets of happiness, sacrificing the inestimable jewel of

their sex when a hundred pretty fellows were at hand to caress, this, he

assured them, made his heart weep. To curb this inconvenient (which he

concluded due to a suppression of latent heat), having advised with

certain counsellors of worth and inspected into this matter, he had

resolved to purchase in fee simple for ever the freehold of Lambay island

from its holder, lord Talbot de Malahide, a Tory gentleman of note much

in favour with our ascendancy party. He proposed to set up there a

national fertilising farm to be named OMPHALOS with an obelisk hewn and

erected after the fashion of Egypt and to offer his dutiful yeoman

services for the fecundation of any female of what grade of life soever

who should there direct to him with the desire of fulfilling the

functions of her natural. Money was no object, he said, nor would he take

a penny for his pains. The poorest kitchenwench no less than the opulent

lady of fashion, if so be their constructions and their tempers were warm

persuaders for their petitions, would find in him their man. For his

nutriment he shewed how he would feed himself exclusively upon a diet of

savoury tubercles and fish and coneys there, the flesh of these latter

prolific rodents being highly recommended for his purpose, both broiled

and stewed with a blade of mace and a pod or two of capsicum chillies.

After this homily which he delivered with much warmth of asseveration Mr

Mulligan in a trice put off from his hat a kerchief with which he had

shielded it. They both, it seems, had been overtaken by the rain and for

all their mending their pace had taken water, as might be observed by Mr

Mulligan's smallclothes of a hodden grey which was now somewhat piebald.

His project meanwhile was very favourably entertained by his auditors and

won hearty eulogies from all though Mr Dixon of Mary's excepted to it,

asking with a finicking air did he purpose also to carry coals to

Newcastle. Mr Mulligan however made court to the scholarly by an apt

quotation from the classics which, as it dwelt upon his memory, seemed to

him a sound and tasteful support of his contention: TALIS AC TANTA



EXCELSIS ERECTIONIBUS CENTURIONUM ROMANORUM MAGNOPERE ANTEPONUNT [Of such a kind and so great is the depravity of our generation, O Citizens, that our matrons much prefer the lascivious titillation of Gallic half-men to the weighty testicles and extraordinary erections of the Roman centurion], while

for those of ruder wit he drove home his point by analogies of the animal

kingdom more suitable to their stomach, the buck and doe of the forest

glade, the farmyard drake and duck.
Valuing himself not a little upon his elegance, being indeed a proper man

of person, this talkative now applied himself to his dress with

animadversions of some heat upon the sudden whimsy of the atmospherics

while the company lavished their encomiums upon the project he had

advanced. The young gentleman, his friend, overjoyed as he was at a

passage that had late befallen him, could not forbear to tell it his

nearest neighbour. Mr Mulligan, now perceiving the table, asked for whom

were those loaves and fishes and, seeing the stranger, he made him a

civil bow and said, Pray, sir, was you in need of any professional

assistance we could give? Who, upon his offer, thanked him very heartily,

though preserving his proper distance, and replied that he was come there

about a lady, now an inmate of Horne's house, that was in an interesting

condition, poor body, from woman's woe (and here he fetched a deep sigh)

to know if her happiness had yet taken place. Mr Dixon, to turn the

table, took on to ask of Mr Mulligan himself whether his incipient

ventripotence, upon which he rallied him, betokened an ovoblastic

gestation in the prostatic utricle or male womb or was due, as with the

noted physician, Mr Austin Meldon, to a wolf in the stomach. For answer

Mr Mulligan, in a gale of laughter at his smalls, smote himself bravely

below the diaphragm, exclaiming with an admirable droll mimic of Mother

Grogan (the most excellent creature of her sex though 'tis pity she's a

trollop): There's a belly that never bore a bastard. This was so happy a

conceit that it renewed the storm of mirth and threw the whole room into

the most violent agitations of delight. The spry rattle had run on in the

same vein of mimicry but for some larum in the antechamber.
Style 14: After the style of Laurence Stern, particularly his Sentimental Journey.
Here the listener who was none other than the Scotch student, a little

fume of a fellow, blond as tow, congratulated in the liveliest fashion

with the young gentleman and, interrupting the narrative at a salient

point, having desired his visavis with a polite beck to have the

obligingness to pass him a flagon of cordial waters at the same time by a

questioning poise of the head (a whole century of polite breeding had not

achieved so nice a gesture) to which was united an equivalent but

contrary balance of the bottle asked the narrator as plainly as was ever

done in words if he might treat him with a cup of it. MAIS BIEN SUR,

noble stranger, said he cheerily, ET MILLE COMPLIMENTS. That you may and

very opportunely. There wanted nothing but this cup to crown my felicity.

But, gracious heaven, was I left with but a crust in my wallet and a

cupful of water from the well, my God, I would accept of them and find it

in my heart to kneel down upon the ground and give thanks to the powers

above for the happiness vouchsafed me by the Giver of good things. With

these words he approached the goblet to his lips, took a complacent

draught of the cordial, slicked his hair and, opening his bosom, out

popped a locket that hung from a silk riband, that very picture which he

had cherished ever since her hand had wrote therein. Gazing upon those

features with a world of tenderness, Ah, Monsieur, he said, had you but

beheld her as I did with these eyes at that affecting instant with her

dainty tucker and her new coquette cap (a gift for her feastday as she

told me prettily) in such an artless disorder, of so melting a

tenderness, 'pon my conscience, even you, Monsieur, had been impelled by

generous nature to deliver yourself wholly into the hands of such an

enemy or to quit the field for ever. I declare, I was never so touched in

all my life. God, I thank thee, as the Author of my days! Thrice happy

will he be whom so amiable a creature will bless with her favours. A sigh

of affection gave eloquence to these words and, having replaced the

locket in his bosom, he wiped his eye and sighed again. Beneficent

Disseminator of blessings to all Thy creatures, how great and universal

must be that sweetest of Thy tyrannies which can hold in thrall the free

and the bond, the simple swain and the polished coxcomb, the lover in the

heyday of reckless passion and the husband of maturer years. But indeed,

sir, I wander from the point. How mingled and imperfect are all our

sublunary joys. Maledicity! he exclaimed in anguish. Would to God that

foresight had but remembered me to take my cloak along! I could weep to

think of it. Then, though it had poured seven showers, we were neither of

us a penny the worse. But beshrew me, he cried, clapping hand to his

forehead, tomorrow will be a new day and, thousand thunders, I know of a

MARCHAND DE CAPOTES, Monsieur Poyntz, from whom I can have for a livre as

snug a cloak of the French fashion as ever kept a lady from wetting. Tut,

tut! cries Le Fecondateur, tripping in, my friend Monsieur Moore, that

most accomplished traveller (I have just cracked a half bottle AVEC LUI

in a circle of the best wits of the town), is my authority that in Cape

Horn, VENTRE BICHE, they have a rain that will wet through any, even the

stoutest cloak. A drenching of that violence, he tells me, SANS BLAGUE,

has sent more than one luckless fellow in good earnest posthaste to

another world. Pooh! A LIVRE! cries Monsieur Lynch. The clumsy things are

dear at a sou. One umbrella, were it no bigger than a fairy mushroom, is

worth ten such stopgaps. No woman of any wit would wear one. My dear

Kitty told me today that she would dance in a deluge before ever she

would starve in such an ark of salvation for, as she reminded me

(blushing piquantly and whispering in my ear though there was none to

snap her words but giddy butterflies), dame Nature, by the divine

blessing, has implanted it in our hearts and it has become a household

word that IL Y A DEUX CHOSES for which the innocence of our original

garb, in other circumstances a breach of the proprieties, is the fittest,

nay, the only garment. The first, said she (and here my pretty

philosopher, as I handed her to her tilbury, to fix my attention, gently

tipped with her tongue the outer chamber of my ear), the first is a bath

... But at this point a bell tinkling in the hall cut short a discourse

which promised so bravely for the enrichment of our store of knowledge.
Nurse Callan enters to summon Dixon to deliver Mina Purefoy’s baby, provoking ribaldry at Callan’s expense and mockery about sexual practices.
Style 15: In the manner of Oliver Goldsmith.
Amid the general vacant hilarity of the assembly a bell rang and, while

all were conjecturing what might be the cause, Miss Callan entered and,

having spoken a few words in a low tone to young Mr Dixon, retired with a

profound bow to the company. The presence even for a moment among a party

of debauchees of a woman endued with every quality of modesty and not

less severe than beautiful refrained the humourous sallies even of the

most licentious but her departure was the signal for an outbreak of

ribaldry. Strike me silly, said Costello, a low fellow who was fuddled. A

monstrous fine bit of cowflesh! I'll be sworn she has rendezvoused you.

What, you dog? Have you a way with them? Gad's bud, immensely so, said Mr

Lynch. The bedside manner it is that they use in the Mater hospice.

Demme, does not Doctor O'Gargle chuck the nuns there under the chin. As I

look to be saved I had it from my Kitty who has been wardmaid there any

time these seven months. Lawksamercy, doctor, cried the young blood in

the primrose vest, feigning a womanish simper and with immodest

squirmings of his body, how you do tease a body! Drat the man! Bless me,

I'm all of a wibbly wobbly. Why, you're as bad as dear little Father

Cantekissem, that you are! May this pot of four half choke me, cried

Costello, if she aint in the family way. I knows a lady what's got a

white swelling quick as I claps eyes on her. The young surgeon, however,

rose and begged the company to excuse his retreat as the nurse had just

then informed him that he was needed in the ward. Merciful providence had

been pleased to put a period to the sufferings of the lady who was

ENCEINTE which she had borne with a laudable fortitude and she had given

birth to a bouncing boy. I want patience, said he, with those who,

without wit to enliven or learning to instruct, revile an ennobling

profession which, saving the reverence due to the Deity, is the greatest

power for happiness upon the earth. I am positive when I say that if need

were I could produce a cloud of witnesses to the excellence of her noble

exercitations which, so far from being a byword, should be a glorious

incentive in the human breast. I cannot away with them. What? Malign such

an one, the amiable Miss Callan, who is the lustre of her own sex and the

astonishment of ours? And at an instant the most momentous that can

befall a puny child of clay? Perish the thought! I shudder to think of

the future of a race where the seeds of such malice have been sown and

where no right reverence is rendered to mother and maid in house of

Horne. Having delivered himself of this rebuke he saluted those present

on the by and repaired to the door. A murmur of approval arose from all

and some were for ejecting the low soaker without more ado, a design

which would have been effected nor would he have received more than his

bare deserts had he not abridged his transgression by affirming with a

horrid imprecation (for he swore a round hand) that he was as good a son

of the true fold as ever drew breath. Stap my vitals, said he, them was

always the sentiments of honest Frank Costello which I was bred up most

particular to honour thy father and thy mother that had the best hand to

a rolypoly or a hasty pudding as you ever see what I always looks back on

with a loving heart.

Share with your friends:
1   ...   14   15   16   17   18   19   20   21   ...   29

The database is protected by copyright ©essaydocs.org 2020
send message

    Main page