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



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Style 23: In the manner of Walter Savage Landor’s Imaginary Conversations (1824-53), conversations between figures from classical literature and history to develop perspectives on the social, moral, and literary problems of Landor’s own times.
Francis was reminding Stephen of years before when they had been at

school together in Conmee's time. He asked about Glaucon, Alcibiades,

Pisistratus. Where were they now? Neither knew. You have spoken of the

past and its phantoms, Stephen said. Why think of them? If I call them

into life across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop to my

call? Who supposes it? I, Bous Stephanoumenos, bullockbefriending bard,

am lord and giver of their life. He encircled his gadding hair with a

coronal of vineleaves, smiling at Vincent. That answer and those leaves,

Vincent said to him, will adorn you more fitly when something more, and

greatly more, than a capful of light odes can call your genius father.

All who wish you well hope this for you. All desire to see you bring

forth the work you meditate, to acclaim you Stephaneforos. I heartily

wish you may not fail them. O no, Vincent Lenehan said, laying a hand on

the shoulder near him. Have no fear. He could not leave his mother an

orphan. The young man's face grew dark. All could see how hard it was for

him to be reminded of his promise and of his recent loss. He would have

withdrawn from the feast had not the noise of voices allayed the smart.

Madden had lost five drachmas on Sceptre for a whim of the rider's name:

Lenehan as much more. He told them of the race. The flag fell and, huuh!

off, scamper, the mare ran out freshly with O. Madden up. She was leading

the field. All hearts were beating. Even Phyllis could not contain

herself. She waved her scarf and cried: Huzzah! Sceptre wins! But in the

straight on the run home when all were in close order the dark horse

Throwaway drew level, reached, outstripped her. All was lost now. Phyllis

was silent: her eyes were sad anemones. Juno, she cried, I am undone. But

her lover consoled her and brought her a bright casket of gold in which

lay some oval sugarplums which she partook. A tear fell: one only. A

whacking fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane. Four winners yesterday and

three today. What rider is like him? Mount him on the camel or the

boisterous buffalo the victory in a hack canter is still his. But let us

bear it as was the ancient wont. Mercy on the luckless! Poor Sceptre! he

said with a light sigh. She is not the filly that she was. Never, by this

hand, shall we behold such another. By gad, sir, a queen of them. Do you

remember her, Vincent? I wish you could have seen my queen today, Vincent

said. How young she was and radiant (Lalage were scarce fair beside her)

in her yellow shoes and frock of muslin, I do not know the right name of

it. The chestnuts that shaded us were in bloom: the air drooped with

their persuasive odour and with pollen floating by us. In the sunny

patches one might easily have cooked on a stone a batch of those buns

with Corinth fruit in them that Periplipomenes sells in his booth near

the bridge. But she had nought for her teeth but the arm with which I

held her and in that she nibbled mischievously when I pressed too close.

A week ago she lay ill, four days on the couch, but today she was free,

blithe, mocked at peril. She is more taking then. Her posies tool Mad

romp that she is, she had pulled her fill as we reclined together. And in

your ear, my friend, you will not think who met us as we left the field.

Conmee himself! He was walking by the hedge, reading, I think a brevier

book with, I doubt not, a witty letter in it from Glycera or Chloe to

keep the page. The sweet creature turned all colours in her confusion,

feigning to reprove a slight disorder in her dress: a slip of underwood

clung there for the very trees adore her. When Conmee had passed she

glanced at her lovely echo in that little mirror she carries. But he had

been kind. In going by he had blessed us. The gods too are ever kind,

Lenehan said. If I had poor luck with Bass's mare perhaps this draught of

his may serve me more propensely. He was laying his hand upon a winejar:

Malachi saw it and withheld his act, pointing to the stranger and to the

scarlet label. Warily, Malachi whispered, preserve a druid silence. His

soul is far away. It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision

as to be born. Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to

the incorruptible eon of the gods. Do you not think it, Stephen?

Theosophos told me so, Stephen answered, whom in a previous existence

Egyptian priests initiated into the mysteries of karmic law. The lords of

the moon, Theosophos told me, an orangefiery shipload from planet Alpha

of the lunar chain would not assume the etheric doubles and these were

therefore incarnated by the rubycoloured egos from the second

constellation.
Style 24: After the style of English essayist and historian Thomas Babington Macaulay.
However, as a matter of fact though, the preposterous surmise about him

being in some description of a doldrums or other or mesmerised which was.

entirely due to a misconception of the shallowest character, was not the

case at all. The individual whose visual organs while the above was going

on were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptoms of animation was

as astute if not astuter than any man living and anybody that conjectured

the contrary would have found themselves pretty speedily in the wrong

shop. During the past four minutes or thereabouts he had been staring

hard at a certain amount of number one Bass bottled by Messrs Bass and Co

at Burton-on-Trent which happened to be situated amongst a lot of others

right opposite to where he was and which was certainly calculated to

attract anyone's remark on account of its scarlet appearance. He was

simply and solely, as it subsequently transpired for reasons best known

to himself, which put quite an altogether different complexion on the

proceedings, after the moment before's observations about boyhood days

and the turf, recollecting two or three private transactions of his own

which the other two were as mutually innocent of as the babe unborn.

Eventually, however, both their eyes met and as soon as it began to dawn

on him that the other was endeavouring to help himself to the thing he

involuntarily determined to help him himself and so he accordingly took

hold of the neck of the mediumsized glass recipient which contained the

fluid sought after and made a capacious hole in it by pouring a lot of it

out with, also at the same time, however, a considerable degree of

attentiveness in order not to upset any of the beer that was in it about

the place.
The debate which ensued was in its scope and progress an epitome of the

course of life. Neither place nor council was lacking in dignity. The

debaters were the keenest in the land, the theme they were engaged on the

loftiest and most vital. The high hall of Horne's house had never beheld

an assembly so representative and so varied nor had the old rafters of

that establishment ever listened to a language so encyclopaedic. A

gallant scene in truth it made. Crotthers was there at the foot of the

table in his striking Highland garb, his face glowing from the briny airs

of the Mull of Galloway. There too, opposite to him, was Lynch whose

countenance bore already the stigmata of early depravity and premature

wisdom. Next the Scotchman was the place assigned to Costello, the

eccentric, while at his side was seated in stolid repose the squat form

of Madden. The chair of the resident indeed stood vacant before the

hearth but on either flank of it the figure of Bannon in explorer's kit

of tweed shorts and salted cowhide brogues contrasted sharply with the

primrose elegance and townbred manners of Malachi Roland St John

Mulligan. Lastly at the head of the board was the young poet who found a

refuge from his labours of pedagogy and metaphysical inquisition in the

convivial atmosphere of Socratic discussion, while to right and left of

him were accommodated the flippant prognosticator, fresh from the

hippodrome, and that vigilant wanderer, soiled by the dust of travel and

combat and stained by the mire of an indelible dishonour, but from whose

steadfast and constant heart no lure or peril or threat or degradation

could ever efface the image of that voluptuous loveliness which the

inspired pencil of Lafayette has limned for ages yet to come.
Style 25: After the style of English naturalist and comparative anatomist Thomas Henry Huxley who was most noted for his defense of the theory of evolution.
It had better be stated here and now at the outset that the perverted

transcendentalism to which Mr S. Dedalus' (Div. Scep.) contentions would

appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs directly counter to

accepted scientific methods. Science, it cannot be too often repeated,

deals with tangible phenomena. The man of science like the man in the

street has to face hardheaded facts that cannot be blinked and explain

them as best he can. There may be, it is true, some questions which

science cannot answer--at present--such as the first problem submitted by

Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv.) regarding the future determination of sex. Must

we accept the view of Empedocles of Trinacria that the right ovary (the

postmenstrual period, assert others) is responsible for the birth of

males or are the too long neglected spermatozoa or nemasperms the

differentiating factors or is it, as most embryologists incline to opine,

such as Culpepper, Spallanzani, Blumenbach, Lusk, Hertwig, Leopold and

Valenti, a mixture of both? This would be tantamount to a cooperation

(one of nature's favourite devices) between the NISUS FORMATIVUS of the

nemasperm on the one hand and on the other a happily chosen position,

SUCCUBITUS FELIX of the passive element. The other problem raised by the

same inquirer is scarcely less vital: infant mortality. It is interesting

because, as he pertinently remarks, we are all born in the same way but

we all die in different ways. Mr M. Mulligan (Hyg. et Eug. Doc.) blames

the sanitary conditions in which our greylunged citizens contract

adenoids, pulmonary complaints etc. by inhaling the bacteria which lurk

in dust. These factors, he alleged, and the revolting spectacles offered

by our streets, hideous publicity posters, religious ministers of all

denominations, mutilated soldiers and sailors, exposed scorbutic

cardrivers, the suspended carcases of dead animals, paranoic bachelors

and unfructified duennas--these, he said, were accountable for any and

every fallingoff in the calibre of the race. Kalipedia, he prophesied,

would soon be generally adopted and all the graces of life, genuinely

good music, agreeable literature, light philosophy, instructive pictures,

plastercast reproductions of the classical statues such as Venus and

Apollo, artistic coloured photographs of prize babies, all these little

attentions would enable ladies who were in a particular condition to pass

the intervening months in a most enjoyable manner. Mr J. Crotthers (Disc.

Bacc.) attributes some of these demises to abdominal trauma in the case

of women workers subjected to heavy labours in the workshop and to

marital discipline in the home but by far the vast majority to neglect,

private or official, culminating in the exposure of newborn infants, the

practice of criminal abortion or in the atrocious crime of infanticide.

Although the former (we are thinking of neglect) is undoubtedly only too

true the case he cites of nurses forgetting to count the sponges in the

peritoneal cavity is too rare to be normative. In fact when one comes to

look into it the wonder is that so many pregnancies and deliveries go off

so well as they do, all things considered and in spite of our human

shortcomings which often baulk nature in her intentions. An ingenious

suggestion is that thrown out by Mr V. Lynch (Bacc. Arith.) that both

natality and mortality, as well as all other phenomena of evolution,

tidal movements, lunar phases, blood temperatures, diseases in general,

everything, in fine, in nature's vast workshop from the extinction of

some remote sun to the blossoming of one of the countless flowers which

beautify our public parks is subject to a law of numeration as yet

unascertained. Still the plain straightforward question why a child of

normally healthy parents and seemingly a healthy child and properly

looked after succumbs unaccountably in early childhood (though other

children of the same marriage do not) must certainly, in the poet's

words, give us pause. Nature, we may rest assured, has her own good and

cogent reasons for whatever she does and in all probability such deaths

are due to some law of anticipation by which organisms in which morbous

germs have taken up their residence (modern science has conclusively

shown that only the plasmic substance can be said to be immortal) tend to

disappear at an increasingly earlier stage of development, an arrangement

which, though productive of pain to some of our feelings (notably the

maternal), is nevertheless, some of us think, in the long run beneficial

to the race in general in securing thereby the survival of the fittest.

Mr S. Dedalus' (Div. Scep.) remark (or should it be called an

interruption?) that an omnivorous being which can masticate, deglute,

digest and apparently pass through the ordinary channel with

pluterperfect imperturbability such multifarious aliments as cancrenous

females emaciated by parturition, corpulent professional gentlemen, not

to speak of jaundiced politicians and chlorotic nuns, might possibly find

gastric relief in an innocent collation of staggering bob, reveals as

nought else could and in a very unsavoury light the tendency above

alluded to. For the enlightenment of those who are not so intimately

acquainted with the minutiae of the municipal abattoir as this

morbidminded esthete and embryo philosopher who for all his overweening

bumptiousness in things scientific can scarcely distinguish an acid from

an alkali prides himself on being, it should perhaps be stated that

staggering bob in the vile parlance of our lowerclass licensed

victuallers signifies the cookable and eatable flesh of a calf newly

dropped from its mother. In a recent public controversy with Mr L. Bloom

(Pubb. Canv.) which took place in the commons' hall of the National

Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 31 Holles street, of which, as is well

known, Dr A. Horne (Lic. in Midw., F. K. Q. C. P. I.) is the able and

popular master, he is reported by eyewitnesses as having stated that once

a woman has let the cat into the bag (an esthete's allusion, presumably,

to one of the most complicated and marvellous of all nature's processes--

the act of sexual congress) she must let it out again or give it life, as

he phrased it, to save her own. At the risk of her own, was the telling

rejoinder of his interlocutor, none the less effective for the moderate

and measured tone in which it was delivered.
Style 26: In the style of Charles Dickens, particularly chapter 53, “Another Retrospect” of David Copperfield.
Meanwhile the skill and patience of the physician had brought about a

happy ACCOUCHEMENT. It had been a weary weary while both for patient and

doctor. All that surgical skill could do was done and the brave woman had

manfully helped. She had. She had fought the good fight and now she was

very very happy. Those who have passed on, who have gone before, are

happy too as they gaze down and smile upon the touching scene. Reverently

look at her as she reclines there with the motherlight in her eyes, that

longing hunger for baby fingers (a pretty sight it is to see), in the

first bloom of her new motherhood, breathing a silent prayer of

thanksgiving to One above, the Universal Husband. And as her loving eyes

behold her babe she wishes only one blessing more, to have her dear Doady

there with her to share her joy, to lay in his arms that mite of God's

clay, the fruit of their lawful embraces. He is older now (you and I may

whisper it) and a trifle stooped in the shoulders yet in the whirligig of

years a grave dignity has come to the conscientious second accountant of

the Ulster bank, College Green branch. O Doady, loved one of old,

faithful lifemate now, it may never be again, that faroff time of the

roses! With the old shake of her pretty head she recalls those days. God!

How beautiful now across the mist of years! But their children are

grouped in her imagination about the bedside, hers and his, Charley, Mary

Alice, Frederick Albert (if he had lived), Mamy, Budgy (Victoria

Frances), Tom, Violet Constance Louisa, darling little Bobsy (called

after our famous hero of the South African war, lord Bobs of Waterford

and Candahar) and now this last pledge of their union, a Purefoy if ever

there was one, with the true Purefoy nose. Young hopeful will be

christened Mortimer Edward after the influential third cousin of Mr

Purefoy in the Treasury Remembrancer's office, Dublin Castle. And so time

wags on: but father Cronion has dealt lightly here. No, let no sigh break

from that bosom, dear gentle Mina. And Doady, knock the ashes from your

pipe, the seasoned briar you still fancy when the curfew rings for you

(may it be the distant day!) and dout the light whereby you read in the

Sacred Book for the oil too has run low, and so with a tranquil heart to

bed, to rest. He knows and will call in His own good time. You too have

fought the good fight and played loyally your man's part. Sir, to you my

hand. Well done, thou good and faithful servant!
Style 27: In the style of John Henry Cardinal Newman.
There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil

memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart

but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim,

let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself that

they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will call

them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the most

various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel and harp

soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the evening or

at the feast, at midnight, when he is now filled with wine. Not to insult

over him will the vision come as over one that lies under her wrath, not

for vengeance to cut him off from the living but shrouded in the piteous

vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful.
Style 28: After the style of Walter Pater, particularly the imaginative portrait of his childhood in The Child in the House (1894).
The stranger still regarded on the face before him a slow recession of

that false calm there, imposed, as it seemed, by habit or some studied

trick, upon words so embittered as to accuse in their speaker an

unhealthiness, a FLAIR, for the cruder things of life. A scene disengages

itself in the observer's memory, evoked, it would seem, by a word of so

natural a homeliness as if those days were really present there (as some

thought) with their immediate pleasures. A shaven space of lawn one soft

May evening, the wellremembered grove of lilacs at Roundtown, purple and

white, fragrant slender spectators of the game but with much real

interest in the pellets as they run slowly forward over the sward or

collide and stop, one by its fellow, with a brief alert shock. And yonder

about that grey urn where the water moves at times in thoughtful

irrigation you saw another as fragrant sisterhood, Floey, Atty, Tiny and

their darker friend with I know not what of arresting in her pose then,

Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely brace of them pendent from an ear,

bringing out the foreign warmth of the skin so daintily against the cool

ardent fruit. A lad of four or five in linseywoolsey (blossomtime but

there will be cheer in the kindly hearth when ere long the bowls are

gathered and hutched) is standing on the urn secured by that circle of

girlish fond hands. He frowns a little just as this young man does now

with a perhaps too conscious enjoyment of the danger but must needs

glance at whiles towards where his mother watches from the PIAZZETTA

giving upon the flowerclose with a faint shadow of remoteness or of

reproach (ALLES VERGANGLICHE) in her glad look.


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