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


Boylan and the concert tour comes up, and the Narrator castigates Bloom’s manhood



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Boylan and the concert tour comes up, and the Narrator castigates Bloom’s manhood.
--He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. I hear he's running

a concert tour now up in the north.
--He is, says Joe. Isn't he?
--Who? says Bloom. Ah, yes. That's quite true. Yes, a kind of summer tour,

you see. Just a holiday.
--Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she? says Joe.
--My wife? says Bloom. She's singing, yes. I think it will be a success

too.
He's an excellent man to organise. Excellent.
Hoho begob says I to myself says I. That explains the milk in the cocoanut

and absence of hair on the animal's chest. Blazes doing the tootle on the

flute. Concert tour. Dirty Dan the dodger's son off Island bridge that

sold the same horses twice over to the government to fight the Boers. Old

Whatwhat. I called about the poor and water rate, Mr Boylan. You what?

The water rate, Mr Boylan. You whatwhat? That's the bucko that'll

organise her, take my tip. 'Twixt me and you Caddareesh.
Parody 19: In the style of 19th-century reworkings of medieval romance.
Pride of Calpe's rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy.

There grew she to peerless beauty where loquat and almond scent the air.

The gardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of olives knew and

bowed. The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful

bosoms.
And lo, there entered one of the clan of the O'Molloy's, a comely hero

of white face yet withal somewhat ruddy, his majesty's counsel learned in

the law, and with him the prince and heir of the noble line of Lambert.
J.J. O’Molloy and Ned Lambert enter. Having come from the courts, they are asked by Alf whether they saw Denis Breen there. Bloom objects to the trick on Breen based on sympathy for his wife. The citizen attacks Breen’s manhood (and by implication Bloom’s).
--Hello, Ned.
--Hello, Alf.
--Hello, Jack.
--Hello, Joe.
--God save you, says the citizen.
--Save you kindly, says J. J. What'll it be, Ned?
--Half one, says Ned.
So J. J. ordered the drinks.
--Were you round at the court? says Joe.
--Yes, says J. J. He'll square that, Ned, says he.
--Hope so, says Ned.
Now what were those two at? J. J. getting him off the grand jury list

and the other give him a leg over the stile. With his name in Stubbs's.

Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their

eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders.

Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street where no-one would

know him in the private office when I was there with Pisser releasing his

boots out of the pop. What's your name, sir? Dunne, says he. Ay, and done

says I. Gob, he'll come home by weeping cross one of those days, I'm

thinking.
--Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? says Alf. U. p: up.
--Yes, says J. J. Looking for a private detective.
--Ay, says Ned. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court only

Corny Kelleher got round him telling him to get the handwriting examined

first.
--Ten thousand pounds, says Alf, laughing. God, I'd give anything to hear

him before a judge and jury.
--Was it you did it, Alf? says Joe. The truth, the whole truth and nothing

but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.
--Me? says Alf. Don't cast your nasturtiums on my character.
--Whatever statement you make, says Joe, will be taken down in evidence

against you.
--Of course an action would lie, says J. J. It implies that he is not

COMPOS MENTIS. U. p: up.
--COMPOS your eye! says Alf, laughing. Do you know that he's balmy?

Look at his head. Do you know that some mornings he has to get his hat on

with a shoehorn.
--Yes, says J. J., but the truth of a libel is no defence to an indictment

for publishing it in the eyes of the law.
--Ha ha, Alf, says Joe.
--Still, says Bloom, on account of the poor woman, I mean his wife.
--Pity about her, says the citizen. Or any other woman marries a half and

half.
--How half and half? says Bloom. Do you mean he ...
--Half and half I mean, says the citizen. A fellow that's neither fish nor

flesh.
--Nor good red herring, says Joe.
--That what's I mean, says the citizen. A pishogue, if you know what that

is.
Begob I saw there was trouble coming. And Bloom explaining he meant on

account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the

old stuttering fool. Cruelty to animals so it is to let that bloody

povertystricken Breen out on grass with his beard out tripping him,

bringing down the rain. And she with her nose cockahoop after she married

him because a cousin of his old fellow's was pewopener to the pope.

Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney's moustaches, the

signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal Zouave to the Holy

Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street. And who was he, tell

us? A nobody, two pair back and passages, at seven shillings a week, and

he covered with all kinds of breastplates bidding defiance to the world.
--And moreover, says J. J., a postcard is publication. It was held to be

sufficient evidence of malice in the testcase Sadgrove v. Hole. In my

opinion an action might lie.
Six and eightpence, please. Who wants your opinion? Let us drink

our pints in peace. Gob, we won't be let even do that much itself.
--Well, good health, Jack, says Ned.
--Good health, Ned, says J. J.
---There he is again, says Joe.
--Where? says Alf.
And begob there he was passing the door with his books under his

oxter and the wife beside him and Corny Kelleher with his wall eye looking

in as they went past, talking to him like a father, trying to sell him a

secondhand coffin.
--How did that Canada swindle case go off? says Joe.
--Remanded, says J. J.
One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of James

Wought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers saying

he'd give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. What? Do you see any green

in the white of my eye? Course it was a bloody barney. What? Swindled

them all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and his own

kidney too. J. J. was telling us there was an ancient Hebrew Zaretsky or

something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on him, swearing by the

holy Moses he was stuck for two quid.
--Who tried the case? says Joe.
--Recorder, says Ned.
--Poor old sir Frederick, says Alf, you can cod him up to the two eyes.
--Heart as big as a lion, says Ned. Tell him a tale of woe about arrears

of rent and a sick wife and a squad of kids and, faith, he'll dissolve in

tears on the bench.
--Ay, says Alf. Reuben J was bloody lucky he didn't clap him in the dock

the other day for suing poor little Gumley that's minding stones, for the

corporation there near Butt bridge.
And he starts taking off the old recorder letting on to cry:
--A most scandalous thing! This poor hardworking man! How many

children? Ten, did you say?
--Yes, your worship. And my wife has the typhoid.
--And the wife with typhoid fever! Scandalous! Leave the court

immediately, sir. No, sir, I'll make no order for payment. How dare you,

sir, come up before me and ask me to make an order! A poor hardworking

industrious man! I dismiss the case.
Parody 20: In the style of trial records and Irish legend.
And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month of the oxeyed goddess and in

the third week after the feastday of the Holy and Undivided Trinity,

the daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in her first

quarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them to the

halls of law. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber,

gave his rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury

in the probate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the

first chargeant upon the property in the matter of the will

propounded and final testamentary disposition IN RE the real and

personal estate of the late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased,

versus Livingstone, an infant, of unsound mind, and another. And to the

solemn court of Green street there came sir Frederick the Falconer. And he

sat him there about the hour of five o'clock to administer the law of the

brehons at the commission for all that and those parts to be holden in

and for the county of the city of Dublin. And there sat with him the high

sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the

tribe of Patrick and of the tribe of Hugh and of the tribe of Owen and of

the tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of

Fergus and of the tribe of Finn and of the tribe of Dermot and of

the tribe of Cormac and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of

Caolte and of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good

men and true. And he conjured them by Him who died on rood that

they should well and truly try and true deliverance make in the

issue joined between their sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at

the bar and true verdict give according to the evidence so help them God

and kiss the book. And they rose in their seats, those twelve of Iar, and

they swore by the name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do

His rightwiseness. And straightway the minions of the law led forth from

their donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended in

consequence of information received. And they shackled him hand and foot

and would take of him ne bail ne mainprise but preferred a charge against

him for he was a malefactor.
The citizen continues his assault on Bloom by castigating the Jews.
--Those are nice things, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland

filling the country with bugs.
So Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts talking with Joe, telling

him he needn't trouble about that little matter till the first but if he

would just say a word to Mr Crawford. And so Joe swore high and holy by

this and by that he'd do the devil and all.
--Because, you see, says Bloom, for an advertisement you must have

repetition. That's the whole secret.
--Rely on me, says Joe.
--Swindling the peasants, says the citizen, and the poor of Ireland. We

want no more strangers in our house.
--O, I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom. It's just that

Keyes, you see.
--Consider that done, says Joe.
--Very kind of you, says Bloom.
--The strangers, says the citizen. Our own fault. We let them come in. We

brought them in. The adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxon

robbers here.
--Decree NISI, says J. J.
And Bloom letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a

spider's web in the corner behind the barrel, and the citizen scowling

after him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite and

when.
--A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that's what's the cause of all our

misfortunes.
--And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling over the POLICE GAZETTE

with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint.
--Give us a squint at her, says I.
And what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry

borrows off of Corny Kelleher. Secrets for enlarging your private parts.

Misconduct of society belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy Chicago

contractor, finds pretty but faithless wife in lap of officer Taylor.

Belle in her bloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for

her tickles and Norman W. Tupper bouncing in with his peashooter just in

time to be late after she doing the trick of the loop with officer Taylor.
--O jakers, Jenny, says Joe, how short your shirt is!
--There's hair, Joe, says I. Get a queer old tailend of corned beef off of

that one, what?
So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a

face on him as long as a late breakfast.
--Well, says the citizen, what's the latest from the scene of action? What

did those tinkers in the city hall at their caucus meeting decide about

the Irish language?
Parody 21: In the style of medieval romance and Irish legendry.
O'Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the

puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of that

which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most obedient city,

second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there, after due

prayers to the gods who dwell in ether supernal, had taken solemn counsel

whereby they might, if so be it might be, bring once more into honour

among mortal men the winged speech of the seadivided Gael.
The citizen’s attack on the “Saxon’s” provokes Bloom’s moderation.
--It's on the march, says the citizen. To hell with the bloody brutal

Sassenachs and their PATOIS.
So J. J. puts in a word, doing the toff about one story was good till

you heard another and blinking facts and the Nelson policy, putting your

blind eye to the telescope and drawing up a bill of attainder to impeach a

nation, and Bloom trying to back him up moderation and botheration and

their colonies and their civilisation.
--Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. To hell with them! The

curse of a goodfornothing God light sideways on the bloody thicklugged

sons of whores' gets! No music and no art and no literature worthy of the

name. Any civilisation they have they stole from us. Tonguetied sons of

bastards' ghosts.
--The European family, says J. J. ...
--They're not European, says the citizen. I was in Europe with Kevin Egan

of Paris. You wouldn't see a trace of them or their language anywhere in

Europe except in a CABINET D'AISANCE.
And says John Wyse:
--Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo:
--CONSPUEZ LES ANGLAIS! PERFIDE ALBION!
He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands

the medher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal slogan LAMH

DEARG ABU, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mighty valorous

heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster silent as the

deathless gods.
--What's up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look like a fellow that had

lost a bob and found a tanner.
--Gold cup, says he.
--Who won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry.
--THROWAWAY, says he, at twenty to one. A rank outsider. And the rest

nowhere.
--And Bass's mare? says Terry.
--Still running, says he. We're all in a cart. Boylan plunged two quid on

my tip SCEPTRE for himself and a lady friend.
--I had half a crown myself, says Terry, on ZINFANDEL that Mr Flynn gave

me. Lord Howard de Walden's.
--Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse. THROWAWAY,

says he. Takes the biscuit, and talking about bunions. Frailty, thy name

is SCEPTRE.
So he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if there was

anything he could lift on the nod, the old cur after him backing his luck

with his mangy snout up. Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard.
--Not there, my child, says he.
--Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She'd have won the money only for the

other dog.
Lenehan informs the company of his loss in the Gold Cup, while Bloom continues to discuss history with J.J. O’Molloy and the citizen.
And J. J. and the citizen arguing about law and history with Bloom

sticking in an odd word.
--Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't

see the beam in their own.
--RAIMEIS, says the citizen. There's no-one as blind as the fellow that

won't see, if you know what that means. Where are our missing

twenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four,

our lost tribes? And our potteries and textiles, the finest in

the whole world! And our wool that was sold in Rome in the time

of Juvenal and our flax and our damask from the looms of Antrim

and our Limerick lace, our tanneries and our white flint glass

down there by Ballybough and our Huguenot poplin that we have since

Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk and our Foxford tweeds and ivory

raised point from the Carmelite convent in New Ross, nothing like it in

the whole wide world. Where are the Greek merchants that came through the

pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with

gold and Tyrian purple to sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? Read

Tacitus and Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis. Wine, peltries,

Connemara marble, silver from Tipperary, second to none, our farfamed

horses even today, the Irish hobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering

to pay customs duties for the right to fish in our waters. What do the

yellowjohns of Anglia owe us for our ruined trade and our ruined hearths?

And the beds of the Barrow and Shannon they won't deepen with millions

of acres of marsh and bog to make us all die of consumption?
--As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse, or Heligoland

with its one tree if something is not done to reafforest the land.

Larches, firs, all the trees of the conifer family are going fast. I was

reading a report of lord Castletown's ...
--Save them, says the citizen, the giant ash of Galway and the chieftain

elm of Kildare with a fortyfoot bole and an acre of foliage. Save the

trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of

Eire, O.
--Europe has its eyes on you, says Lenehan.
Parody 22: In the style of a newspaper account of a high-fashion wedding.
The fashionable international world attended EN MASSE this afternoon

at the wedding of the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief

ranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of Pine

Valley. Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash,

Mrs Holly Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs

Clyde Twelvetrees, Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss

Virginia Creeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss Blanche

Maple, Mrs Maud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla

Elderflower, Miss Bee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa

San, Miss Rachel Cedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss

Timidity Aspenall, Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs

Gloriana Palme, Mrs Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs

Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their

presence. The bride who was given away by her father, the M'Conifer of

the Glands, looked exquisitely charming in a creation carried out in green

mercerised silk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a

yoke of broad emerald and finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued

fringe, the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acorn

bronze. The maids of honour, Miss Larch Conifer and Miss Spruce Conifer,

sisters of the bride, wore very becoming costumes in the same tone, a

dainty MOTIF of plume rose being worked into the pleats in a pinstripe and

repeated capriciously in the jadegreen toques in the form of heron

feathers of paletinted coral. Senhor Enrique Flor presided at the

organ with his wellknown ability and, in addition to the prescribed

numbers of the nuptial mass, played a new and striking arrangement

of WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE at the conclusion of the service. On

leaving the church of Saint Fiacre IN HORTO after the papal

blessing the happy pair were subjected to a playful crossfire

of hazelnuts, beechmast, bayleaves, catkins of willow, ivytod,

hollyberries, mistletoe sprigs and quicken shoots. Mr and Mrs Wyse

Conifer Neaulan will spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest.


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