Finn's Hotel


1: Roderick O'Conor

March 10, 1923 -- July 19, 1923

So anyhow after that to wind up that long to be chronicled get together day, the anniversary of his first holy communion, after that same barbecue beanfeast was all over poor old hospitable King Roderick O'Conor, the paramount chief polemarch and last preelectric king of all Ireland who was anything you say yourself between fiftyfour and fiftyfive years of age at the time after the socalled last supper he greatly gave in his umbrageous house of the hundred bottles or at least he wasn't actually the then last king of all Ireland for the time being for the jolly good reason that he was still such as he was the eminent king of all Ireland himself after the last preeminent king of all Ireland, the whilom joky old top that went before him King Art MacMurrough Kavanagh of the leather leggings, now of parts unknown, God guard his generous soul that put a poached fowl in the poor man's pot before he took to his pallyass with the weeping eczema for better and worse until he went and died nevertheless the year the sugar was scarce and himself down to three cows that was meat and drink and dogs and washing to him 'tis good cause we have to remember it anyhow wait till I tell you what did he do poor old Roderick O'Conor Rex the auspicious waterproof monarch of all Ireland when he found himself all alone by himself in his grand old historic pile after all of them had all gone off with themselves as best they could on footback in extended order a tree's length from the longest way out down the switchbackward road, the unimportant Parthalonians with the mouldy Firbolgs and the Tuatha de Danaan googs and all the rest of the notmuchers that he didn't care the royal spit out of his ostensible mouth about well what do you think he did, sir, but faix he just went heeltapping through the winespilth and weevily popcorks that were kneedeep round his own right royal round rollicking topers' table with his old Roderick Random pullon hat at a cant on him, the body, you'd pity him, the way the world is, poor he, the heart of Midleinster and the supereminent lord of them all, overwhelmed as he was with black ruin like a sponge out of water and singing all to himself through his old tears starkened by the most regal belches I've a terrible errible lot todo today todo toderribleday well what did he go and do at all His Most Exuberant Majesty King Roderick O'Conor but arrah bedamnbut he finalised by lowering his woolly throat with the wonderful midnight thirst was on him as keen as mustard and leave it if he didn't suck up sure enough like a Trojan in some particular cases with the assistance of his venerated tongue [one after the other in strict order of rotation] whatever surplus rotgut sorra much was left by the lazy lousers of maltknights and beerchurls in the different bottoms of the various different replenquished drinking utensils left there behind them on the premises, by the departed honourable homegoers and other slygrogging suburbanites such as it was no matter whether it was chateaubottled Guinness's or Phoenix brewery stout it was or John Jameson and Sons or Roob Coccola or for the matter of that O'Connell's famous old Dublin ale that he wanted like hell as a fallback of several different quantities and qualities amounting in all to I should say considerably more than the better part of a gill or noggin of imperial dry or liquid measure.


(JJA55, p446c)

2: Tristan & Isolde

March 1923 -- August 12, 1923

As slow their ship, the sea being slight, upon the face of waters moved by courtesy of God that handsome brineburnt sixfooter Gaelic, rugger and soccer champion and the dinkum belle of Lucalizod quite charming in her oceanblue brocade [with iris petal sleeves] and an overdress of net darned with gold well in advance of the newest fashion exhibits bunnyhugged scrumptiously when it was dark whilst they dissimulated themself on the eighteen inch loveseat behind the chieftaness stewardess's cabin whilst also with sinister dexterity he alternately rightandlefthandled fore and aft, on and offside her palpable rugby and association bulbs. She, after a cough, murmurously then gave her firm order for tootsweet if he wouldn't please mind some though not too much of the six best national poetry quotations reflecting on the situation so long as it was a stroke or two above it's a fine night and yon moon shines bright and all to that, the plain fact of the matter being that being a natural born lover of nature in all her moods and senses, by the light of the moon, of the silvery moon she longed to spoon before her honeyoldmoon at the same time drinking in long draughts of purest air serene and revelling in the great outdoors. That mouth of mandibles vowed to pure beauty promptly elocutionised to her a favourite lyrical bloom bellclear in iambic decasyllabic hexameter: --Rollon thoudeep anddark blueo ceanroll!

Lady! it was just too gorgeous for words, the whole sensation. The sea, of a lovely tint embellished by the best charms of nature, with its wellmannered wavelets (the dirty horrid rude ones from the Belfast and Lagan Lough neighbourhood being very properly locked up in cubbyhole) looked really awfully pretty at the mid hour of night and more especially he being emphatically the right man in the right place, the weather conditions could not possibly have been improved upon. Praises be to fair sea. Her role was to roll onthedark blueo ceanroll that rolled on round the round roll that Robert Roly rolled round. Breathtaking beauty, Ireland's bonniest, she did but gaze while from his altitude of onehundredandthirtytwo lines his deepseapeepers gazed O gazed O dazedcrazedgazed into her darkblue rolling ocean orbs. -- Thanks ever so much she sighed, thrilled by that olive throb of his nude neck, and ever so much again for that tiny quote. It sort of made everything ever so much more delightful. How perfectly sweet of you! Nothing if not amorous, he, rosecrumpler, thrilldriver, sighinspirer, having prealably dephlegmatised his guttur of that ticklish frog in the throat, his useful arm getting busy on the touchline due south of her western shoulder, uttered what was to follow with grand passion from his toploftical voicebox:

 Isolde! [Ah if she will not!]

By elevation of eyelids t'ward her dear coolin that she invoked insinuated desideration of more declaration.

He was instant and he declared:

Isolde! O Isolde! Sister soul and hand! When theeuponthus Sir Tristan binoculises his most unwitting ego most subconsciously senses the deprofundity of multimathematical immaterialities whereby in the pancosmic urge the allimanence of that which Itself is Itself Alone exteriorates on this here our plane in disunited solid, liquid and gaseous bodies in pearlwhite passionpanting intuitions of reunited selfhood in the higherdimensional selfless Allself.

Hear, O hear, all ye caller herring! Silent be, O Moyle! Milky Way, strew dim light!

Right here a pretty thing happened. When her flattering hand of pure diversion mayhap had jessaminely at the just right moment shut his duckhouse the vivid girl deaf with love, (you know her, that angel being, one of passion's fadeless wonderwomen! You dote on her! You love her to death!) with a queer little cry reunited milkymouthily his her then their disunited lips when tonguetasting the golden opportunity of a lifetime quick as greased pigskin the Armorican champion with one virile tonguethrust drove the advance messenger of love flash past the double line of eburnean forwards rightjingbangshot into the goal of her gullet. Now, I am just putting it direct to you as one manowoman to another, what the blankety blank diggings do you for example candidly suppose that she, a strapping young modern old ancient Irish princess a good eighteen hands high and scaling nine stone twelve paddock weight in her madapolam smock with nothing under her hat but red hair and solid ivory not forgetting a firstrate pair of bedroom eyes of most unholy hazel cared at that precise psychoanalytical moment about tiresome old King Mark that tiresome old milkless ram with his duty peck and his bronchial tubes, the tiresome old ourangoutan beaver in his tiresome old twentytwoandsixpenny shepherd's plaid trousers? Not as much as a pinch of henshit and that's the meanest thing now was ever known since Adam was in the boy's navy. No, heaven knows, far from it, if the unvarnished truth must be told at the very first blush lovingly she lovegulped her American's pulpous propeller and both together in the most fashionable weather they all went off a lulliloving a dither me die me dandy O after which, believing in safety first, before the regulation ten seconds were up volatile Brittany considerately allowed his farfamed sparking plug chokegrip to relax and precautiously withdrew the instrument of rational speech from the procathedral of amorous seductiveness.

I'm right glad I ran on to you, Tris, you fascinator you! Miss Erin said, when she had won free, laughing at the same time delightfully in dimpling bliss, being awfully bucked by her gratifying experience of the love embrace from a highly continental bigtimer the like of him possessed of a handsome face well worth watching with an interesting tallow complexion from which great things very expected as a film star for she fully realised that he was evidently a notoriety in the poetry department as well for he never saw her to drink an orange but he offered to bring her a porringer and to cut a long story short taking him by and large the onliest boy of her choice meant pretty well everything to her just then, her beau ideal of a true girl's friend with red blood in his veins neither big ugly nor small nice.

Over them the winged ones screamed shrill glee: seahawk, seagull, curlew and plover, kestrel and capercailzie. All the birds of the sea they trolled out rightbold when they smacked the big kuss of Trustan with Usolde.

So sang seaswans:

Three quarks for Muster Mark

Sure he hasn't got much of a bark

And sure any he has it's all beside the mark

But O Wreneagle Almighty wouldn't un be a sky of a lark

To see that old buzzard whooping about for uns shirt in the dark

And be hunting round for uns speckled trousers round by Palmerston Park.

Hohohoho moulty Mark

You're the rummest old rooster ever flopped out of a Noah's ark

And you think you're cock of the wark.

Fowls up Tristy's the spry young spark

That'll tread her and wed her and bed her and red her

Without even winking the tail of a feather

And that's how that chap's going to make his money and mark.

(JJA56, pp12-19)




3: Saint Kevin

mid-April 1923 -- July 29, 1923

Of Kevin, of Increate God the servant, of the Lord Creator a filial fearer, the miracles, death and life are these.

Procreated on the ultimate island of Ireland in the encyclical Irish archipelago, come their feast of precreated holy whiteclad angels, voluntarily poor Kevin, having been granted the privilege of a priest's postcreated portable altare cum balneo when espousing the one true cross, invented and exalted, in celibate matrimony at matin chime arose and westfrom went and came in alb of cloth of gold to our own midmost Glendalough le Vert by archangelical guidance where amiddle of meeting waters of river Slaney and Liffey river on this one lone navigable lake piously Kevin, lauding the Triune Trishagion, amidships of his conducible altar super bath rafted centripetally diaconal servant of orders Hibernian midway across the subject lake surface to its supreme epicentric lake isle, whereof its lake is the centrifugal principality, whereon by prime, powerful in knowledge Kevin came to where its centre is among the circumfluent watercourses of Ishgagrania and Ishgadectera an enisled lakelet islanding a lacustrine islet whereupon with beached raft subdiaconal bath propter altar, with oil extremely anointed accompanied by prayer, holy Kevin bided till the third morn hour but to build a rubric penitential honeybeehivehut in whose enclosure to live in fortitude, acolyte of cardinal virtues, whereof the arenary floor most holy Kevin excavated as deep as to a depth of a seventh part of one full fathom, which excavated venerable Kevin anchorite, taking counsel, proceded towards the lakeside of the isletshore whereat seven several times he eastward genuflecting in entire obedience at sextnoon collected Gregorian water sevenfold and with Ambrosian eucharistic joy of heart as many times receded carrying the lustral domination contained within his most portable privileged altar unacumque bath which severally seven times, a lector of water levels, most venerable Kevin then effused into the cavity excavated thereby letting there be water where was theretofore dry land by him so cocreated who now, confirmed a strong perfect Christian, blessed Kevin, exorcised his holy sister water, perpetually chaste, so that well understanding she should fill to midheight his tubbath altar, which handbathtub most blessed Kevin ninthly enthroned in the interconcentric centre of the translated water whereamid, when violet vesper vailed, Saint Kevin Hydrophilus, having girded his sable cappa magna as high as to his cherubical loins, at solemn compline sat in his seat of wisdom, that hipbathtub whereverafter, recreated doctor insularis of the universal church, keeper of the door of

meditation, memory extempore proposing and intellect formally considering, recluse, he meditated continuously with seraphic ardour the primal sacrament of baptism or the regeneration of all man by affusion of water.

(JJA63 pp. 38e-38f)



4: The Conversion of Patrick by Ireland

pre-July 12, 1923 -- August 2, 1923

Bymby topside joss pidgin fella Berkeley, archdruid of Irish chinchinjoss, in the his heptachromatic sevenhued septicoloured roranyellgreeblindigan mantle finish he show along the his mister guest Patrick with alb the whose throat he fast all time what time all him monkfellas with Patrick he drink up words belongahim all too much illusiones of hueful panepiphanal world of lord Joss the of which zoautholithic furniture from mineral through vegetal to animal not appear to full up together fallen man than under but one photoreflection of the several iridals gradationes of solar light that one which that part of it (furnit of huepanepi world) had shown itself (part of fur of huepanwor) unable to absorbere whereas for numpa one seer in seventh degree of wisdom of Entis-Onton he savvy inside true inwardness of reality, tha Ding hvad in idself id ist, all objects (of panepiwor) alloside showed themselves in trues coloribus resplendent with sextuple gloria of light actually retained inside them (obs of epiwo). Patfella no catch all that preachybook bymby topside joss pidgin say him two time with other words verbigratia to vision so thoroughsighty High King Leary his fiery grassbelonghead all show colour of sorrel green, again of the his sixcolour costume the his fellow saffron pettikilt look same hue of boiled spinasses, other thing the his royal golden breast torc look justsamelike curlicabbis, moreafter verdant readyrainroof belongahim High King Leary very dead spit of plenty laurel leaves, afterthat commander bulopent eyes of Highest King same thing like thyme choppy upon parsley alongside that enamel Indian gem in maledictive fingerfondler, of High High Emperor all samelike one fellow olive lentil, otherbelongsidethat violaceous warwon contusiones of facebits of Highup Big Autocrat tinged uniformly allaroundside very like you see chowchow of plentymuch sennacassia.

Penultimate draft: Topside joss pidgin fella Berkeley, archdruid of the Irish josspidgin, in his heptachromatic sevenhued roranyellgreeblindigan mantle then explained to Patrick the albed, the illusiones of hueful world of joss its furniture mineral through vegetable to animal appearing to fallen men under but one reflectione of the several iridal gradationes of solar light that one which that part of it had shown itself unable to absorbere whereas for the seer beholding interiorly the true inwardness of reality, the thing as in itself it is, all objects showed themselves in their true coloribus resplendent with the sextuple gloria of light actually retained within them. In other words, to vision so unsealed King Leary's fiery locks appeared of the colour of sorrel green while, to pass on to his sixcoloured costume His Majesty's saffron kilt seemed of the hue of boiled spinach the royal golden breast torc of the tint of curly cabbage the verdant cloak of the [mouth] <monarch> as of the viridity of laurel leaves, the commanding azure eyes of a thyme upon parsley look, the enamelled Indian gem of the ruler's maledictive ring as an olive lentil, the violaceous warwon contusions of the prince's features tinged uniformly as with a brew of sennacassia. Oldest Surviving Draft: The archdruid then explained the illusion of the colourful world, its furniture, animal, vegetable and mineral, appearing to fallen men under but one reflection of the several iridal gradations of solar light, that one which it had been unable to absorb while for the seer beholding reality, the thing as in itself it is, all objects showed themselves in their true colours, resplendent with the sextuple glory of the light actually contained within them. To eyes so unsealed King Leary's fiery locks appeared of the colour of sorrel green, His Majesty's saffron kilt of the hue of brewed spinach, the royal golden breasttorc of the tint of curly cabbage, the verdant mantle of the monarch as of the green of laurel boughs, the commanding azure eyes of a thyme and parsley aspect, the enamelled gem of the ruler's ring as a rich lentil, the violet contusions of the prince's feature tinged uniformly as with an infusion of sennacassia.


(JJA63 pp146a-146e)



5: Isolde's First Father, H.C.E.

August -- September 1923

Now, concerning the genesis of Harold or Humphrey Chimpden's occupational agnomen and discarding once for all those theories from older sources which would link him back with such pivotal ancestors as the Glues, the Gravys the Northeasts, the Ankers and the Earwickers of Sidlesham in the hundred of manhood or proclaim him a descendant of vikings who had founded or settled in Herrick or Eric the best authenticated version has it that it was this way. We are told how in the beginning it came to pass that like cabbaging Cincinnatus, the grand old gardener was saving daylight one sultry sabbath afternoon in prefall paradise peace by following his plough for rootles in the rere garden of ye olde marine hotel when royalty was announced by runner to have been pleased to have halted itself on the highroad along which a leisureloving dogfox had cast followed, also at walking pace by a lady pack of cocker spaniels. Forgetful of all save his vassal's plain fealty to the ethnarch Humphrey or Harold stayed not to yoke or saddle but stumbled out hotface as he was (his sweatful bandanna loose from his pocketcoat) hasting to the forecourts of his public in topee, surcingle, plus fours and bulldog boots ruddled with red marl jingling his turnpike keys and bearing aloft amid the fixed pikes of the hunting party a high perch atop of which a flowerpot was fixed earthside up with care. On his majesty, who was, or often feigned to be, noticeably longsighted from green youth and had been meaning to inquire what, in effect, had caused yon causeway to be so potholed, asking substitutionally to be put wise as to whether paternoster and silver doctors were not now more fancied bait for lobstertrapping honest blunt Haromphreyld answered in no uncertain tones very similarly with a fearless forehead : Naw, yer maggers, aw war jist a cotchin on thon bluggy earwuggers. Our Sailor King, who was draining a gugglet of obvious water, upon this, ceasing to swallow, smiled most heartily beneath his walrus moustaches and indulging that none too genial humour which William the Conk on the spindle side had inherited with the hereditary whitelock and some shortfingeredness from his great aunt Sophy, turned toward two of his retinue of gallowglasses, Michael, etheling lord of Leix in Offaly and the jubilee mayor of Drogheda, Elcock, (the two scatterguns being Michael Manning, protosyndic of Waterford and an Italian excellency named Giubilei according to a later version cited by the learned scholarch Canavan of Canmakenoise) and remarked dilsydulsily : Holybones, how our red brother of Pouringrainia would audibly fume did he know that we have for trusty bailiwick a turnpiker who is by turns a pikebailer no seldomer than an earwigger! Comes the question are these the facts as recorded in both or either of the collateral andrewpomurphyc narratives. We shall perhaps not so soon see. The great fact emerges that after that historic date all holographs so far exhumed initialled by Haromphrey bear the sigla H.C.E. and while he was only and long and always good dook Umphrey for the hungerlean spalpeens of Lucalizod and Chimbers to his cronies it was equally certainly a pleasant turn of the populace which gave him as sense of those normative letters the nickname Here Comes Everybody. An imposing everybody he always indeed looked, constantly the same as himself and magnificently well worthy of any and all such universalisation, every time he continually surveyed from good start to happy finish the truly catholic assemblage gathered together, from all quarters unanimously to applaud Mr. W.W. Semperkelly's immergreen tourers in the problem passion play of the millentury a Royal Divorce with ambitious interval band selections from the Bo Girl and The Lily on all gala command nights from his viceregal booth where, a veritable Napoleon the Fourth, this father of the people all of the time sat having the entirety of his house about him with the invariable broadstretched kerchief cooling his whole neck, nape and shoulderblades and in a wardrobepanelled tuxedo completely thrown back from a shirt well entitled a swallowall, on every point far outstarching the laundered clawhammers and marbletopped highboys of the pit stalls and early amphitheatre. A baser meaning has been read into these characters the literal sense of which decency can safely scarcely hint. It has been blurtingly bruited by certain wisecracks that he suffered from a vile disease. To such a suggestion the one selfrespecting answer is to affirm that there are certain statements which ought not to be, and one should like to be able to add, ought not to be allowed to be made. Nor have his detractors, who, an imperfectly warmblooded race, apparently conceive him as a great white catterpillar capable of any and every enormity in the calendar recorded to the discredit of the Juke and Kellikek families, mended their case by insinuating that, alternatively, he lay at one time under the ludicrous imputation of annoying Welsh fusiliers in the people's park. To anyone who knew and loved the Christlikeness of the big cleanminded giant H.C. Earwicker throughout his long existence the mere suggestion of him as a lustsleuth nosing for trouble in a boobytrap rings particularly preposterous. Truth compels one to add that there is said to have once been some case of the kind implicating, it is sometimes believed, a quidam about that time walking around Dublin with a bad record who has remained completely anonymous but was, it is stated, posted at Mallon's, at the instance of watch warriors of the vigilance committee, and years afterwards, writes one, seemingly dropped dead whilst waiting for a chop somewhere near Hawkins street. Slander, let it lie its flattest, has never been able to convict that good and great and no ordinary Southron Earwicker, as a pious author calls him, of any graver impropriety than that, advanced by some woodward or regarder who did not dare deny that he had that day consumed the soul of the corn of having behaved in an ungentlemanly manner opposite a pair of dainty maidservants in the greenth of the rushy hollow, whither, or so the two gown and pinners pleaded, dame nature in all innocency had spontaneously and about the same hour of the eventide sent them both but whose published combinations of testimonies are, where not dubiously pure, visibly divergent on minor points touching the intimate nature of this, a first offence in vert or venison which was admittedly an incautious but, at its widest, a partial exposure with such attenuating circumstances as an abnormal Saint Martin's summer and a ripe occasion to provoke it.


(JJA 45 pp8-17)




6: Mamalujo

September -- October 1923


And there they were too listening in as hard as they could to the solans and sycamores and the migratories and mistle thrushes and all the birds of the sea, all four of them, listening: They were the big four, the four master waves of Erin, all listening, four. There was old Matt Gregory and then besides old Matt there was old Marcus Lyons, the four waves, and oftentimes they used to be saying grace together right enough, here now we are the four of us: old Matt Gregory and old Marcus and old Luke Tarpey: the four of us and sure thank God there are no more of us: and sure now you wouldn't go and forget and leave out the other fellow and old Johnny Mac Dougall: the four of us and no more of us and so now pass the fish for Christ sake, Amen: the way they used to be saying their grace before fish repeating itself for auld lang syne. And so they were spraining their ears listening and listening to the oceans of kissening with their eyes glistening all the four when he was kiddling and cuddling his colleen bawn that was very wrong and most improper and cuddling her and kissing her with his poghue like Arrah-na-poghue the dear old annual, they all four remembored who made the world and how they used to be at that time cuddling and kiddling her from under her mistlethrush and kissing and listening in the good old bygone days of Dion Boucicault the elder in Arrah-na-poghue in one of the farback centuries when who made the world when they knew O'Clery, the man on the door when they were all four collegians on the nod with their slates and satchels in the queen's colleges with another fellow. Ah ho! It brought the dear scenes all back again as fresh as of yore Matt and Marcus and after that now there he was and his Arrah-na-poghue before the four of them so shocking and scandalous and now thank God there were no more of them and he poghuing and poghuing and there they were listening as tired as they were, the three jolly topers, with their mouths watering along with the other fellow so pass the poghue for Christ'sake Amen. Listening and poghuing and watering all the four, the old men of the sea, Luke and Johnny Mac Dougall and all wishening for anything at all of the bygone times for a cup of kindness yet for four farback tumblerfuls of woman squash with them all four listening and spraining their ears and all their mouths making water.

Johnny. Ah well sure that's the way up and it so happened there was poor Matt Gregory up and up the others and now really and truly they were four dear old heladies and really they looked so nice and respectable with their grey half a tall hat and tailormade frock coat and after that they had their fathomglasses to find out all the fathoms and their half a tall hat just like the old marquess of Powerscourt only for the saltwater or the auctioneer there in front of the place near Clery's beside that ancient Dame street where the statue of Mrs Dana O'Connell behind the Trinity college that arranges all the auctions of valuable colleges. Battersby Sisters, like the auctioneer Battersby Sisters that sells all the fine statues and powerscourts James H Tickell, the jaypee, off Hoggin Green going to the horse show before the flood along with another fellow and the shoeblacks and everyone highstepping to get out of his way and all the tercentenary horses from the Curragh and confusionaries over from England and American visitors (so they say) all over in his grey half a tall hat (how do you do, jaypee?) and his fathomglasses to find out all the improper colleges (and how do you do, Mr Dame James? get out of my way!) and all the horsepowers. But now that reminds me of the poor Marcus of Lyons and poor Johnny and what do you think of the four of us and there they were now listening right enough, the four saltwater widowers, and all they could remembore long long ago in the olden times and Lally when my heart knew no care and after that then there was the landing of Lady James Casement in the year of the flood 1132 and the christening of Queen Battersby the Fourth according to her grace the bishop, alderwoman J.P. Bishop, Senior, and then there was the drowning of Pharoah and all his pedestrians and they were all completely drowned into the sea, the red sea, and then poor Martin Cunningham out of the castle on pension when he was completely drowned off Dunleary at that time in the red sea and a lovely mourning paper and thank God there were no more of him. And that now was how it was. Ay, ay. And so he was.

Marcus. And after that, not forgetting, there was the Flemish armada all scattered and all drowned there and then on a lovely morning after the flood at about eleven thirtytwo (was it?) off the coast of Cunningham and saint Patrick the anabaptist and Kevin the lacustrian and Powerscourt and Dana our first marents and Lapoleon the equestrian, and all they remembored and then there was the French fleet round about the year of Our Lady Notre Dame 1132 or so landing from under Madame-general Bonaboche in his half a grey hat and after that there was, so terrestrial, cuddling poghuing her scandalous and very wrong under the sycamores in Arrah-na- Poghue, so silvestrious, near the queen's colleges in 1132 Bride street behind the century man on the door. And then again they used to give the grandest known lectures from sea to sea (Matt speaking!) according to the pictures postcard in Roman history repeating itself (Marcus Lyons speaking!) to the collegians green and all the old trinitarian senate and the Plymouth brethren nodding and sleeping away there like forgetmenots in the four trinity colleges of Ulcer, Moonster, Leanstare and Cannought, the four grandest colleges of Killorcure and Killthemall and Killeachother and Killkelly-on-the-Flure. Those were the grandest gynecollege histories (Lucas calling hold the line!) in the Jane Andersdaughter university for auld acquaintance sake (this unitarian lady lived to a great age at or in or about No 1132 or 1169 Fitzmary Round where she was seen by many and widely liked) for teaching the Woman history repeating herself of the spirit of nature as divinely developed in time by psadatepholomy, the past and present (Johnny Mac Dougall speaking, give me trunks, miss!) and present and absent and past and present and future arma virumque romano. Ah, dearo dear! How it all came back to them to hear him there kissling and cuddling her in his Roman catholic arms by the Cornelius Nepos, Mnepos, Anumque, Umque.

Queh? Quos?

Ah, dearo dearo dear! It was so sorry for all the whole twice two four of us and Lally when he lost part of his half a hat and repeating himself and telling him to forget the past and all about Lally and his old fellow and all the old drakes ever he had up in the bohereen and the old folks at home and Duignam and Lapole and he couldn't stop laughing over Tom Tim Tarpey, the Welshman, and the four widowers. And now that reminds me not to forget the four of the Welsh waves, leaping laughing, in their half a Roman hat in Chichester college auction and thank God they were all summarily divorced four years before, so they say, by their dear poor shehusbands in dear bygone days and never brought to mind, to see no more the rainwater on the floor but still they parted, raining water laughing, on the best of terms and be forgot which was plainly foretold by their old pilgrim song As I was going to Ballymacarett we fell in with a lout by the name of Peebles as also in another place by their orthodox proverb That old fellow knows milk though he's not used to it latterly. And so they parted. Ay, ay. The good go and the wicked is left over. Ay, ay. Ah, well, sure that's the way. Woman. Squash. Part. Ay, ay. By decree absolute. Lucas. And O so well they could remembore at that time Mrs Dowager Justice Squelchman in her fullbottom wig and beard in or aring or around about the year of disgrace 1132 or 1169 or 1798 at the Married Male Auctioneers' court in Arrahnacuddle. Poor Johnny of the clan of Dougals, the poor Scotsman, dinna forget, so frightened on account of her fullbottom and the four masters because he was so slow grooming her ladyship instead of backscratching proper like any old methodist and all divorced according to their dear faithful. Ah now, it was too bad! And poor Marcus Powerscourt all persecuted by everybody by decree absolute because he forgot himself making wind and water and made a mess of all of himself and because he forgot to remember to sign an old morning paper a request in writing to herself on stamped parchment before saying his grace before fish and then and there and too there was poor Dion Boucicault all drowned too before the world and her husband because it was most improper and most wrong when he attempted to - well, he was shocking bad in his health, he said, with the shingles falling off him - because he - ah, well now, we won't be too hard on him as an old Manx presbyterian and after that he made his last will and went to confession on his two bare marrowbones to Mother Evangelist Sweeney and he was so sorry, he was really, because he left the boot button in the hansom cab and now tell the truth there were faults on both sides - well, he attempted (or so they say) - ah, now, forget and forgive, and sure he was only funning with his andrewmartins and his old age coming over him - well, he attempted or he was tempted to attempt some hunnish familiarities after eating a bad crab in the red sea and sure he was deadseasickabed, (it was really too bad!) her poor old divorced male, in the hospice for the dying and trying to hold the nursetender's hand, ah, the poor old coax, and count the buttons and her hand and frown on a bad crab and dying to remembore who made a who a snore. Ah dearo dearo dear!

And where do you leave, Matt? They were all so sorry for poor Matt in his saltwater hat that she grew all out of too big for him of Mnepos and his overalls all falling over her in folds - sure, he hadn't the heart in him to pull them up - poor Matt, the old peregrine patriarch, and a queenly man, sitting there Themistletocles on his multilingual tombstone with her face to the wall in sight of the poorhouse amid the rattle of hailstorms, with her ivyclad hat and gripping an old pair of curling tongs belonging to Mrs Dana O'Connell to blow his brains with, with his can of tea from Anne Lynch and two cuts off Shackleton's brown loaf and dilisk, waiting for the end to come - God of heaven, when you think of it! Ah ho! It was too bad entirely! All divorce by active parlourmen of women squelch and all on account of the smell of Shackleton and Scratchman and his mouth watering and so now pass the loaf for Christ sake, Amen. And so. And all.

Matt. And loaf. Ah, God be good to us! Poor Andrew Martin Cunningham! Ay! Ay!

And still and all at that time they were always thinking up and forgetting about auld lang syne up their four hosenbands that were four up beautful sister masters, now happily married, and there they were always counting every night the lovely mother of periwinkle buttons according to the lapper part of their dress up one up two up one up four and after that there now she was, the deary, the beautfour sisters and that was her modern name right enough and they used to be getting up from under at the Kookaburra bell ringing all wrong inside of them (come in come on, you lazy loafs !) all inside their poorold shandon bellbox (come out to hell, you lazy louts !) so frightened, at all hours every night on their mistletoes the four old oldsters, when nobody wouldn't even let them rest and getting into their way something scandalous, changing the one wet underdown bed they used to sleep under and putting on their half a hat and falling over all synopticals and repeating themselves, look all round the stool walk everywhere for a jool to break fire to all the rancers to collect all and bits of brown, the rathure's evelopmen in spirits of time in all fathom of space and slooping around in a bath slipper and go away see the doctor Walker and after that so glad they had their night tentacles and there they used to be flapping around the waists of the ships as tired as they were the clipperbuilt and the fourmasters and Lally and Roe and he telling him that one about a goose a lay a goldeny egg and Johnny Mac Gory, dear mister John, and all the other analist, the steamships and the women-o'-war and playing ladies' foursome and their pair of green eyes and peering in, so they say, through the steamy windows into the honeymoon cabins on board the big steamadories made by Fumadory and the saloon ladies' modern toilet chambers lined over prawn silk the salty catara off a windows and hee hee listening, the poor old quakers, to see all the hunnishmooners and the firstclass ladies and shee shee all improper in a lovely mourning toilet under all their familiarities, forgetting to say their grace before chambadory so pass the poghue for grace sake, Amen. And all hee hee hee quaking, so fright, and shee shee shaking. Aching. Ay, ay.

But sure that reminds me now, like another tellmastory repeating yourself, how they used to be at that time up always, tired and all, over their singing up the top of the voice of Mamalujo sitting round two by two up the wet air register in Old Man's House with their cold knees and their poor up feet asleep and all dolled up for their blankets and materny mufflers and plimsoles and the bowl of brown schackle and milky and clots for a cup of kindest yet with hold take hand and nurse and only touch of eat a lovely munkybown and wait the pinch and prompt poor Marcus Lyons to pass the teeth for choke sake Amensch when it so happen they were all sicamore and by the world forgot since the phlegmish hoopicough for all a possabed after eat a bad cramp and johnny magories and backscrat the poor bedsores and their farthing dip and read a letter or two every night before going to sleep in the twilight a capitaletter on their old book of old year's eve 1132, old style, their Seanchus Mor by Mrs Shemans, final buff lunch edition and Lally through their gangrene spentacles and all the good they did in their time for Roe and O'Mulcoury a Coury on Mul or Lap at Morion and Buffler on Matty Mac Gregory for Marcus by Daddy de Wyer, old bagabroth, and one by one and sing a mamalujo. And after that now all start repeating ourselves and all now say oremus prayer for auld acquaintance to Peregrine and Michael and Farfassa and Peregrine for navigants at peregrinantibus in all the old sea and sing a lovasteamadorion in her doaty ducky little blue and roll a hoop and how she ran we never shall forget and old Luke and Seanchus Mor and another more for auld luke syne and she haihaihail her Kobbor Kohinor sehehet on the praze savohohole shanghai.

Hear, O hear, Iseult la belle! Tristan, sad hero, hear!


Anno Domini nostri sancti Jesu Christi

Nine hundred and ninetynine million pound sterling in the blueblack bowels of the bank of Ulster.

Braw bawbees and good gold pounds, galore, my girleen, a Sunday'll prank thee finely

And no damn lout 'll come courting thee or by the mother of the Holy Ghost there'll be murder!

O, come all ye sweet nymphs of Dingle beach to cheer Brinabride queen from Sibyl surfriding

In her curragh of shells of daughter of pearl and her silverymoonblue mantle round her.

Crown of the waters, brine on her brow, she'll dance them a jig and jilt them fairly.

Yerra, why would she bide with sir Sloomysides or the grogram grey barnacle gander?

You won't need be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your beau gets the worst of red steel and hot soldiering

Nor wake in winter, widow machree, but snore snug in my old Balbriggan surtout.

Wisha, won't you agree now to take me from the middle, say, of next week on, for the balance of my days, for nothing, (what?) as your own nursetender?

A power of highsteppers died game right enough -- but who,acushla, 'll beg for you?

I tossed that one long before anyone.

It was of a wet good Friday too she was ironing and, as I'm given now to understand, she was always mad gone on me.

Grand goosegreasing we had entirely with an allnight eiderdown bed picnic to follow.

By the cross of Cong, says she, rising up Saturday in the twilight from under me, Mick whatever your name is you're the most likable lad that's come my ways yet from the barony of Bohermore.


(JJA 56, pp 71-79)




7: The Revered Letter

December? 1923


Majesty well Ive heard all those muckbirds what they are bringing up about him and they will come to no good. The Honourable Mr Earwicker, my devout husband, and he is a true gentleman who changes his two shirts a day which is what none of the sneakers ever will be because as sings the royal poet their likes must be first born like he was, my devout, and it was between Williamstown and the Ailesbury road I first saw the lovelight in your eyes like a pair of candles on the top of the longcar I think he is looking at me yet as if he would pass away in a cloud when he woke up all of a sweat beside me and told me his true opinion to pardon him golden one, but he dreamt about me I had got a lovely face that day and I simply thought I was back again in paradise lost when all the world was June, love, where us two walked hand in hand.

Well, revered majesty, I hereafter swear never in his life did my husband send out the swags with a drop of anything in them but milk as it came from the natural cow and that is all a pure makeup by a snake in the grass and his name is McGrath Brothers against that dear man, my honorary husband. If I was to let out to your revered all that caffler whispered to me was it this time last year as I told Mrs Pat for his accomodation McGrath Brothers I'm saying and his bacon not fit to look at never mind butter which is strictly forbidden by the ten commandments thou shalt not unbare your false witness against thy neighbour's wife. Aha, McGrath, the lies is out on him like freckles. But I could read him. When I think what that slime had the shame to suggest about my dearly respected husband can I ever forget that? Never! So may the Lord forget McGrath Brothers for all his trespasses against the Honorary Mr Earwicker. For two straws, yes and less, I could let out to someone I know and they would make a corpse of him with the greatest of pleasure by private shooting and not leave enough of McGrath Brothers for the peelers to pick up.

Lies! There never was any girl in my house expecting trouble off my esteemed husband never! Those pair of prostitutes that committed all the nuisance, neither of them were virtuous, pursuant to said declaration of their medical officer out of the Lock whereas I shall bring under revered notice the above Honourable Earwicker to possess from a child a chest second to none very hairy with eyebrows of same for it to be able to be seen which I am the most privileged to behold and pursuant to same very affectionate after salesladies' company. I will not have a wriggling reptile the like of the McGraths to be sprinkling his lies all around where we live if he thinks he is the big noise here about the prostitutes as I simply agree to it. There, you wurrum, you! I know you now. I would hate to have to say what I think about him. I exgust sneak McGrath, purveyors and Italian warehouseman by royal appointment, wanting to live on me and my noblest husband like a dirty pair of parachutes. I wouldn't dream of a sausage of his to poison a cat and it was in all the Sunday papers about Earwicker's farfamed fatspitters that they were eaten and appreciated by over fifteen thousands of people in Dublin this weekend. The obnoxious liar! First he was a Scotchman at one time and then he was fired out of Clunne's where he was only one of your common floorwalkers for giving guff.

Moreover I have heard a certain remark stated about setting his bad example before those military but did space permit it is the best of my belief I could show that it was from the earliest wish of his mind to mitigate the King's evil and I hereinafter swear by your revered majesty that it was him gave me the price of my new bulletproof dress with the angel sleeves for my looking about twentyone and he said to my presence in these words : Just as there is a God of all, Livvy, my mind is a complete blank.

Well, revered, I tender your heartbroken thanks with regrets for lettering you and will now close, hoping you are in the best. I don't care a fig for such and erronymous letter about an experience on the part of me as girl, alleged unpleasant, with a handsome prepossessing clerical friend. How about it ! I was young and easy then and my shape admired from the first to feast his eyes on with my sweet auburn hair hanging to my innocent thighs and I can do just as I simply please with them because now it's my own by married women's impropery act. Never mind poor Father Michael now (the Lord reward him !) but chat me instead. If McGrath Brothers could only handle virgins like he used he would simply jump out of his dirty skin. When next you see M.G. ask him what about his wife, Lily Kinsella who became the wife of Mr Sneak, with the kissing solicitor, at present engaging attention by private detectives being hidden under the grand piano to find out whether nothing beyond kissing goes on. Lily is a lady, liliburlero bullenalaw! And she had a certain medicine brought her in a licensed victualler's bottle. Shame! Thrice shame! I only wish he would look in through his letterbox one day and he would not say that that was a solicitor's business. What ho, she bumps! My, he would be so surprised to see his old girl in the hands of a solicitor with Mr Brophy, solicitor, quite affectionate together, kissing and looking into a mirror.

So much for sneakery talk that I was treated not very grand by the thicks off Bully's Acre. If any of Sully's thicks was to pull a gun on me he will know better manners the way I'll sully him. I will herewith lodge my complaint on him to police sergeant Laracy who does be on the corner of Buttermilk Lane with the Rafferty's nurse and he will take such steps so as to have his head well and lawfully broken in consequence by a Norwegian who has been expelled from christianity.

Dear Majesty, I hope you are quite well. How are ye all? We are always talking of all of ye in bed. I am anxious myself about ye all. I'm feeling the cold more than I used and has to wear flannels to the skin. To speak truth I was rather put out latterly in my health about the thugs got up for McGrath by Sully. I am advised the waxy is at the present in hospital with palpitations from all he drunk and it's seldom I saw him any other way. That he may never come out but he is a rattling fine bootmaker in his profession. And now whereas I will let all whom it may concern to know that I am perfectly proud of this great civilian, A.L.P. Earwicker, long life to him my once handsome husband who is as gentle as a mushroom to be seen from my improved looks and a greatly attractable when he always sits fornenst me, poor ass, for his wet to resume our polite conversations with Earwicker over lawful business and pleasures when he is after a good few mugs of four ale and shag and he never chained me to a chair or followed me about with a fork on Thanksgiving Day ever since this native island was born and that is why all the police and everybody is all bowing around to me whenever I go out in all directions. Earwicker is a hundred percent human, I tell slysneakers and you, Master McGrath, pale bellies our mild cure, back and streaky, ninepence. I can hereby show whoever likes original bag of one apiece cakes and Adam Findlater's choice figrolls which was given to me when so fondly remembered on occasion of our last golden wedding by Mr Earwicker. Thank you, beloved, for your beautiful parcel. Always the born gentleman can be plainly seen by all from such behaviour.

Well I simply like their damn cheek for them to go and say about he being as bothered as he possible could. I must beg to contradict in the strongest as indeed I think I may add at this stage in the matter of hearing that he is after his manner and certified of so being quite agreeable deef. I'd give him his answer if he was to dare to say my revered husband was never a true widower in the eyes of the law on consideration of his diseased obsolete inasmuch as the present Mr Earwicker Esquire has often given said deponent full particulars answering to description of the late diseased in dear delightful twilit hours when this truly timehonoured man is a great warrant to play slapsam and population peg and Sally Shortclothes when he can proudly hold his own always whilst we frankly enjoyed more than anything the secret workings of nature (thank heaven for it, I humbly pray!) and was really so delighted of the nice time. Who would stoop to argue with a particularly mean stinker called McGrath Brothers. If I am credibly informed cannonballs is the only true argument with a low sneak. Ping! Ping! Hit him again! Ping! That ought to make him hop it. Ha! Ha! Ha! I must simply laugh. Sneak McGrath has stuffed his last black pudding. 3.p.m. Wednesday. Grand funeral by torchlight of McGrath Brothers. Don't forget. His funeral will now shortly take place. Remains must be removed before 3 sharp. R.I.P.

Well, revered majesty, I take this liberty of cherishing expectations that the clouds will soon dissipate looking forward to the fine day we had and will now conclude above epistle with best thanks and my thousand blessings for your great kindest and all the trouble to took for self and dearest of husbands who I'll be true to you unto life's end as long as he has a barrel full of Bass with love to Majes and all at home in the earnest hopes you will soon enjoy perusal of same most completely.

So help me witness to this day to my hand and mark from your revered Majesty's most duteous I remain

Your affectionate

Dame Anna Livia Plurabelle Earwicker

(Only lawful wife of A.L.P. Earwicker)