Relevant exceipt from the Press: A number of men, stated to be labourers, were arraigned before Mr Lamphall in the District Court yesterday morning on charges of riotous assembly and malicious damage. Accused were described by Superintendent Clohessy as a gang of corner-boys whose horse-play in the streets was the curse of the Ringsend district. They were pests and public nuisances whose antics were not infrequently attended by damage to property. Complaints as to their conduct were frequently being received from residents in the area. On the occasion of the last escapade, two windows were broken in a tram-car the property of the Dublin United Tramway Company. Inspector Quin of the Company stated that the damage to the vehicle amounted to £2 11s. od. Remarking that no civilized community could tolerate organized hooliganism of this kind, the justice sentenced the accused to seven days’ hard labour without the option of a fine, and hoped that it would be a lesson to them and to other playboys of the boulevards. Conclusion of excerpt.
Biographical reminiscence, part the fifth: The weather in the following March was cold, with snow and rain, and generally dangerous to persons of inferior vitality. I kept to the house as much as possible, reclining safe from ill and infection in the envelope of my bed. My uncle had taken to the studying of musical scores and endeavouring, by undertoned hummings, to make himself proficient in the vocal craft. Conducting researches in his bedroom one day in an attempt to find cigarettes, I came upon a policeman’s hat of the papier-mâché type utilized by persons following the dramatic profession. A result of this departure in his habits was absence from the house on three nights a week and temporary indifference – amounting almost to unconcern – for my temporal and spiritual welfare. This I found convenient.
I recall that at the time of the loss of portion of my day-papers, I found myself one day speculating as to the gravity of the situation which would arise if the entirety of my papers were lost in the same manner. My literary or spare-time compositions, written not infrequently with animation and enjoyment, I always found tedious of subsequent perusal. This sense of tedium is so deeply seated in the texture of my mind that I can rarely suffer myself to endure the pain of it. One result is that many of my shorter works, even those made the subject of extremely flattering encomia on the part of friends and acquaintances, I have never myself read, nor does my indolent memory enable me to recall their contents with a satisfactory degree of accuracy. A hasty search for syntactical solecism was the most I could perform.
With regard to my present work, however, the forty pages which follow the lost portion were so vital to the operation of the ingenious plot which I had devised that I deemed it advisable to spend an April forenoon – a time of sun-glistening showers – glancing through them in a critical if precipitate manner. This was fortunate for I found two things which caused me considerable consternation.
The first thing: An inexplicable chasm in the pagination, four pages of unascertained content being wanting.
The second thing: An unaccountable omission of one of the four improper assaults required by the ramification of the plot or argument, together with an absence of structural cohesion and a general feebleness of literary style.
I recall that these discoveries caused me concern for many days and were mainly the subjects turned over in my mind in the pauses which occurred in the casual day-to-day conversations which I conducted with my friends and acquaintances. Without seeking independent advice on the matter, I decided – foolishly perhaps – to delete the entire narrative and present in its place a brief résumé (or summary) of the events which it contained, a device frequently employed by newspapers to avoid the trouble and expense of reprinting past portions of their serial stories. The synopsis is as follows:
Synopsis, being a summary of what has gone before, FOR THE BENEFIT OF NEW READERS: DERMOT TRELLIS, an eccentric author, conceives the project of writing a salutary book on the consequences which follow wrong-doing and creates for the purpose
THE POOKA FERGUS MACPHELLIMEY, a species of human Irish devil endowed with magical powers. He then creates
JOHN FURRISKEY, a depraved character, whose task is to attack women and behave at all times in an indecent manner. By magic he is instructed by Trellis to go one night to Donnybrook where he will by arrangement meet and betray
PEGGY, a domestic servant. He meets her and is much surprised when she confides in him that Trellis has fallen asleep and that her virtue has already been assailed by an elderly man subsequently to be identified as
FINN MACCOOL, a legendary character hired by Trellis on account of the former’s venerable appearance and experience, to act as the girl’s father and chastise her for her transgressions against the moral law; and that her virtue has also been assailed by
PAUL SHANAHAN, another man hired by Trellis for performing various small and unimportant parts in the story, also for running messages, &c &c. Peggy and Furriskey then have a long discussion on the roadside in which she explains to him that Trellis’s powers are suspended when he falls asleep and that Finn and Shanahan were taking advantage of that fact when they came to see her because they would not dare to defy him when he is awake. Furriskey then inquires whether she yielded to them and she replies that indeed she did not. Furriskey then praises her and they discover after a short time that they have fallen in love with each other at first sight. They arrange to lead virtuous lives, to simulate the immoral actions, thoughts and words which Trellis demands of them on pain of the severest penalties. They also arrange that the first of them who shall be free shall wait for the other with a view to marriage at the earliest opportunity. Meanwhile Trellis, in order to show how an evil man can debase the highest and the lowest in the same story, creates a very beautiful and refined girl called
SHEILA LAMONT, whose brother,
ANTONY LAMONT he has already hired so that there will be somebody to demand satisfaction off John Furriskey for betraying her – all this being provided for in the plot. Trellis creates Miss Lamont in his own bedroom and he is so blinded by her beauty (which is naturally the type of beauty nearest to his heart), that he so far forgets himself as to assault her himself. Furriskey in the meantime returns to the Red Swan Hotel where Trellis lives and compels all those working for him to live also. He (Furriskey) is determined to pretend that he faithfully carried out the terrible mission he was sent on. Now read on.
Further extract from Manuscript. Oratio recta: With a key in his soft nervous hand, he opened the hall door and removed his shoes with two swift spells of crouching on the one leg. He crept up the stairs with the noiseless cat-tread of his good-quality woollen socks. The door of Trellis was dark and sleeping as he passed up the stairs to his room. There was a crack of light at Shanahan’s door and he placed his shoes quietly on the floor and turned the handle.
The hard Furriskey, said Shanahan.
Here was Shanahan stretched at the fire, with Lamont on his left and the old greybeard seated beyond dimly on the bed with his stick between his knees and his old eyes staring far into the red fire like a man whose thought was in a distant part of the old world or maybe in another world altogether.
By God you weren’t long, said Lamont.
Shut the door, said Shanahan, but see you’re in the room before you do so. Shut the door and treat yourself to a chair, Mr F. You’re quick off the mark all right. Move up there, Mr L.
It’s not what you call a full-time occupation, said Furriskey in a weary way. It’s not what you call a life sentence.
It is not, said Lamont. You’re right there.
Now don’t worry, said Shanahan in a pitying manner, there’s plenty more coming. We’ll keep you occupied now, don’t you worry, won’t we, Mr Lamont?
We’ll see that he gets his bellyful, said Lamont.
You’re decent fellows the pair of ye, said Furriskey.
He sat on a stool and extended his fan to the fire, the fan of his ten fingers.
You can get too much of them the same women, he said.
Is that a fact, said
Shanahan in unbelief. Well I never heard that said before. Come here, Mr Furriskey, did you….
O it was all right, I’ll tell you sometime, said Furriskey.
Didn’t I tell you it was all right? Didn’t I?
You did, said Furriskey.
He took a sole cigarette from a small box.
I’ll tell you the whole story sometime but not now, he said. He nodded towards the bed.
Is your man asleep or what?
Maybe he is, said Shanahan, but by God it didn’t sound like it five minutes ago. Mr Storybook was wide awake.
He was wide awake, said Lamont.
Five minutes ago he was giving out a yarn the length of my arm, Shanahan. Right enough he is a terrible man for talk. Aren’t you now? He’d talk the lot of us into the one grave if you gave him his head, don’t ask me how I know, look at my grey hairs. Isn’t that a fact, Mr Lamont?
For a man of his years, said Lamont slowly and authoritatively, he can do the talking. By God he can do the talking. He has seen more of the world than you or me, of course, that’s the secret of it.
That’s true, said Furriskey, a happy fire-glow running about his body. He carefully directed the smoke of his cigarette towards the flames and up the chimney. Yes, he’s an old man, of course.
His stories are not the worst though, I’ll say that, said Lamont, there’s always a head and a tail on his yarns, a beginning and an end, give him his due.
O I don’t know, said Furriskey.
O he can talk, he can talk, I agree with you there, said Shanahan, credit where credit is due. But you’d want what you’d call a grain of salo with more than one of them if I know anything.
A pinch of salt? said Lamont.
A grain of salo, Mr L.
I don’t doubt it, said Furriskey.
Relate, said hidden Conán, the tale of the Feasting of Dún na nGedh.
Finn in his mind was nestling with his people.
I mean to say, said Lamont, whether a yarn is tall or small I like to hear it well told. I like to meet a man that can take in hand to tell a story and not make a balls of it while he’s at it. I like to know where I am, do you know. Everything has a beginning and an end.
It is true, said Finn, that I will not.
O that’s right too, said Shanahan.
Relate them, said Conán, the account of the madness of King Sweeny and he on a madman’s flight through the length of Erin.
That’s a grand fire, said Furriskey, and if a man has that, he can’t want a lot more. A fire, a bed, and a roof over his head, that’s all With a bite to eat, of course.
It’s all very fine for you to talk, now, said Lamont, you had something for your tea tonight that the rest of us hadn’t, eh, Mr Shanahan. Know what I mean?
Keep the fun clean, said Shanahan.
I beg, Mr Chairman, said Furriskey, to be associated with them sentiments. What’s clean, keep it clean.
There was a concerted snigger, harmonious, scored for three voices.
I will relate, said Finn.
We’re off again, said Furriskey.
The first matter that I will occupy with honey-words and melodious recital, said Finn, is the reason and the first cause for Sweeny’s frenzy.
Draw in your chairs, boys, said Shanahan, we’re right for the night. We re away on a hack.
Pray proceed, Sir, said Lamont.
Now Sweeny was King of Dal Araidhe and a man that was easily moved to the tides of anger. Near his house was the cave of a saint called Ronan – a shield against evil was this gentle generous friendly active man, who was out in the matin-hours taping out the wallsteads of a new sun-bright church and ringing his bell in the morning.
Good for telling, said Conán.
Now when Sweeny heard the clack of the clergyman’s bell, his brain and his spleen and his gut were exercised by turn and together with the fever of a flaming anger. He made a great run out of the house without a cloth-stitch to the sheltering of his naked nudity, for he ran out of his cloak when his wife Eorann held it for restraint and deterrence, and he did not rest till he had snatched the beauteous light-lined psalter from the cleric and put it in the lake, at the bottom; after that he took the hard grip of the cleric’s hand and ran with a wind-swift stride to the lake without a halting or a letting go of the hand because he had a mind to place the cleric by the side of his psalter in the lake, on the bottom, to speak precisely. But, evil destiny, he was deterred by the big storm-voiced hoarse shout, the shout of a scullion calling him to the profession of arms at the battle of Magh Rath. Sweeny then left the cleric sad and sorrowful over the godless battery of the king and lamenting his psalter. This, however, an otter from the murk of the lake returned to him unharmed, its lines and its letters unblemished. He then returned with joyous piety to his devotions and put a malediction on Sweeny by the uttering of a lay of eleven melodious stanzas.
Thereafter he went himself with his acolytes to the plain of Magh Rath for the weaving of concord and peace between the hosts and was himself taken as a holy pledge, the person of the cleric, that fighting should cease at sundown and that no man should be slain until fighting would be again permitted, the person of the cleric a holy hostage and exchange between the hosts. But, evil destiny, Sweeny was used to violating the guarantee by the slaughter of a man every morning before the hour when fighting was permitted. On the morning of a certain day, Ronan and his eight psalmists were walking in the field and sprinkling holy water on the hosts against the incidence of hurt of evil when they sprinkled the head of Sweeny with the rest. Sweeny in anger took a cast and reddened his spear in the white side of a psalmist and broke Ronan’s bell where-upon the cleric uttered this melodious lay:
My curse on Sweeny!
His guilt against me is immense,
he pierced with his long swift javelin
my holy bell.
The holy bell that thou hast outraged
will banish thee to branches,
it will put thee on a par with fowls—
the saint-bell of saints with sainty-saints.
Just as it went prestissimo
the spear-shaft skyward,
you too, Sweeny, go madly mad-gone
skyward.
Eorann of Conn tried to hold him
by a hold of his smock
and though I bless her therefore,
my curse on Sweeny.
Thereafter when the hosts clashed and bellowed like stag-herds and gave three audible world-wide shouts till Sweeny heard them and their hollow reverberations in the sky-vault, he was beleaguered by an anger and a darkness, and fury and fits and frenzy and fright-fraught fear, and he was filled with a restless tottering unquiet and with a disgust for the places that he knew and with a desire to be where he never was, so that he was palsied of hand and foot and eye-mad and heart-quick and went from the curse of Ronan bird-quick in craze and madness from the battle. For the nimble lightness of his tread in flight he did not shake dewdrops from the grass-stalks and staying not for bog or thicket or marsh or hollow or thick-sheltering wood in Erin for that day, he travelled till he reached Ros Bearaigh in Glenn Earcain where he went into the yew-tree that was in the glen.
In a later hour his kin came to halt beneath the tree for a spell of discourse and melodious talk about Sweeny and no tidings concerning him either in the east or the west; and Sweeny in the yew-tree above them listened till he made answer in this lay:
O warriors approach,
warriors of Dal Araidhe,
you will find him in the tree he is
the man you seek.
God has given me life here,
very bare, very narrow,
no woman, no trysting,
no music or trance-eyed sleep.
When they noticed the verses from the tree-top they saw Sweeny in branches and then they talked their honey-words, beseeching him that he should be trustful, and then made a ring around the tree-bole. But Sweeny arose nimbly and away to Cell Riagain in Tir Conaill where
he perched in the old tree of the church, going and coming between branches and the rain-clouds of the skies, trespassing and wayfaring over peaks and summits and across the ridge-poles of black bills, and visiting in dark mountains, ruminating and searching in cavities and narrow crags and slag-slits in rocky hidings, and lodging in the clump of tall ivies and in the cracks of hill-stones, a year of time from summit to summit and from glen to glen and from river-mouth to river till he arrived at ever-delightful Glen Bolcain. For it is thus that Glen Bolcain is, it has four gaps to the four winds and a too-fine too-pleasant wood and fresh-banked wells and cold-dean fountains and sandy pellucid streams of clear water with green-topped watercress and brooklime long-streamed on the current, and a richness of sorrels and wood-sorrels, lus-bian and biorragan and berries and wild garlic, melle and miodhbhun, inky sloes and dun acorns. For it was here that the madmen of Erin were used to come when their year of madness was complete, smiting and lamming each other for choice of its watercress and in rivalry for its fine couches.
In that glen it was hard for Sweeny to endure the pain of his bed there on the top of a tall ivy-grown hawthorn in the glen, every twist that he would turn sending showers of hawy thorns into his flesh, tearing and rending and piercing him and pricking his blood-red skin. He thereupon changed beds to the resting of another tree where there were tangles of thick fine-thorned briars and a solitary branch of blackthorn growing up through the core of the brambles. He settled and roosted on its slender perch till it bowed beneath him and bent till it slammed him to the ground, not one inch of him from toe to crown that was not red-prickled and blood-gashed, the skin to his body being ragged and flapping and thorned, the tattered cloak of his perished skin. He arose death-weak from the ground to his standing for the recital of this lay.
A year to last night
I have lodged there in branches
from the flood-tide to the ebb-tide
naked.
Bereft of fine women-folk,
the brooklime for a brother –
At Swim-Two-Birds Page 7
