Lo, as they spoke, a godlike |1youth messenger1| came in running on swift feet, radiant as the eye of heaven, a laughing youth. And lo there passed behind him an elder of noble |1mien gait1| and |1visage countenance1|, bearing the |1divine1| scrolls of law, and with him his lady wife, a comely dame of beauteous lineage, the fairest of her race.
Little Alf Bergan popped in and hid behind Barney's snug, squez squeezed up laughing. |1I didn't know what was up.1| He made signs to — —, — pointing out. And what was it but that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen in his bathslippers and two bloody big lawbooks tucked under his oxter and |1hotfoot after him1| the wife, unfortunate wretched creature, trotting after him like a poodle
I thought Alf Bergan'd |1split get a fit1|.
— Look at him, he said. Breen. He's traipsing all round Dublin with a postcard someone sent him with U.p: up on it to take a libe li …
He squirmed laughing.
— To take a what?
— A libel action for 10,000 pounds
— O, Christ!
— He was in John Henry Menton's and then he went to
Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and for
lark sent him on to the subsheriff's. And |1long John the long fellow |agave him an eye as good as a processa|1| sent him up to Green street to look for |1a the1| G division man.
— Is long John going to hang that fellow up in Mountjoy?
— By God, he'll have to by law unread send a fellow round with a bell. Look at till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a pony of stout.
Terr Terence O'Ryan heard him and forthwith he brought him a crystal cup full of the foamcrowned ebon ale |1which1| the noble twin brothers |1Iveagh and Ardilaun Bungiveagh and Bungardilaun1| brew ever in their divine alevats |1cunning as the sons of deathe deathless Leda1|. He poured it forth |1as to the manner born1| the nectarous beverage, and reached out the crystal goblet in beauty akin to the immortals. But he, the young chief of the O'Bergans, would not brook to be less generous but gave him with noble mien a |1costly talent |anoble talent testoona|1| of costliest bronze. Thereon embossed by cunning smithwork was made the image of |1gracious queen |aa fair and gracious queen a queen of gracious porta|1|, Victoria her name |1by the grace of God queen of Great Britain & Ireland, empress of India, defender of the faith,1| who bears rule, a victress well-beloved, over countless peoples, pale and dark, ruddy and ethiop.
— Here you are, Alf Bergan said, chucking out |1a copper the rhino1|. Talking about hanging now I'll show you something you never saw. |1Hangman's Hangmen's1| letters. Look at here.
He drew forth and tossed on the counter a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes.
— Are you codding?
The young chieftain O'Bergan, comely in his youth, quaffed the divine nectar of Iveagh.
— Honest injun. Read them.
— How is Tommy these times and his great invention|1, Stagger the World1|.
— I don't know, Alf Bergan said. I saw him just now on Essex Bridge with Paddy Dignam. Boylan is going to ….
— You what? Ned Lambert |1said cried1|. With who?
— Dignam, Alf Bergan said.
— Is it Paddy?
— Yes. Why?
— Don't you know he's dead?
— Paddy Dignam dead! Alf Bergan cried. Are you codding?
— I am not, Ned Lambert said.
— Sure, I'm after seeing him not |1ten, not1| five minutes ago on Essex bridge |1as plain as a pikestaff1| talking to Tommy …
— You saw his ghost then |1God between us & harm1|, if you did.
— What? Good Christ, only five … What? … And Tommy with him, the two of them, there near what you call him's. Dead? He's no more dead than you are.
— |1I don't know Maybe so1|, Ned Lambert said reflectively. They took the liberty of burying him this morning anyhow.
paid the debt of nature,1| God be merciful to him.
the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when
supplication by tantrasa| had
to the proper quarter a faint but increasing luminosity of dark ruby light
became visible, the apparition
the etheric doublea|
being particularly lifelike in consequence of the discharge of
jivic rays from the
head and face. Communication was made through
body and also through the
from the sacral
and solar plexi.
Questioned |aas to his
whereaboutsa| he stated that
he was now on the path
of pralaya or return but was submitted to trial by some
on the lower astrals. Questioned as to his first sensations he stated that
before he had seen as in a glass darkly but that those who had passed over had
summit possibilities of atmic development
|aopened up to
thema|. Interrogated as to
whether life there resembled our experience
in the flesha| he stated that
he had heard from more favoured beings that their abodes were equipped with
everya| modern comfort and
that the highest adepts were steeped in volupcy of the purest kind. Having
requested a jug of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief.
Asked if he had any message for the living he exhorted all men to acknowledge
the true path for it was reported that
were out for mischief on the
horn of the western horizon eastern angle where the Ram has
rulea|. He was then
queried whether there were any special desires
parta| of the
defunct and the reply was: Watch |aCorny CK |bdoesn't pile it onb|a|. It was |aunderstood ascertaineda| that the reference was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, |a|athea| manager of Messrs H.J. O'Neill's, the popular funeral undertakers,a| a friend of the defunct who had been responsible for |athe carrying out ofºa| the interment arrangements. Before departing he requested that it should be |amade known tolda| to Patsy, his dear son, that the other boot which he had been looking for was at present under the commode |ain the return rooma| and that the pair should be soled and heeled only as the heels were |astilla| good. He stated that this had greatly disturbed his peace of mind |ain the other regiona| and earnestly requested that his desire should be made known. Assurances were given that this matter would be seen to and it was intimated that this had given satisfaction.1|
He is gone from mortal haunts,
Dignam,a|1| sun of our
was his foot on the bracken, Patrick of the beamy
O Inisfail, with
And wail1|, O ocean, with your whirlwind.
|1|+He is gone from mortal Haunts: O'Dignam, Sun of our Morning. Fleet was his Foot on the Bracken: Patrick of the beamy Brow. Wail, Inisfail, with your Wind: and wail, O Ocean, with your Whirlwind.+|
Bob Doran bent over with the hat on the back of his poll “Who's dead?” says he. “Dignam” says Ned Lambert “Is it little Dignam that was in Menton's office” |aAy, by God.a| “Ay, poor chap, |ahe's gone to a better world he's over all his troublesa|,” says Ned
Bob kept gaping at him with the glass in his hand. He's on a hell of a bend |athese thosea| times. Bloody safe if he doesn't finish up in Saint John of God's. That bloody little sleepwalking bitch he married. Mooney, the bailiff's daughter. The mother kept a kind of a kip in Hardwicke street. He was damn well had anyhow. Ask Bantam Lyons. Walking about the house at two in the morning |ain her shift without a stitch on hera|. Open to all comers. A fair field & no favour.
the extinction of
thata| beam of
X. perused the |1missive Missive1| of the |1avenger Avenger1|, Rambold the |1hand Hand1| of the |1law Law1|. No Man of Guilt may scape him. Dread is his Ire.
— O, Christ MacKeon, says he, will you listen to this.
7 Hunter street
To the Sheriff of Dublin
Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the abovementioned painful case. i hanged Joe Gann in Holloway jale goal jail on the 12th of february 1900 and i hanged …
— O, God! says Z, peering over.
— … |1private1| Arthur Chace for the |1|afoul fowla|1| murder of Jessie Tilsit in Dartmoor prison and |1I i1| was |1assistant asistent1| when …
— God Almighty!
— … Billington hanged the awful murderer J. Smith …
Z made a grab at it.
— |1Wait Hold hard1|, says X, i have a special nack of putting the noose once in he can't get out hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir, my terms is five guinees.
— And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too. Look at the dirty scrawl of the …
— O, put them away to hell out of that, says X. Here take them out of my sight.
Alf stuck them all back in his pocket.
— They're all barbers from the black country. One chap sent in a mourning card with a black border on it. Five guineas is the fee but they make a good bit |1extra1| cutting up the rope in bits and selling it. Do you not believe me? That's a fact. They do, faith.
In the dark Regions they bide: the vengeful Knights of the Razor. |1their Their1| deadly Coil they grasp: yea, and therein lead to Erebus whomsoever hath done a |1deed of blood Deed of Blood1| for I will in nowise suffer it even so saith the Lord.
— I wonder has it a deterrent effect, X said.
— There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, Alf said.
— What's that?
— The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, Alf said.
— Do you mean he …...
— That's God's truth, Alf Bergan said. I heard
the head1| warder that was in Kilmainham
when they hanged Joe Brady.
— The invincible?
— Ay. He told me when they cut him down |1after the drop1| it was standing |1out up1| like a poker in their faces.
— Good Christ!
— Fact. Horrible it must be.
— What's the cause of it. I suppose the shock or …
— The ruling passion strong in death.
XY tendered medical evidence to the effect that the fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would, |1in the opinion according to the best approved tradition1| of science, be calculated to produce a violent ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus thereby causing the |1elastic1| pores of the spongi corpus spongiosum to rapidly dilate in such a way as to facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the human anatomy known as the penis or male organ resulting in the phenomenon which is has been |1called denominated1| by the faculty a morbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitive erection in articulo mortis per diminutionem capitis.
— And these are the swine that want to govern us here in Ireland, — cried. Set of barbarians. Sure they have nothing, blast them, a race of mongrels with their mongrel bloody language. We want no mongrels here. Eh, Garryowen?
He heard the
and raised his
Palate1|: proud of
his noble |1sires Sires1|.
— caught the setter by the scruff a of the neck and says he:
— Eh, Garry, old boy, what do you think?
He shook the |1growling1| setter's nape |1fell |askin scruffa|1|.
— What's that? What are you saying? |1am I right?1|
Garryowen made answer and thus |1he spake spake he1| |1in the grand old tongue, not in |aBearla beurlaa|, I ween; the tongue that Finn and Ossian knew1|.
The curse of my curses
Seven times every day
And seven dry Thursdays
On you, Barny B Kiernan
Has no sup of water
To cool my courage
And my guts red roaring
After |1Buckley's Lawler's1| bad lights.
— Did you hear that? — cried.
He clasped the |1|aneck Necka|of the1| noble |1friend Friend1| of |1man Man1|.
— God, ph pòg mo honº is all the Irish I know, — said.
— Shame on you, shoneen, then — cried. I'll tell you what he said.
He opened the his mouth and spoke in the tongue of the hated stranger:
The curse of my curses
Seven |1times days1| every day
And seven dry Thursdays
On you Barney Kiernan
Has no sup of water
To cool my courage
And my guts red roaring
After |1Buckley Lawler's1| lights
— Bring us a saucer of water, young chap, — cried.
And at his behest the youthful Terence came and bore a silver ewer inwrought with findrinny and therein sparkled
|1water Water1| of the most pure |1springs Springs1| of Vartry and of the |1glens Glens1| and Lugnaquilla
The poor brute lapped it up like old boots. He must have had a hell of a thirst. Good old doggy!
— That's the language we want here, — cried. Down with the beurla. We want an Irish speaking Ireland. There was a meeting of those shoneens |1& tinkers1| in the city hall today to have the Irish language … Here's the man can tell us.
|1There entered the noble John Wyse O'Nolan, resplendent in verdant and silver garb. He wore the Grand High Chief Ranger, he, of the National Foresters of Ireland. He doffed low his whiteplumed helm and —1|
John Wyse |1O'Power O'Nolan1|, clad in shining armour, hastened in and, low bending, he made obeisance to the |1high chief puissant chieftain1| of |1Erin |aInisfail Banbaa|1| and |1bore him tidings did him to wit1| of what had befallen, how that the grave elders of the |1city second city of the empire, the city most obedient,1| had met them in the tholsel and there, after meet prayer to the gods who dwell in realms supernal, had taken counsel whereby they might, |1if so be if so be it might be,1| bring once more to honour among mortals the winged speech of the Gael. And — gave ear, a chieftain excellent in counsel. And they had bethought them of how it might come to pass for great is their wisdom, and thereat were all right glad and joyous.
— It's on the march, — cried, dark Rosaleen's hour of triumph. What about the scoffers now? A nation once again. To hell with the bloody brutal Sassenachs, and their language!
— But still English, — said, we must keep it also for culture, I mean.
— To hell with them, — bawled,
they have no culture, no music, no literature, no nothing. All they're good for is making waterclosets. Any civilisation they have they stole from us. Yes, from us. |1The curse of a lopsided God light sideways on the bloody thicklugged sons of whores' gets. The closetmakers of Europe.1|
He |1lifted in his strengthy hands bludgeon1| smote his cudgel upon the resounding winekeg, awful in ire as he spoke of the race of foemen, a race of mighty valorous heroes, |1begotten of Bullybull the Bull,1| rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster silent as the deathless gods.