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List Of Contents | Contents of Dubliners, by James Joyce
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as I said to old Ward, is capital. The King's coming here will mean
an influx of money into this country. The citizens of Dublin will
benefit by it. Look at all the factories down by the quays there,
idle! Look at all the money there is in the country if we only
worked the old industries, the mills, the ship-building yards and
factories. It's capital we want." 

"But look here, John," said Mr. O'Connor. "Why should we
welcome the King of England? Didn't Parnell himself..." 

"Parnell," said Mr. Henchy, "is dead. Now, here's the way I look at
it. Here's this chap come to the throne after his old mother keeping
him out of it till the man was grey. He's a man of the world, and he
means well by us. He's a jolly fine decent fellow, if you ask me,
and no damn nonsense about him. He just says to himself: 'The old
one never went to see these wild Irish. By Christ, I'll go myself and
see what they're like.' And are we going to insult the man when he
comes over here on a friendly visit? Eh? Isn't that right, Crofton?" 

Mr. Crofton nodded his head. 

"But after all now," said Mr. Lyons argumentatively, "King
Edward's life, you know, is not the very..." 

"Let bygones be bygones," said Mr. Henchy. "I admire the man
personally. He's just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He's
fond of his glass of grog and he's a bit of a rake, perhaps, and he's a
good sportsman. Damn it, can't we Irish play fair?" 

"That's all very fine," said Mr. Lyons. "But look at the case of
Parnell now." 

"In the name of God," said Mr. Henchy, "where's the analogy
between the two cases?" 

"What I mean," said Mr. Lyons, "is we have our ideals. Why, now,
would we welcome a man like that? Do you think now after what
he did Parnell was a fit man to lead us? And why, then, would we
do it for Edward the Seventh?" 

"This is Parnell's anniversary," said Mr. O'Connor, "and don't let us
stir up any bad blood. We all respect him now that he's dead and
gone -- even the Conservatives," he added, turning to Mr. Crofton. 

Pok! The tardy cork flew out of Mr. Crofton's bottle. Mr. Crofton
got up from his box and went to the fire. As he returned with his
capture he said in a deep voice: 

"Our side of the house respects him, because he was a gentleman." 

"Right you are, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy fiercely. "He was the
only man that could keep that bag of cats in order. 'Down, ye dogs!
Lie down, ye curs!' That's the way he treated them. Come in, Joe!
Come in!" he called out, catching sight of Mr. Hynes in the
doorway. 

Mr. Hynes came in slowly. 

"Open another bottle of stout, Jack," said Mr. Henchy. "O, I forgot
there's no corkscrew! Here, show me one here and I'll put it at the
fire." 

The old man handed him another bottle and he placed it on the
hob. 

"Sit down, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor, "we're just talking about the
Chief." 

"Ay, ay!" said Mr. Henchy. 

Mr. Hynes sat on the side of the table near Mr. Lyons but said
nothing. 

"There's one of them, anyhow," said Mr. Henchy, "that didn't
renege him. By God, I'll say for you, Joe! No, by God, you stuck to
him like a man!" 

"0, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor suddenly. "Give us that thing you
wrote -- do you remember? Have you got it on you?" 

"0, ay!" said Mr. Henchy. "Give us that. Did you ever hear that.
Crofton? Listen to this now: splendid thing." 

"Go on," said Mr. O'Connor. "Fire away, Joe." 

Mr. Hynes did not seem to remember at once the piece to which
they were alluding, but, after reflecting a while, he said: 

"O, that thing is it.... Sure, that's old now." 

"Out with it, man!" said Mr. O'Connor. 

"'Sh, 'sh," said Mr. Henchy. "Now, Joe!" 

Mr. Hynes hesitated a little longer. Then amid the silence he took
off his hat, laid it on the table and stood up. He seemed to be
rehearsing the piece in his mind. After a rather long pause he
announced:


                       THE DEATH OF PARNELL
                        6th October, 1891


He cleared his throat once or twice and then began to recite:


            He is dead.  Our Uncrowned King is dead.
              O, Erin, mourn with grief and woe
            For he lies dead whom the fell gang
              Of modern hypocrites laid low.
            He lies slain by the coward hounds
              He raised to glory from the mire;
            And Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams
              Perish upon her monarch's pyre.
            In palace, cabin or in cot
              The Irish heart where'er it be
            Is bowed with woe -- for he is gone
              Who would have wrought her destiny.
            He would have had his Erin famed,
              The green flag gloriously unfurled,
            Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised
              Before the nations of the World.
            He dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream!)
              Of Liberty: but as he strove
            To clutch that idol, treachery
              Sundered him from the thing he loved.
            Shame on the coward, caitiff hands
              That smote their Lord or with a kiss
            Betrayed him to the rabble-rout
              Of fawning priests -- no friends of his.
            May everlasting shame consume
              The memory of those who tried
            To befoul and smear the exalted name
              Of one who spurned them in his pride.
            He fell as fall the mighty ones,
              Nobly undaunted to the last,
            And death has now united him
              With Erin's heroes of the past.
            No sound of strife disturb his sleep!
              Calmly he rests: no human pain
            Or high ambition spurs him now
              The peaks of glory to attain.
            They had their way: they laid him low.
              But Erin, list, his spirit may
            Rise, like the Phoenix from the flames,
              When breaks the dawning of the day,
            The day that brings us Freedom's reign.
              And on that day may Erin well
            Pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy
              One grief -- the memory of Parnell.


Mr. Hynes sat down again on the table. When he had finished his
recitation there was a silence and then a burst of clapping: even
Mr. Lyons clapped. The applause continued for a little time. When
it had ceased all the auditors drank from their bottles in silence. 

Pok! The cork flew out of Mr. Hynes' bottle, but Mr. Hynes
remained sitting flushed and bare-headed on the table. He did not
seem to have heard the invitation. 

"Good man, Joe!" said Mr. O'Connor, taking out his cigarette
papers and pouch the better to hide his emotion. 

"What do you think of that, Crofton?" cried Mr. Henchy. "Isn't that
fine? What?" 

Crofton said that it was a very fine piece of writing. 

A MOTHER 

MR HOLOHAN, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu Society, had
been walking up and down Dublin for nearly a month, with his
hands and pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the
series of concerts. He had a game leg and for this his friends called
him Hoppy Holohan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by
the hour at street corners arguing the point and made notes; but in
the end it was Mrs. Kearney who arranged everything. 

Miss Devlin had become Mrs. Kearney out of spite. She had been
educated in a high-class convent, where she had learned French
and music. As she was naturally pale and unbending in manner she
made few friends at school. When she came to the age of marriage
she was sent out to many houses, where her playing and ivory
manners were much admired. She sat amid the chilly circle of her
accomplishments, waiting for some suitor to brave it and offer her
a brilliant life. But the young men whom she met were ordinary
and she gave them no encouragement, trying to console her
romantic desires by eating a great deal of Turkish Delight in
secret. However, when she drew near the limit and her friends
began to loosen their tongues about her, she silenced them by
marrying Mr. Kearney, who was a bootmaker on Ormond Quay. 

He was much older than she. His conversation, which was serious,
took place at intervals in his great brown beard. After the first year
of married life, Mrs. Kearney perceived that such a man would
wear better than a romantic person, but she never put her own
romantic ideas away. He was sober, thrifty and pious; he went to
the altar every first Friday, sometimes with her, oftener by himself.
But she never weakened in her religion and was a good wife to
him. At some party in a strange house when she lifted her eyebrow
ever so slightly he stood up to take his leave and, when his cough
troubled him, she put the eider-down quilt over his feet and made a
strong rum punch. For his part, he was a model father. By paying a
small sum every week into a society, he ensured for both his
daughters a dowry of one hundred pounds each when they came to
the age of twenty-four. He sent the older daughter, Kathleen, to a
good convent, where she learned French and music, and afterward
paid her fees at the Academy. Every year in the month of July Mrs.
Kearney found occasion to say to some friend: 

"My good man is packing us off to Skerries for a few weeks." 

If it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones. 

When the Irish Revival began to be appreciable Mrs. Kearney
determined to take advantage of her daughter's name and brought
an Irish teacher to the house. Kathleen and her sister sent Irish
picture postcards to their friends and these friends sent back other
Irish picture postcards. On special Sundays, when Mr. Kearney
went with his family to the pro-cathedral, a little crowd of people
would assemble after mass at the corner of Cathedral Street. They
were all friends of the Kearneys -- musical friends or Nationalist
friends; and, when they had played every little counter of gossip,
they shook hands with one another all together, laughing at the
crossing of so man hands, and said good-bye to one another in
Irish. Soon the name of Miss Kathleen Kearney began to be heard
often on people's lips. People said that she was very clever at

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