Proofs of transition 2, 1st set, April 1927, I.2 draft level 6

MS British Library 47472 316-329 Draft details

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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 offsprout of vikings who had founded wapentake and seddled hem 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
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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 thus 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
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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 greataunt Sophy, turned towards 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 M. 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 |s6dook Dookºs6| 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.
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An imposing everybody he always indeed looked, constantly the same as and equal to 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 their assbawlveldts and oxgangs unanimously to clapplaud 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 Nth, this folksforefather 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 caterpillar 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
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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 (let us call him Abdullah Gamellaxarksky) was, it is stated, posted at Mallon's at the instance of watch warriors of the vigilance committee and years afterwards, writes one even greater, 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 swoolth 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 wildest, a partial exposure with such attenuating circumstances (garthen gaddeth green hwere sokeman hrideth girling) as an abnormal Saint Swithin's summer and a ripe occasion to provoke it.

Guiltless of much laid to him he was clearly for so once at least he clearly and with still a trace of his erstwhile burr expressed himself as being and hence it has been received of
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us that it is true. They tell the story how one happy-go-gusty Ides-of-April morning (the anniversary, as it fell out, of his first assumption of his mirthday suit and rights in appurtenance to the confusioning of human races) ages and ages after the alleged misdemeanour when the tried friend of nature, tigerwood roadstaff to his stay, was billowing across the wide expanse of our greatest park in his caoutchouc kepi and rubberised inverness he MET a cad with a pipe. The latter, who (the odds are) is still going about in the same straw bamer, carrying his coat under his arm so as to look like a gentleman and signing the pledge as gaily as you please, hardily accosted him with: Guinness thaw tool in jew me dinner ousel fin? (a nice how-do-you-do in Poolblack at the time as some of our oldchimers may still tremblingly recall) to ask could he tell him how much a'clock it was that the clock struck had he any idea by o'cock's luck as his watch was bradys. The Earwicker of that spurring instant, realising on fundamental liberal principles the supreme importance of physical life (the nearest help relay being pingping K.O. Senpatrick's Day and the fenian rising) and unwishful as he felt of being sent into eternity, plugged by a softnosed bullet from the sap, halted, quick on the draw, and, replyin that he was feelin tipstaff, cue, prodooced from his gunpocket his Jurgensen's shrapnel waterbury but, on the same stroke, hearing above the skirling of harsh Mother East old Fox Goodman, the bellmaster, over the wastes to south, at work upon the ten ton tenor toller in the speckled church, told the inquiring kidder, by Johova, it was twelve of em sidereal, adding buttall, as he bended deeply, with smoked sardinish breath, to give more pondus to the copperstick he presented, that the hakusay accusation againstm had been made, what was well known in high quarters, by a creature in youman form who was quite beneath parr and several degrees lower than a triplehydrad snake. In greater support of his word (it, quaint anticipation of a famous phrase, has been reconstricted and toosammenstucked from successive accounts by Noah Webster in the redaction known as the Sayings Attributive
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of H. C. Earwicker, prize one schillings, postlots free) the flaxen Gygas tapped his chronometrum drumdrum and, now standing full erect above the ambijacent floodplain, with one Berlin gauntlet chopstuck in the hough of his ellboge (by ancientest signlore his gesture meaning: y!) pointed at an angle of thirtytwo degrees towards his duc de Fer's overgrown milestone as the fellow to his gage and after a readypresent pause averred with solemn emotion's fire: Shsh shake, co-comeraid! I have won straight. Hence my no-nationwide hotel and creamery establishments and for the honours of our mewmew mutual daughters, credit me, I am woowoo willing to take my stand, sir, upon the monument, that sign of our ruru redemption, any hygienic day to this hour and to declare to my dear sinnfinners, even if I get life for it, upon the Open Bible and befu before the Great Taskmaster's eye (I lift my hat!) and in the Presence of the Deity Itself andwell of my immediate withdwellers and of every living sohole in every corner wheresoever of this globe in general which useth of my British to my backbone tongue and commutative justice that there is not one tittle of truth, allow me to tell you, in that purest of fibfib fabrications. Gaping Gill, diagnosing through his eustacetube that it was to do with a markedly
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postpuberal hyperpituitary type of Heidelbergmannleich cavern ethics, bad him good murrough and like a sensible ham thanked um for guilders received and the time of day (not a little token abock all the same that that was owl the God's clock it was) and went about his business, whoever it was, accompanied by his trusty snarler and his permanent reflection, verbigracious: I have met with you, bird, too late, or if not, too worm and early: and repeated in his secondmouth language as many of the bigtimer's verbaten words which he could balbly call to memory that same kveldeve when suppertide and souvenir to Charlatan Mall jointly kem gently and along the quiet darkenings of Grand and Royal, ff, flitmansfluh, and, kk, 't crept i' hedge whenas to many a softtongue's pawkytalk mude unswer u sufter poghyyogh, while he spat in careful convertedness about his hearthstone, if you please (Irish saliva, mawshe dho hole, but would a respectable prominently connected fellow such as Mr Shallwesigh or Mr Shallwelaugh expectorate after such a callous fashion, no, thank you! when he had his spuckertuck in his pucket, pthuck?), musefed with his thockits after having supped of the dish sot and pottage which he snobbishly dabbed Peach Bombay, a supreme of excelling peas balled into whitemalt winesour, a proviand he frankly relished, chaff it, in the raw season. Our cad's bit of strife (knee Bareniece Maxwelton) with a quick ear for spittoons (as the aftertale hath it) gleaned up as usual with dumbestic husbandry but broke of the matter among a hundred and eleven others in her usual curtsey the next night nudge one over o cup a' chee to her particular reverend, the director, whom she had been meaning in her mind primarily to speak with, trusting, between cuppled lips and annie laurie promises, it would slip no further than his jesuit's cloth, yet it was this overspoiled priest, Mr Browne, disguised as a vicentian, who, when seized of the facts, was overheard, in his secondary personality as a Nolan, and by accident — if, that is, the incident was an accident — to pianissime a slightly varied version of the words, hands between hands, in fealty sworn, and hushly pierce the rubiend ear of one Philly Thurnston, a layteacher of rural science and orthophonethics of a nearstout figure and about the middle
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of his forties, during a priestly flutter for safe and sane lds at the hippic runfields of breezy Baldoyle on a date easily capable of rememberance by all pickersup of Dublin details when the classic Encourage Hackney Plate was captured by two lengths from Bold Boy Cromwell after a clever getaway by Captain Chaplain Blount's roe hinny Saint Dalough (Drummer Coxon third) at breakneck odds, (thanks to you, great little Winny Widger!) who in his neverrip mud and purpular cap was surely leagues unlike any other phantomweight that ever toppit our timber maggies.

It was two coves of the name of Treacle Tom, as was just out of pawn following the theft of a leg of Kehoe, Donnelly and Pakenham's Finnish pork, and his own blood and milk brother Frisky Shorty, a tipster come off the hulks, both of them awful poor, what was out on the bumaround for an oofbird game for a jimmy o'goblin or a small thick un as chanced to ear wick their own hears the passon in the motor clobber make use of his language which he was rubbing noses with and having a gurgle off his own along of the butty bloke in the specs. This Treacle Tom, to whom reference has been made, had been absent from his usual wild and woolly haunts for some time previous to that (he was, in fact, in the habit of frequenting common lodginghouses where he slept in a nude state, hailfellow with meth, in strange men's cots) but on racenight, blotto after divers tots of rum, he sought his wellwarmed bed in a housingroom Abide With Oneanother at Block W.W., Pump Court, The Liberties, and resnored alcoherently the substance of the tale of the evangelical bussybozzy in parts during uneasy slumber in their hearings of a small and stonybroke cashdraper's ex-executive, Peter Cloran (discharged), O'Mara, an ex-private secretary of no fixed abode (locally known as Mildew Lisa) who had passed several nights, funnish enough, in a doorway under the blankets of homelessness on the bunk of icelond, pillowed upon the stone of destiny colder than man's knee or woman's breast, and Hosty, an illstarred beachbusker who, sans rootie and sans suet, feeling as how he was on the verge of selfabyss with melancoholia over everything in general, had been tossing on his shakedown, devising ways and manners of means of somehow or other getting a hold of some chap's parabellum in the hope of lighting upon a dive somewhere off the Dullkey Downlairy and Bleakrooky tramaline where he could go and blow the sibicidal napper off himself in peace and quietude, he having been trying all he knew for upwards of eighteen colanders to get out of Sir Patrick Dun's, through Sir Humphrey Jervis's and into Adelaida's hosspittles without having been able to wangle it anysides. Lisa O'Dara and Roche Moran (who had so much incommon, if the phrase be permitted, hostis et odor insuper petroperfractus) as an understood thing slept in the one tumblerbed with Hosty just how the shavers in the shaw and the bustling tweeny dawn-of-all-works had not been many jiffies furbishing potlids, doorbrasses, scholars' applecheeks and linkboys' metals when the rejuvenated busker (for after a goodnight's rave and rumble with his coexes he was not the same man) and his broadawake bedroom suite were up and ashuffle cross Ebblinn's cold hamlet to the thrummings of a crewth fiddle which caressed the ears of the subjects of King Finnerty the Festive, who, with their priggish mouths all open, were only halfpast asleep, and, after a prolonged visit to a house of call in Cujas Place not a thousand or one national leagues from the site of the statue of Primewer Glasstone setting a match to the march of a maker (last of the stewarts, peutêtre), where, the tale rambles
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along, the trio of whackfolthediddlers was joined by a further-intentions-apply-tomorrow casual and a decent sort of the hadbeen variety who had just been touching the weekly insult, phew it, and all figblabbers had stimulants in the shape of gee and gees stood by the damn decent sort after which stag luncheon and a few ones more just to celebrate yesterday, flushed with their firestufffostered friendship, the rascals came out of the licensed premises (Browne first, the small p.s. ex-ex-executive capahand in their sad rear like a lady's postscript: I want money. Pleasend.) wiping their laughleaking lipes on their sleeves, and the world was the richer for a wouldbe ballad. This, more krectly, lubeen was first poured forth under the shadow of the monument of the shouldhavebeen legislator to an overflow meeting of all the nations in Lenster fullyfilling the visional area and easily representative of all sections and cross sections of our liffeyside people ranging
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from slips of young dublinos from Cutpurse Row having nothing better to do than walk about with their hands in their kneepants side by side with truant officers, corporation bucket emergencymen in search of an honest crust to busy professional gentlemen, a brace of palesmen with dundrearies fresh from snipehitting and mallardmissing on Rutland Heath, exchanging cold sneers, massgoing
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ladies from Hume Street in their chairs, some wandering hamalegs out of the adjacent cloverfields of Mosse's Gardens, an oblate father from Skinner's Alley, bricklayers, a fleming, fumant, with spouse and dog, an aged hammersmith who had some chisellers by the hand, not a few sheep with the braxy, two bluecoat scholars, three broke gents out of Simpson's suffering hell's delights from the blains of their annuitants' horns, not forgetting a deuce of dianas ridy for the hunt, a particularist prebendary pondering on the roman easter, the tonsure question and greek uniates, plunk em, and so on down to a few good old souls evidently under the spell of liquor, a fair girl, a jolly postboy thinking off three flagons and one, a halfsir who clings and clings and clings to her, a wholedam's, cloudhued pittycoat as child, as curiolater, as Caoch O'Leary.

The wararrow went round, so it did, and the ballad, on a slip of blancovide and headed by a rough and red woodcut, privately printed at the rimepress of Delville, soon fluttered its secret on white highway and brown byway to the rose of the winds and the blew of the gaels, from green archway to gold lattice and from black hand to pink ear, village crying to village, through the five pussyfours of the united states of Scotia Picta.

To the added strains of his majesty the flute which Delaney, anticipating a perfect downpour of plaudits among the rapsods, drew out of his decentsoort hat, looking still more like his namesake as men noted the
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snowycrested curl amoist his wild and moulting hair, Hitchcock hoisted his fezzy fuzz at bludgeon's height for “silentium in curia!” (the maypole once more where he rose of old!) and the canto was chantied there by the old tollgate. And around the lann the rann it rann and this is the rann that Hosty made. Arrah, leave it to Hosty, frosty Hosty, leave it to Hosty for he's the mann to rhyme the rann, the rann, the rann, the king of all wranns. Have you here? Have we where? Have you hered? Have we whered? It's cumming! It's brumming! The clip, the clop! THE (klikka­klakka­klaska­klopatz­klatscha­batta­creppy­crotty­graddagh­semmih­sammih­nouithappluddyappladdypkonpkot!)

(as sung by Phoblacht)

Sh sh sh! Sh sh sh! Sh! Sh! Sh!

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Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall,

Of the Magazine Wall,

Hump, helmet and all?

He was one time our king of the castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip
And from Green Street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy,

To the jail of Mountjoy.

Jail him and joy.

He had schemes by the score for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religion's reform,

And religious reform,

Hideous in form.

Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.

His butter is in his horns.

Butter his horns!

|s6⇒ ——s6|

Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt on ye, rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!

|s6|aa| |a——a|s6|

We had chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chickenpox and china chambers
Universally supplied by this softsoaping salesman.
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Small wonder He'll Cheat blank our local lads nicknamed him
When Chimpden first took the floor

And he took the floor,

O'er and o'er.
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So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
But soon we'll bonfire all his trash and his trumpery
And 'tis short till Sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited company
With the bailiff's bum at the door,

With a bum at the door.

He'll bum no more.

Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The hooker of that hammerfast viking
And God's curse on the day when Eblana Bay
Saw his black and tan man-o'-war,

Saw his man-o'-war

On the harbour bar.

Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls, Donnezmoi scampitle, wick an wipin' fampiny
Fingal MacOscar Onesime Bargearse Boniface
Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickes moniker
Og as ay are at gammelhole Norveegickes cod.

A Norwegian camelold cod.

He is, begod.

Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil ye! Up with the rann, the rhyming rann!

It was during some freshwater garden pumping
Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey
Made bold a maid to woo.

Hoo, what'll she doo!

She lost her maidenloo!
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He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
To go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
Of our antediluvial zoo,

Messrs Billing and Coo.

Noah's larks, good as noo.

He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
Our rotarian hippopotamuns
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When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,

With his rent in his rears.

Give him six years.

'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won't there be earwigs on the green?

Big earwigs on the green,

The largest ever you seen.

Then we'll have a free trade band and mass meeting
For to sod the brave son of Scandiknavery
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and Danes,

With the devil and Danes,

And all their remains.

And not all the king's men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell

That's able to raise a Cain.