tourists in the place (and not every place has them) he can allow his thirst some degree of license, for tourists may drink whenever they are thirsty, so that the native can confidently take his place among them at the bar, especially as he represents a folkloric element that encourages tourist trade. But after September 1, Seamus has to regulate his thirst. Closing time on weekdays is 10 P.M. , and that’s bad enough, for during the warm, dry days of September Seamus often works until half-past nine, sometimes longer. But on Sundays he must force himself to be thirsty either up until two in the afternoon or between six and eight in the evening. If Sunday dinner takes a long time, and thirst does not come until after two, Seamus will find his favorite pub closed and the landlord, even if Seamus knocks till he comes to the door, will be “very sorry” and not in the least inclined to risk a fine of five pounds, a trip to the county capital, and a lost day’s work all for the sake of a glass of beer or a whisky. On Sundays pubs have to close between two and six, and one can never be quite sure of the local policeman; there are some people who sufferfrom attacks of conscientiousness after a heavy Sunday dinner and become intoxicated with adherence to the law. But Seamus has also had a heavy dinner, and his longing for a glass of beer is far from remarkable, still less sinful.
So at five minutes past two Seamus stands in the village square, thinking. In the memory of his thirsty throat, forbidden beer naturally tastes better than easily obtainable beer. Seamus considers: one way would be to get his bicycle out of the shed and pedal the six miles to the next village, the landlord in the next village being obliged to give him that which the landlord in his own village must refuse him: his beer. This abstruse drinking law has the additional embellishment that the traveler who is at least three miles from his own village may not be refused a cooling drink. Seamus is still pondering: the geographical situation is unfavorable for him—unfortunately it is not possible to choose one’s place of birth—and it is Seamus’ bad luck that the next pub is not three but six miles away—uncommonly bad luck for an Irishman, for six miles without a pub are a rarity. Six miles there, six miles back—twelve miles for a glass of beer, and what’s more, part of the way is uphill. Seamus is not a heavy drinker; if he were he wouldn’t be so long making up his mind, he would have got on his bicycle long ago and be gaily jingling the shillings in his pocket. All he wants is a beer: there was so much salt in the ham, so much pepper in the cabbage—and is it decent for a man to quench his thirst with spring water or buttermilk? He gazes at the poster hanging over his favorite pub: an enormous realistically painted glass of stout, dark as liquorice and so fresh, the bitter drink, and surmounted by white, snow-white foam being licked off by a thirsty seal. “A lovely day for a Guinness!” O Tantalus! So much salt in the ham, so much pepper in the cabbage.
Cursing, Seamus goes back into the house, gets his bike out of the shed, and angrily pedals off. O Tantalus—and the power of skillful advertising! It is a hot day, very hot, the hill is steep; Seamus has to dismount, push the bicycle, sweatingand cursing: his curses do not belong to the sexual sphere like those of the wine-drinking races, his curses are those of the spirit-drinkers, more blasphemous and cerebral than sexual curses, for don’t spirits contain spiritus? He curses the government, probably also curses the clergy, who stubbornly cling to this incomprehensible law (just as in Ireland the clergy have the last word when it comes to granting pub licenses, deciding on closing time, dances), this sweating thirsty Seamus who a few hours ago was standing so reverent, so candidly pious in church listening to the Gospel. At last he reaches the top of the hill: this is the scene of the
So at five minutes past two Seamus stands in the village square, thinking. In the memory of his thirsty throat, forbidden beer naturally tastes better than easily obtainable beer. Seamus considers: one way would be to get his bicycle out of the shed and pedal the six miles to the next village, the landlord in the next village being obliged to give him that which the landlord in his own village must refuse him: his beer. This abstruse drinking law has the additional embellishment that the traveler who is at least three miles from his own village may not be refused a cooling drink. Seamus is still pondering: the geographical situation is unfavorable for him—unfortunately it is not possible to choose one’s place of birth—and it is Seamus’ bad luck that the next pub is not three but six miles away—uncommonly bad luck for an Irishman, for six miles without a pub are a rarity. Six miles there, six miles back—twelve miles for a glass of beer, and what’s more, part of the way is uphill. Seamus is not a heavy drinker; if he were he wouldn’t be so long making up his mind, he would have got on his bicycle long ago and be gaily jingling the shillings in his pocket. All he wants is a beer: there was so much salt in the ham, so much pepper in the cabbage—and is it decent for a man to quench his thirst with spring water or buttermilk? He gazes at the poster hanging over his favorite pub: an enormous realistically painted glass of stout, dark as liquorice and so fresh, the bitter drink, and surmounted by white, snow-white foam being licked off by a thirsty seal. “A lovely day for a Guinness!” O Tantalus! So much salt in the ham, so much pepper in the cabbage.
Cursing, Seamus goes back into the house, gets his bike out of the shed, and angrily pedals off. O Tantalus—and the power of skillful advertising! It is a hot day, very hot, the hill is steep; Seamus has to dismount, push the bicycle, sweatingand cursing: his curses do not belong to the sexual sphere like those of the wine-drinking races, his curses are those of the spirit-drinkers, more blasphemous and cerebral than sexual curses, for don’t spirits contain spiritus? He curses the government, probably also curses the clergy, who stubbornly cling to this incomprehensible law (just as in Ireland the clergy have the last word when it comes to granting pub licenses, deciding on closing time, dances), this sweating thirsty Seamus who a few hours ago was standing so reverent, so candidly pious in church listening to the Gospel. At last he reaches the top of the hill: this is the scene of the
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