Who Were the Real Men in Aeolus' Newsroom?

This post is a part of an occasional series on the real people behind the characters in Ulysses.

Myles Crawford

During a 1909 visit to Dublin, James Joyce made several visits to the office of the Evening Telegraph where he became acquainted with its then editor Patrick Meade, Lord of the Wind Bags. Meade was an accomplished political journalist, having reported on the House of Commons, Home Rule and the Land War in the late 19th century.

According to Joyce biographer Richard Ellmann, Crawford is a composite of Meade and Morris Cosgrave, the editor of the Evening Telegraph in 1904. Cosgrave mainly leant his initials “M.C.” and his position as editor to the character of Crawford, whereas Meade leant his personality. When Joyce met him, Meade was around 50 years old, stout of body and fond of drink. Whereas Crawford comes off as a bit self-involved and petty when dealing with Bloom in “Aeolus”, Meade is remembered for his open-handed nature. Despite this, Meade could have a short temper, which is inflated in his portrayal in Ulysses. Interestingly, Meade was not a profane man, unlike Crawford:

“—He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.”

Ellmann says that this line is a quote from journalist John Wyse Power rather than Meade.

Meade was known for his red hair, red face, and the flower he wore in his buttonhole. In “Aeolus”, Crawford is described as having “a scarlet beaked face, crested by a comb of feathery hair,” so he shares Meade’s complexion. In his jaunty straw hat, Crawford is also a snappy dresser like his real-world counterpart, “his hat aureoling his scarlet face.”

Crawford’s red face stands out in particular because red is the correspondent color of “Aeolus.” In addition to being ruddy faced, Crawford is often described with birdlike attributes. His “scarlet beaked face,” his “comb of feathery hair” and the way he “crow[s]” about Ohio. A birdlike man should stand out in the mind of Stephen Dedalus, whose namesake is a hawklike man, as our young Artist reads the signatures of all things inside the newspaper office.

“Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned.”

In his 1930 guide Ulysses: A Study, Stuart Gilbert wrote, “There is a touch of the birdgod Thoth in Aeolus-Crawford, as there is a touch of literature in journalism.” Thoth wa s the Eg yptian god of writing, often associated with scribes and libraries, a fitting deity for a newspaper editor. Stephen is cognizant of Thoth-figures, later remarking in the library in “Scylla and Charybdis,” “Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned.” In addition to his birdlike face, Crawford sports a moonycrown in the form of that jaunty straw hat. Gilbert wrote that Thoth is a mediator between literature and birds of augury. When Stephen meets with Thoth-Aeolus-Crawford, he receives an augur’s message about how his future could look. Journalism was a logical career for a young man looking to make a living from writing, and Crawford courts Stephen as a potential writer for the Freeman’s Journal:

“—I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a bite in it. You can do it. I see it in your face.”

The journalists he meets are financially-troubled alcoholics, in awe of their past glories but stagnant in their present. The augury Stephen receives doesn’t seem positive for someone with his talent and potential.

Myles Crawford, despite his Aeolian position as lord of the windy journalists, seems to be slipping a little. As the editor is cackling about Ohio and the North Cork militia, Ned Lambert mutters to J.J. O’Molloy, “Incipient jigs.” In their annotation of Ulysses, Gifford and Seidman note that in this case, “jigs” refers to “inconsistent mental processes of advanced alcoholism.” Joyce scholar Robert M. Adams diagnoses Crawford as being in the late stages of “mental decay,... made clear in the barking incoherence of his speech.” Adams has a similar diagnosis for Mr. Garrett Deasy. Further evidence of Crawford’s mental decay is his inaccurate recollection of the date of the Phoenix Park Murders, which occurred in 1882, rather than 1881 as Crawford states. Misremembering such an important date in recent history shows us that whatever Crawford’s mental state, he is past his prime. He expends a lot of energy glorifying the greatest hits of yesteryear while botching their basic details in the present.

J.J. O’Molloy

J.J. O’Molloy is presented in “Aeolus” as a soft spoken young lawyer down on his luck. It’s not surprising to find a lawyer in a newsroom during this period, as many worked as journalists early in their career while they studied to qualify for the bar. However, O’Molloy, the erstwhile “cleverest fellow at the junior bar,” now haunts the Evening Telegraph office hoping to “raise the wind,” that is, to borrow money from one of the men there. I think it’s this latter quality that caused Joyce biographer Richard Ellmann to refer to him as a “seedy hamster.” Not exactly on the same level as an Egyptian god.

Scholar Vivien Igoe lists O’Molloy as a composite character like Crawford, a combination of barrister and judge George Aloysius Moonan and barrister John O’Mahony. The latter was a young legal superstar whose career was cut tragically short. Moonan is a bit of a mystery to me, however. Gifford and Seidman cite a story from Stanislaus Joyce’s biography of his brother (My Brother’s Keeper), in which a dean at Joyce’s alma mater University College Dublin advised the recently graduated Artist to use his B.A. to write for a newspaper. This was a more lucrative career path than literature, the crusty old dean reasoned, and was the path chosen by one of Dublin’s best-known legal hotshots. Stanislaus doesn’t mention Moonan or O’Mahony by name, but leaves the tantalizing clue that this mystery lawyer appears in the Eolus (sic.) episode in Ulysses.

Stanislaus’ description fits O’Mahony, who earned a B.A. and wrote for newspapers prior to his legal success. He also shares the initials J. O’M. with J.J. O’Molloy. While Moonan also made important contributions to the Dublin legal scene, O’Molloy and O’Mahony seem to have a lot more in common. O’Molloy’s fate diverges pretty dramatically from O’Mahony’s, though. Bloom notes his decline:

“Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline, poor chap. That hectic flush spells finis for a man. Touch and go with him. What’s in the wind, I wonder. Money worry.”

Bloom thinks about O’Molloy’s gambling vice, which has left him in debt and in need of a loan from Crawford or anyone willing to open their purse:

“Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts of honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Brains on their sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin.”

O’Molloy likely isn’t meant to be a direct biographical sketch of O’Mahony, who died in his thirties at the height of his career. It’s almost impossible he would have shared O’Molloy’s financial hardship or reputation as a has-been. His obituary in the Freeman’s Journal echoed Bloom’s remarks from the beginning of this section:

“He was one of the most promising juniors of the Irish Bar.”

O’Mahony and O’Molloy both had an interest in journalistic as well as literary writing (“Believe he does some literary work for the Express with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow.”) O’Molloy cites Seymour Bushe as a great contemporary orator because of his defense in the Childs murder case. O’Mahony knew the real-world Seymour Bushe quite well. The two faced off in court more than once, including in the high-profile Du Bédat case of 1903, which is referenced in Ulysses. Bushe attended O’Mahony’s funeral in 1904.

Lenehan

Lenehan is perhaps the most obnoxious character in all the Joycean Extended Universe. He originates as one of the titular gallants in the Dubliners story “Two Gallants.” The other gallant, Corley, will pop up in “Eumaeus” to squeeze a halfcrown out of bruised and battered Stephen Dedalus. Lenehan has roots in the real world, but let’s start by looking at his appearance in “Two Gallants,” where he is the star of the show.

Corley and Lenehan are two spongers, leeches, scoundrels, scammers, grifters, cheats, fraudsters, slimeballs, creeps, vampires, or simply parasites, whatever works for you. Lenehan is listed in the index of Stuart Gilbert’s Ulysses: A Study as “Lenehan, parasite.” Yeah. He sucks. In any case, these two rascally rogues convince a servant girl to hand a gold coin over to Corley. Whether it’s her personal savings or the property of her employer, we don’t know. As Corley works a romantic grift on her off-screen, we follow Lenehan as he waits for Corley to return with his ill-gotten spoils. Lenehan thinks about how he’d like to marry a rich woman and about the opportunities that have passed him by while he aggressively eats a plate of peas.

Florence Walzl points out the political allegory of “Two Gallants,” how Corley and Lenehan act as an allegory of the elements of Irish society that prey upon the weak. Lenehan represents the part of the Irish population who are either “too insensible to realize Ireland’s servitude” or “too indolent” to do anything to protect or support Ireland. Lenehan longs for a traditionally comfortable life - a good job and a home of his own - but is unable or unwilling to put in the work to attain either. Lenehan’s failure shouldn’t be regarded as the failure of an individual, though. Much of Joyce’s writing focuses on the stagnation and lack of opportunity in Ireland in this era. Lenehan’s struggles are the same that drive Stephen to leave Ireland. As the young Artist tells Cranly in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man:

“When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.”

Unlike Stephen, Lenehan has not been motivated by this societal paralysis “to forge in the smithy of [his] soul the uncreated conscience of [his] race.” Rather, it has made him bitter and cynical. It’s this same paralysis that grips Bloom’s peers in the funeral cortege in “Hades” and the other men in the Evening Telegraph office. In any case, if you wanted a reason to hate Lenehan beyond his stupid puns, go read “Two Gallants.”

Lenehan in Ulysses is far less insidious than in “Two Gallants.” He is mostly a shameless attention seeker, persistently interrupting to share his aforementioned riddles and limericks. He’s still a sponger, though. He wants to remain in the good graces of the men in the Evening Telegraph office, so his sponging is more subtle. If you want to sum up his personality in one action, notice how when J.J. O’Molloy offers a cigarette to Crawford, Lenehan offers up a light, ensuring he can mooch a cigarette without having to ask for one. Still a leech, but what a suave leech he is.

As mentioned above, Lenehan is based on a real person, a well-known sports journalist and friend of Joyce’s father, Michael Hart. Lenehan’s name is likely based on Matthew Linehan (sometimes spelled Lenehan), an Irish Times reporter. Michael Hart is listed by name in “Ithaca” in the same list of the defunct as Matthew F. Kane and Patrick Dignam:

“...Michael Hart (phthisis, Mater Misericordiae hospital)...”

Hart did indeed die young of phthisis, or pulmonary tuberculosis, though he died in the Jervis Street Hospital if you’re keeping track of that sort of detail. He was known for many quirks similar to Lenehan’s - a love of wordplay, speaking in bits of French (earning him the nickname Monsart, short for Monsieur Hart), and a love for the horses. He worked as a writer for the racing paper Sport and was a snappy dresser. He later pursued a career in law. He didn’t seem to possess any of Lenehan’s worst impulses, so like O’Molloy and O’Mahony, Lenehan isn’t meant to be a biographical sketch of Hart, per se. Like O’Mahony, his life was cut short by illness when he was at his height. John Simpson writes on James Joyce Online Notes:

“Michael Martin Hart was one of a substantial group of journalists who did not survive, or barely survived, into the twentieth century. That Joyce was conscious of time washing over the dead of his city is evidenced by the list of recently departed in which he includes Mick Hart.”

Professor MacHugh

Professor MacHugh’s real-life counterpart has perhaps the most tragic story of any of the might-have-beens that occupy the Evening Telegraph office. MacHugh is modeled on Hugh MacNeill, a once promising academic whose career had fizzled out by the early 1900’s.

MacNeill is often remembered by Joyce commentators as brilliant but lazy. The story goes that he was a former scholar who had never quite attained the level of “professor,” but everyone called him professor anyway (a pattern we’ve already seen in Ulysses). MacNeill haunted the offices of the Evening Telegraph and later the Irish Times, though he never worked for either. He would show up early with a newspaper and snacks in hand to read and hang out for the day, biscuitfully chastising the actual workers if they showed up late. This isn’t the whole story, though.

Joyce met MacNeill during his 1909 visits to the Evening Telegraph office, but it seems likely that Joyce was at least aware of MacNeill prior to this. Joyce attended UCD during the years that MacNeill was employed there, and many people in Joyce's social circle seem to have known MacNeill in some capacity. John F. Byrne (the model for Cranly) described MacNeill as “erratic,” and Constantine Curr an, an early supporter of Joyce’s literary ambitions, knew MacNeill as well. Oliver St. John Gogarty also wrote that he knew MacNeill. His Ulyssean counterpart Buck Mulligan certainly did, as Stephen recalls that Mulligan had said of MacHugh, “In mourning for Sallust,” comparing him to an eminent but corrupt Roman historian.

On the website James Joyce Online Notes, John Simpson wrote a four-part deep dive on MacNeill’s life that is well worth your time if you’re interested in this story. MacNeill studied classics at University College Dublin and went on to work there as a tutor, though his job was more akin to an evening lecturer than a tutor as we think of it nowadays. Ellmann said in his biography of Joyce that MacNeill was never a professor, but this isn’t strictly accurate. MacNeill held a variety of positions in higher education prior to his decline. Simpson points out that the University College List included him as “Prof. McNeill,” though he was never listed in Thom’s Directory among the professors at UCD. Additionally, in early drafts of “Aeolus”, Joyce did not refer to him as “professor”; instead, he was called “Old MacHugh.”

*“Drop into the D.B.C. probably for his coffee, play chess there.”*

While MacNeill never worked strictly as a journalist, he did make some journalistic contributions. MacNeill was a skillful chess player, and later in life, he wrote a regular chess column for the Irish Times. While MacNeill’s chess column didn’t coincide with Joyce’s 1909 visit to Dublin, MacNeill was known for his impressive chess prowess, and could often be seen taking in a game at the Dublin Bread Company. (An unrelated reference in “Lestrygonians”: “Drop into the D.B.C. probably for his coffee, play chess there.”) J.F. Byrne supposed that the reason MacHugh didn’t share this talent with MacNeill is that Joyce had absolutely no interest in chess and didn’t think it was worth including.

MacNeill’s academic career never really took off. By the end of the first decade of the 20th century, he didn’t seem to be working as a professor or tutor of any sort. During these years, MacNeill’s financial woes mounted. It’s not clear exactly why, since it seems he was considered to be a brilliant scholar. I don’t think it’s accurate to simply say he was lazy, either. My suspicion is that Byrne’s description of his “erratic” personality most closely hit the mark. He seemed rough around the edges both in appearance and demeanor. MacNeill lacked the sartorial panache of men like Hart or Meade and was often sloppily dressed, as can be seen in “Aeolus”:

“An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.”

And:

“He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs…”

While a professor might be able to get away with being less-than-fashionable, if his personality is equally unkempt, it might be harder to justify. MacHugh is often described as gruff and pompous throughout “Aeolus.” We can also see him getting physically rough with a naughty newsie, grabbing the boy by the scruff and tossing him out the door:

“Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the collar as the others scampered out of the hall and down the steps….
—Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.
He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.”

If he had taken this tone with wayward uni pupils or even his superiors in the university, one could see how UCD might have thought he wasn’t worth the trouble.

There’s a hint in “Aeolus” that MacHugh was a drinker, the downfall of so many of his peers in Dublin. In Lenehan’s limerick, he speculates about why MacHugh wears glasses “As he mostly sees double/ To wear them why trouble?”

Regardless, starting around 1903, MacNeill regularly wrote to his family members for loans to ease his debts. His situation grew so dire that he spent part of 1913 in debtors’ prison in Mountjoy. By the 1930’s, he seems to have been completely destitute, still haunting the Irish Times offices, living on buns and tea from Bewley’s provided by sympathetic journalists. He seems to have been a fixture of the office, and they tolerated him sleeping over in the office. He is also rumored to have slept in telephone boxes during this period. He is recorded as having died in a workhouse in the mid-1930’s.

There doesn’t seem to be one clearly documented reason for MacNeill’s slide into poverty. Drink could have been the culprit, but outside of Lenehan’s limerick, I didn’t read any hard evidence of this. I wonder if MacNeill suffered from mental illness in a time before society recognized and treated such things. What is clear is that MacNeill was well-liked by those that knew him. A friend of MacNeill’s is quoted in Igoe’s entry on the professor:

“He did not care much for getting in the world; indeed, his quixotic disinterestedness was the despair of his friends; it seems as though on principle he acted in opposition to his interests. Such men are rare, and are, therefore, the more attractive.”

Who Were the Real Men in Aeolus' Newsroom?

Myles Crawford

J.J. O’Molloy

Lenehan

Professor MacHugh

Further Reading:

The House of Keyes

Ulysses & The Odyssey: Aeolus