"ULYSSES\n\nby James Joyce\n\n\n\n\n-- I --\n\nStately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of\nlather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown,\nungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He\nheld the bowl aloft and intoned:\n\n--_Introibo ad altare Dei_.\n\nHalted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:\n\n--Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!\n\nSolemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about\nand blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the\nawaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent\ntowards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat\nand shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned\nhis arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking\ngurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light\nuntonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.\n\nBuck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the\nbowl smartly.\n\n--Back to barracks! he said sternly.\n\nHe added in a preacher's tone:\n\n--For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul\nand blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One\nmoment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.\n\nHe peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused\nawhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there\nwith gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered\nthrough the calm.\n\n--Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off\nthe current, will you?\n\nHe skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering\nabout his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and\nsullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages.\nA pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.\n\n--The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!\n\nHe pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet,\nlaughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily\nhalfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as\nhe propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and\nlathered cheeks and neck.\n\nBuck Mulligan's gay voice went on.\n\n--My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a\nHellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself.\nWe must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out\ntwenty quid?\n\nHe laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:\n\n--Will he come? The jejune jesuit!\n\nCeasing, he began to shave with care.\n\n--Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.\n\n--Yes, my love?\n\n--How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?\n\nBuck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.\n\n--God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks\nyou're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money\nand indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you\nhave the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you\nis the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.\n\nHe shaved warily over his chin.\n\n--He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is\nhis guncase?\n\n--A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?\n\n--I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark\nwith a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a\nblack panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If\nhe stays on here I am off.\n\nBuck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down\nfrom his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.\n\n--Scutter! he cried thickly.\n\nHe came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper\npocket, said:\n\n--Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.\n\nStephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a\ndirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly.\nThen, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:\n\n--The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen.\nYou can almost taste it, can't you?\n\nHe mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair\noakpale hair stirring slightly.\n\n--God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a grey\nsweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. _Epi oinopa\nponton_. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them\nin the original. _Thalatta! Thalatta_! She is our great sweet mother.\nCome and look.\n\nStephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked\ndown on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of\nKingstown.\n\n--Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.\n\nHe turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's\nface.\n\n--The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't\nlet me have anything to do with you.\n\n--Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.\n\n--You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother\nasked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to\nthink of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and\npray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you...\n\nHe broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant\nsmile curled his lips.\n\n--But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest\nmummer of them all!\n\nHe shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.\n\nStephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against\nhis brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve.\nPain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in\na dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its\nloose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her\nbreath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of\nwetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a\ngreat sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay\nand skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had\nstood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had\ntorn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.\n\nBuck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.\n\n--Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt\nand a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?\n\n--They fit well enough, Stephen answered.\n\nBuck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.\n\n--The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God\nknows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair\nstripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch. You\nlook damn well when you're dressed.\n\n--Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey.\n\n--He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror.\nEtiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey\ntrousers.\n\nHe folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the\nsmooth skin.\n\nStephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its\nsmokeblue mobile eyes.\n\n--That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan,\nsays you have g.p.i. He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General\nparalysis of the insane!\n\nHe swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad\nin sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and\nthe edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong\nwellknit trunk.\n\n--Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard!\n\nStephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by\na crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this\nface for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.\n\n--I pinched it out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her\nall right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead\nhim not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.\n\nLaughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.\n\n--The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If\nWilde were only alive to see you!\n\nDrawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:\n\n--It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.\n\nBuck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with him\nround the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he\nhad thrust them.\n\n--It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly.\nGod knows you have more spirit than any of them.\n\nParried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The\ncold steelpen.\n\n--Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy chap\ndownstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking with money and\nthinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling\njalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I\ncould only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise\nit.\n\nCranly's arm. His arm.\n\n--And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the only one\nthat knows what you are. Why don't you trust me more? What have you\nup your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I'll\nbring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave\nClive Kempthorpe.\n\nYoung shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces:\nthey hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I shall\nexpire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit\nribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the\ntable, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the\ntailor's shears. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I don't\nwant to be debagged! Don't you play the giddy ox with me!\n\nShouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf\ngardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower\non the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.\n\nTo ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.\n\n--Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at\nnight.\n\n--Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm\nquite frank with you. What have you against me now?\n\nThey halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the\nwater like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly.\n\n--Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.\n\n--Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything.\n\nHe looked in Stephen's face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow,\nfanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of\nanxiety in his eyes.\n\nStephen, depressed by his own voice, said:\n\n--Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's\ndeath?\n\nBuck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:\n\n--What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and\nsensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?\n\n--You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to\nget more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the\ndrawingroom. She asked you who was in your room.\n\n--Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.\n\n--You said, Stephen answered, _O, it's only Dedalus whose mother is\nbeastly dead._\n\nA flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck\nMulligan's cheek.\n\n--Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?\n\nHe shook his constraint from him nervously.\n\n--And what is death, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own? You\nsaw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and\nRichmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It's a beastly\nthing and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter. You wouldn't kneel\ndown to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why?\nBecause you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it's injected the\nwrong way. To me it's all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes\nare not functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks\nbuttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it's over. You crossed her\nlast wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don't whinge like\nsome hired mute from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I\ndidn't mean to offend the memory of your mother.\n\nHe had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping\nwounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:\n\n--I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.\n\n--Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked.\n\n--Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.\n\nBuck Mulligan swung round on his heel.\n\n--O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.\n\nHe walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post,\ngazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew\ndim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt\nthe fever of his cheeks.\n\nA voice within the tower called loudly:\n\n--Are you up there, Mulligan?\n\n--I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered.\n\nHe turned towards Stephen and said:\n\n--Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola,\nKinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.\n\nHis head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level\nwith the roof:\n\n--Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the\nmoody brooding.\n\nHis head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of\nthe stairhead:\n\n     _And no more turn aside and brood\n     Upon love's bitter mystery\n     For Fergus rules the brazen cars._\n\n\nWoodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the\nstairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of\nwater whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of\nthe dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the\nharpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words\nshimmering on the dim tide.\n\nA cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in\ndeeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song:\nI sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her\ndoor was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity\nI went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those\nwords, Stephen: love's bitter mystery.\n\nWhere now?\n\nHer secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk,\na gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny\nwindow of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in the\npantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang:\n\n     _I am the boy\n     That can enjoy\n     Invisibility._\n\n\nPhantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.\n\n_And no more turn aside and brood._\n\n\nFolded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his\nbrooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had\napproached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar,\nroasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely\nfingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's\nshirts.\n\nIn a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its\nloose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath,\nbent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.\n\nHer glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me\nalone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured\nface. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on\ntheir knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. _Liliata rutilantium te\nconfessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat._\n\nGhoul! Chewer of corpses!\n\nNo, mother! Let me be and let me live.\n\n--Kinch ahoy!\n\nBuck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the\nstaircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul's cry,\nheard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.\n\n--Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is\napologising for waking us last night. It's all right.\n\n--I'm coming, Stephen said, turning.\n\n--Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our\nsakes.\n\nHis head disappeared and reappeared.\n\n--I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it's very clever. Touch\nhim for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.\n\n--I get paid this morning, Stephen said.\n\n--The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.\n\n--If you want it, Stephen said.\n\n--Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We'll\nhave a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent\nsovereigns.\n\nHe flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of\ntune with a Cockney accent:\n\n     _O, won't we have a merry time,\n     Drinking whisky, beer and wine!\n     On coronation,\n     Coronation day!\n     O, won't we have a merry time\n     On coronation day!_\n\n\nWarm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone,\nforgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there\nall day, forgotten friendship?\n\nHe went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness,\nsmelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck.\nSo I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another now and\nyet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.\n\nIn the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form\nmoved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its\nyellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor\nfrom the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of\ncoalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.\n\n--We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you?\n\nStephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the\nhammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open\nthe inner doors.\n\n--Have you the key? a voice asked.\n\n--Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked!\n\nHe howled, without looking up from the fire:\n\n--Kinch!\n\n--It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.\n\nThe key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been\nset ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the\ndoorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and\nsat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside\nhim. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set\nthem down heavily and sighed with relief.\n\n--I'm melting, he said, as the candle remarked when... But, hush! Not a\nword more on that subject! Kinch, wake up! Bread, butter, honey. Haines,\ncome in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts.\nWhere's the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk.\n\nStephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from\nthe locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.\n\n--What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.\n\n--We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There's a lemon in the\nlocker.\n\n--O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove\nmilk.\n\nHaines came in from the doorway and said quietly:\n\n--That woman is coming up with the milk.\n\n--The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his\nchair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here,\nI can't go fumbling at the damned eggs.\n\nHe hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three\nplates, saying:\n\n--_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti._\n\nHaines sat down to pour out the tea.\n\n--I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do\nmake strong tea, don't you?\n\nBuck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's\nwheedling voice:\n\n--When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I\nmakes water I makes water.\n\n--By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.\n\nBuck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:\n\n--_So I do, Mrs Cahill,_ says she. _Begob, ma'am,_ says Mrs Cahill, _God\nsend you don't make them in the one pot._\n\nHe lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled\non his knife.\n\n--That's folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five\nlines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of\nDundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.\n\nHe turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his\nbrows:\n\n--Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken\nof in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?\n\n--I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.\n\n--Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?\n\n--I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the\nMabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.\n\nBuck Mulligan's face smiled with delight.\n\n--Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth\nand blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming!\n\nThen, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened\nrasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:\n\n     _--For old Mary Ann\n     She doesn't care a damn.\n     But, hising up her petticoats..._\n\n\nHe crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.\n\nThe doorway was darkened by an entering form.\n\n--The milk, sir!\n\n--Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.\n\nAn old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow.\n\n--That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.\n\n--To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure!\n\nStephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.\n\n--The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of\nthe collector of prepuces.\n\n--How much, sir? asked the old woman.\n\n--A quart, Stephen said.\n\nHe watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white\nmilk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and\na tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe\na messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out.\nCrouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her\ntoadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed\nabout her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old\nwoman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of\nan immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common\ncuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid,\nwhether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.\n\n--It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.\n\n--Taste it, sir, she said.\n\nHe drank at her bidding.\n\n--If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat\nloudly, we wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten\nguts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with\ndust, horsedung and consumptives' spits.\n\n--Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.\n\n--I am, ma'am, Buck Mulligan answered.\n\n--Look at that now, she said.\n\nStephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice\nthat speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me she\nslights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there\nis of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in\nGod's likeness, the serpent's prey. And to the loud voice that now bids\nher be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.\n\n--Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her.\n\n--Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.\n\nHaines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.\n\n--Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you?\n\n--I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the\nwest, sir?\n\n--I am an Englishman, Haines answered.\n\n--He's English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak\nIrish in Ireland.\n\n--Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I'm ashamed I don't speak\nthe language myself. I'm told it's a grand language by them that knows.\n\n--Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fill\nus out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma'am?\n\n--No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the\nmilkcan on her forearm and about to go.\n\nHaines said to her:\n\n--Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn't we?\n\nStephen filled again the three cups.\n\n--Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a pint at\ntwopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three\nmornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling. That's a\nshilling and one and two is two and two, sir.\n\nBuck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly\nbuttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his\ntrouser pockets.\n\n--Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.\n\nStephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the\nthick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in\nhis fingers and cried:\n\n--A miracle!\n\nHe passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying:\n\n--Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give.\n\nStephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.\n\n--We'll owe twopence, he said.\n\n--Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good\nmorning, sir.\n\nShe curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant:\n\n     _--Heart of my heart, were it more,\n     More would be laid at your feet._\n\n\nHe turned to Stephen and said:\n\n--Seriously, Dedalus. I'm stony. Hurry out to your school kip and bring\nus back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland\nexpects that every man this day will do his duty.\n\n--That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your\nnational library today.\n\n--Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.\n\nHe turned to Stephen and asked blandly:\n\n--Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?\n\nThen he said to Haines:\n\n--The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.\n\n--All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey\ntrickle over a slice of the loaf.\n\nHaines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the\nloose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:\n\n--I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.\n\nSpeaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit.\nConscience. Yet here's a spot.\n\n--That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol\nof Irish art is deuced good.\n\nBuck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said with warmth\nof tone:\n\n--Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.\n\n--Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just\nthinking of it when that poor old creature came in.\n\n--Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked.\n\nHaines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of\nthe hammock, said:\n\n--I don't know, I'm sure.\n\nHe strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and\nsaid with coarse vigour:\n\n--You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for?\n\n--Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the\nmilkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think.\n\n--I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along\nwith your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.\n\n--I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.\n\nBuck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm.\n\n--From me, Kinch, he said.\n\nIn a suddenly changed tone he added:\n\n--To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all else they\nare good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell with them all.\nLet us get out of the kip.\n\nHe stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying\nresignedly:\n\n--Mulligan is stripped of his garments.\n\nHe emptied his pockets on to the table.\n\n--There's your snotrag, he said.\n\nAnd putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them,\nchiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and\nrummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God,\nwe'll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and\ngreen boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I\ncontradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of\nhis talking hands.\n\n--And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said.\n\nStephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the\ndoorway:\n\n--Are you coming, you fellows?\n\n--I'm ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out,\nKinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out\nwith grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:\n\n--And going forth he met Butterly.\n\nStephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out\nand, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and\nlocked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.\n\nAt the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked:\n\n--Did you bring the key?\n\n--I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.\n\nHe walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy\nbathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.\n\n--Down, sir! How dare you, sir!\n\nHaines asked:\n\n--Do you pay rent for this tower?\n\n--Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.\n\n--To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.\n\nThey halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last:\n\n--Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it?\n\n--Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on\nthe sea. But ours is the _omphalos_.\n\n--What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen.\n\n--No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas\nand the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up. Wait till I\nhave a few pints in me first.\n\nHe turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his\nprimrose waistcoat:\n\n--You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you?\n\n--It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.\n\n--You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox?\n\n--Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes.\nIt's quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is\nShakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own\nfather.\n\n--What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself?\n\nBuck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in\nloose laughter, said to Stephen's ear:\n\n--O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father!\n\n--We're always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is\nrather long to tell.\n\nBuck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.\n\n--The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.\n\n--I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this\ntower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. _That beetles\no'er his base into the sea,_ isn't it?\n\nBuck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but did\nnot speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in\ncheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.\n\n--It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.\n\nEyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent.\nThe seas' ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the\nsmokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and a sail\ntacking by the Muglins.\n\n--I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused.\nThe Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the\nFather.\n\nBuck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked\nat them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had\nsuddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He moved\na doll's head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and\nbegan to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice:\n\n     _--I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.\n     My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.\n     With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree.\n     So here's to disciples and Calvary._\n\n\nHe held up a forefinger of warning.\n\n     _--If anyone thinks that I amn't divine\n     He'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine\n     But have to drink water and wish it were plain\n     That i make when the wine becomes water again._\n\n\nHe tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running forward\nto a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins or\nwings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:\n\n     _--Goodbye, now, goodbye! Write down all I said\n     And tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead.\n     What's bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly\n     And Olivet's breezy... Goodbye, now, goodbye!_\n\n\nHe capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his\nwinglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the fresh\nwind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.\n\nHaines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and\nsaid:\n\n--We oughtn't to laugh, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous. I'm not a\nbeliever myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of\nit somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?\n\n--The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.\n\n--O, Haines said, you have heard it before?\n\n--Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.\n\n--You're not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in\nthe narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a\npersonal God.\n\n--There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.\n\nHaines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a\ngreen stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.\n\n--Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.\n\nHaines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his\nsidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang\nit open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk\ntowards Stephen in the shell of his hands.\n\n--Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe\nor you don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of a\npersonal God. You don't stand for that, I suppose?\n\n--You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible\nexample of free thought.\n\nHe walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his\nside. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels.\nMy familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line\nalong the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark.\nHe wants that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt\nbread. Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his\neyes.\n\n--After all, Haines began...\n\nStephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not\nall unkind.\n\n--After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your\nown master, it seems to me.\n\n--I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an\nItalian.\n\n--Italian? Haines said.\n\nA crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.\n\n--And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.\n\n--Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?\n\n--The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and\nthe holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.\n\nHaines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he\nspoke.\n\n--I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think\nlike that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather\nunfairly. It seems history is to blame.\n\nThe proud potent titles clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph\nof their brazen bells: _et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam\necclesiam:_ the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own\nrare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the\nmass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in\naffirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church\nmilitant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies\nfleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of\nwhom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the\nconsubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning\nChrist's terrene body, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who\nheld that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan had spoken\na moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The void\nawaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a\nworsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael's host,\nwho defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their\nshields.\n\nHear, hear! Prolonged applause. _Zut! Nom de Dieu!_\n\n--Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and I feel as one. I\ndon't want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either.\nThat's our national problem, I'm afraid, just now.\n\nTwo men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman.\n\n--She's making for Bullock harbour.\n\nThe boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.\n\n--There's five fathoms out there, he said. It'll be swept up that way\nwhen the tide comes in about one. It's nine days today.\n\nThe man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting\nfor a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face,\nsaltwhite. Here I am.\n\nThey followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood on\na stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder.\nA young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowly frogwise\nhis green legs in the deep jelly of the water.\n\n--Is the brother with you, Malachi?\n\n--Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.\n\n--Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young\nthing down there. Photo girl he calls her.\n\n--Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.\n\nBuck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near\nthe spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones,\nwater glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water\nrilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black\nsagging loincloth.\n\nBuck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines\nand Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips\nand breastbone.\n\n--Seymour's back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur of\nrock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.\n\n--Ah, go to God! Buck Mulligan said.\n\n--Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?\n\n--Yes.\n\n--Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto with\nmoney.\n\n--Is she up the pole?\n\n--Better ask Seymour that.\n\n--Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said.\n\nHe nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying\ntritely:\n\n--Redheaded women buck like goats.\n\nHe broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.\n\n--My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I'm the _Uebermensch._ Toothless\nKinch and I, the supermen.\n\nHe struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where his\nclothes lay.\n\n--Are you going in here, Malachi?\n\n--Yes. Make room in the bed.\n\nThe young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached\nthe middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a\nstone, smoking.\n\n--Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked.\n\n--Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast.\n\nStephen turned away.\n\n--I'm going, Mulligan, he said.\n\n--Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.\n\nStephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped\nclothes.\n\n--And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there.\n\nStephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck\nMulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:\n\n--He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake\nZarathustra.\n\nHis plump body plunged.\n\n--We'll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the\npath and smiling at wild Irish.\n\nHorn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.\n\n--The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.\n\n--Good, Stephen said.\n\nHe walked along the upwardcurving path.\n\n     _Liliata rutilantium.\n     Turma circumdet.\n     Iubilantium te virginum._\n\n\nThe priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will\nnot sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.\n\nA voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning\nthe curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, a\nseal's, far out on the water, round.\n\nUsurper.\n\n\n\n--You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?\n\n--Tarentum, sir.\n\n--Very good. Well?\n\n--There was a battle, sir.\n\n--Very good. Where?\n\nThe boy's blank face asked the blank window.\n\nFabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as\nmemory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings\nof excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling\nmasonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us then?\n\n--I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C.\n\n--Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the\ngorescarred book.\n\n--Yes, sir. And he said: _Another victory like that and we are done\nfor._\n\nThat phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From\na hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers,\nleaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.\n\n--You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?\n\n--End of Pyrrhus, sir?\n\n--I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.\n\n--Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?\n\nA bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them\nbetween his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to\nthe tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people, proud\nthat their eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey.\n\n--Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.\n\nAll laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round\nat his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh\nmore loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.\n\n--Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the book,\nwhat is a pier.\n\n--A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of a\nbridge. Kingstown pier, sir.\n\nSome laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench\nwhispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent.\nAll. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their\nlikes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets\ntittering in the struggle.\n\n--Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.\n\nThe words troubled their gaze.\n\n--How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.\n\nFor Haines's chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild\ndrink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A\njester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a\nclement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly\nfor the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other\ntoo often heard, their land a pawnshop.\n\nHad Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not\nbeen knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has\nbranded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite\npossibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing\nthat they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass?\nWeave, weaver of the wind.\n\n--Tell us a story, sir.\n\n--O, do, sir. A ghoststory.\n\n--Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.\n\n-_-Weep no more,_ Comyn said.\n\n--Go on then, Talbot.\n\n--And the story, sir?\n\n--After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.\n\nA swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork\nof his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:\n\n     _--Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more\n     For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,\n     Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor..._\n\n\nIt must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible.\nAristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated\nout into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he\nhad read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow\na delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains\nabout me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and\nin my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of\nbrightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of\nthought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the\nsoul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of\nforms.\n\nTalbot repeated:\n\n     _--Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,\n     Through the dear might..._\n\n\n--Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything.\n\n--What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.\n\nHis hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having\njust remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these\ncraven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and\non mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the\ntribute. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. A long\nlook from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the\nchurch's looms. Ay.\n\n     _Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.\n     My father gave me seeds to sow._\n\n\nTalbot slid his closed book into his satchel.\n\n--Have I heard all? Stephen asked.\n\n--Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.\n\n--Half day, sir. Thursday.\n\n--Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.\n\nThey bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.\nCrowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling\ngaily:\n\n--A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.\n\n--O, ask me, sir.\n\n--A hard one, sir.\n\n--This is the riddle, Stephen said:\n\n     _The cock crew,\n     The sky was blue:\n     The bells in heaven\n     Were striking eleven.\n     'Tis time for this poor soul\n     To go to heaven._\n\n\nWhat is that?\n\n--What, sir?\n\n--Again, sir. We didn't hear.\n\nTheir eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence\nCochrane said:\n\n--What is it, sir? We give it up.\n\nStephen, his throat itching, answered:\n\n--The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.\n\nHe stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries\nechoed dismay.\n\nA stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:\n\n--Hockey!\n\nThey broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly\nthey were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and\nclamour of their boots and tongues.\n\nSargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open\ncopybook. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness\nand through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his\ncheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent\nand damp as a snail's bed.\n\nHe held out his copybook. The word _Sums_ was written on the headline.\nBeneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with\nblind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.\n\n--Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them\nto you, sir.\n\nStephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.\n\n--Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.\n\n--Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to\ncopy them off the board, sir.\n\n--Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked.\n\n--No, sir.\n\nUgly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail's\nbed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart.\nBut for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot,\na squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained\nfrom her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His\nmother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode.\nShe was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire,\nan odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being\ntrampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul\ngone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek\nof rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth,\nlistened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.\n\nSitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by algebra\nthat Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Sargent peered askance\nthrough his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the\nhollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.\n\nAcross the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of\ntheir letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands,\ntraverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from\nthe world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement,\nflashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a\ndarkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.\n\n--Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?\n\n--Yes, sir.\n\nIn long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word\nof help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of\nshame flickering behind his dull skin. _Amor matris:_ subjective and\nobjective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed\nhim and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.\n\nLike him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My\nchildhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or\nlightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony\nsit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their\ntyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned.\n\nThe sum was done.\n\n--It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.\n\n--Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.\n\nHe dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his\ncopybook back to his bench.\n\n--You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said\nas he followed towards the door the boy's graceless form.\n\n--Yes, sir.\n\nIn the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.\n\n--Sargent!\n\n--Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.\n\nHe stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy\nfield where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams and\nMr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When\nhe had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He\nturned his angry white moustache.\n\n--What is it now? he cried continually without listening.\n\n--Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said.\n\n--Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore\norder here.\n\nAnd as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's voice\ncried sternly:\n\n--What is the matter? What is it now?\n\nTheir sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed\nround him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head.\n\nStale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather\nof its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was\nin the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins,\nbase treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase\nof purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the\ngentiles: world without end.\n\nA hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his\nrare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.\n\n--First, our little financial settlement, he said.\n\nHe brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It\nslapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and\nlaid them carefully on the table.\n\n--Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.\n\nAnd now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved\nover the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money\ncowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and\nthis, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure,\nhollow shells.\n\nA sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.\n\n--Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand.\nThese are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is for\nshillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.\n\nHe shot from it two crowns and two shillings.\n\n--Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find that's right.\n\n--Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy\nhaste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.\n\n--No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.\n\nStephen's hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too\nof beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and\nmisery.\n\n--Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You'll pull it out somewhere\nand lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You'll find them very\nhandy.\n\nAnswer something.\n\n--Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.\n\nThe same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times\nnow. Three nooses round me here. Well? I can break them in this instant\nif I will.\n\n--Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don't\nknow yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived as long as I\nhave. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say?\n_Put but money in thy purse._\n\n--Iago, Stephen murmured.\n\nHe lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man's stare.\n\n--He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes, but\nan Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you\nknow what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman's\nmouth?\n\nThe seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems\nhistory is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.\n\n--That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.\n\n--Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He\ntapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.\n\n--I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. _I paid\nmy way._\n\nGood man, good man.\n\n_--I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life._ Can you feel\nthat? _I owe nothing._ Can you?\n\nMulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.\nCurran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings.\nTemple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob\nReynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five\nweeks' board. The lump I have is useless.\n\n--For the moment, no, Stephen answered.\n\nMr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.\n\n--I knew you couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it.\nWe are a generous people but we must also be just.\n\n--I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.\n\nMr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the\nshapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of\nWales.\n\n--You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said.\nI saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine in\n'46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the\nunion twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your\ncommunion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.\n\nGlorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the\nsplendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the\nplanters' covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie\ndown.\n\nStephen sketched a brief gesture.\n\n--I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But\nI am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are\nall Irish, all kings' sons.\n\n--Alas, Stephen said.\n\n--_Per vias rectas_, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for\nit and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do\nso.\n\n     _Lal the ral the ra\n     The rocky road to Dublin._\n\n\nA gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John!\nSoft day, your honour!... Day!... Day!... Two topboots jog dangling\non to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.\n\n--That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus,\nwith some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press.\nSit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.\n\nHe went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read\noff some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.\n\n--Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, _the dictates of\ncommon sense._ Just a moment.\n\nHe peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow\nand, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly,\nsometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.\n\nStephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed\naround the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek\nheads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of Westminster's\nShotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, _prix de Paris_, 1866. Elfin\nriders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing king's\ncolours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds.\n\n--Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this\nallimportant question...\n\nWhere Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the\nmudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek\nof the canteen, over the motley slush. Fair Rebel! Fair Rebel! Even\nmoney the favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers\nwe hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past\nthe meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of\norange.\n\nShouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle.\n\nAgain: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley,\nthe joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems\nto be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock.\nJousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain,\na shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.\n\n--Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.\n\nHe came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.\n\n--I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about\nthe foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two\nopinions on the matter.\n\nMay I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of _laissez faire_\nwhich so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old\nindustries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme.\nEuropean conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of\nthe channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of\nagriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who\nwas no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.\n\n--I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.\n\nFoot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus.\nPercentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg,\nlower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous\noffer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In\nevery sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the\nhospitality of your columns.\n\n--I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the\nnext outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can\nbe cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is\nregularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They\noffer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with\nthe department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by\ndifficulties, by... intrigues by... backstairs influence by...\n\nHe raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.\n\n--Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of the\njews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are\nthe signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the\nnation's vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure\nas we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of\ndestruction. Old England is dying.\n\nHe stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a\nbroad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.\n\n--Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.\n\n     _The harlot's cry from street to street\n     Shall weave old England's windingsheet._\n\n\nHis eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which\nhe halted.\n\n--A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or\ngentile, is he not?\n\n--They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see\nthe darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the\nearth to this day.\n\nOn the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting\nprices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud,\nuncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk\nhats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full\nslow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but\nknew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain\npatience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard\nheaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their\nyears of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.\n\n--Who has not? Stephen said.\n\n--What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.\n\nHe came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell\nsideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me.\n\n--History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.\n\nFrom the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal.\nWhat if that nightmare gave you a back kick?\n\n--The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human\nhistory moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.\n\nStephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:\n\n--That is God.\n\nHooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!\n\n--What? Mr Deasy asked.\n\n--A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.\n\nMr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked\nbetween his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.\n\n--I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and\nmany sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no\nbetter than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten\nyears the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the\nstrangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke,\nprince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many\nfailures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my\ndays. But I will fight for the right till the end.\n\n     _For Ulster will fight\n     And Ulster will be right._\n\n\nStephen raised the sheets in his hand.\n\n--Well, sir, he began...\n\n--I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long\nat this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am\nwrong.\n\n--A learner rather, Stephen said.\n\nAnd here what will you learn more?\n\nMr Deasy shook his head.\n\n--Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great\nteacher.\n\nStephen rustled the sheets again.\n\n--As regards these, he began.\n\n--Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them\npublished at once.\n\n_ Telegraph. Irish Homestead._\n\n--I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two\neditors slightly.\n\n--That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field,\nM.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the\nCity Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You\nsee if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?\n\n_--The Evening Telegraph..._\n\n--That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to\nanswer that letter from my cousin.\n\n--Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket.\nThank you.\n\n--Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I\nlike to break a lance with you, old as I am.\n\n--Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.\n\nHe went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees,\nhearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield.\nThe lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate:\ntoothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub\nme a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.\n\n--Mr Dedalus!\n\nRunning after me. No more letters, I hope.\n\n--Just one moment.\n\n--Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.\n\nMr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.\n\n--I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of\nbeing the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know\nthat? No. And do you know why?\n\nHe frowned sternly on the bright air.\n\n--Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.\n\n--Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.\n\nA coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a\nrattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing,\nhis lifted arms waving to the air.\n\n--She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he\nstamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That's why.\n\nOn his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung\nspangles, dancing coins.\n\n\nIneluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought\nthrough my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn\nand seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver,\nrust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies.\nThen he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By\nknocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a\nmillionaire, _maestro di color che sanno_. Limit of the diaphane in. Why\nin? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it\nis a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.\n\n\nStephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and\nshells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time.\nA very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six:\nthe _nacheinander_. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the\naudible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles\no'er his base, fell through the _nebeneinander_ ineluctably! I am\ngetting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with\nit: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the ends of his legs,\n_nebeneinander_. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of _Los Demiurgos_.\nAm I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick,\ncrick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'. Won't you come to\nSandymount, Madeline the mare?\n\n\nRhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs\nmarching. No, agallop: _deline the mare_.\n\nOpen your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I\nopen and am for ever in the black adiaphane. _Basta_! I will see if I\ncan see.\n\nSee now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world\nwithout end.\n\nThey came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, _Frauenzimmer_:\nand down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in\nthe silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother.\nNumber one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in\nthe beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe,\nrelict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. One\nof her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing.\nWhat has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed\nin ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of\nall flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your\nomphalos. Hello! Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha:\nnought, nought, one.\n\nSpouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel.\nGaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum,\nno, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to\neverlasting. Womb of sin.\n\nWombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the man\nwith my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath.\nThey clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. From before the ages\nHe willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A _lex eterna_ stays\nabout Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are\nconsubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring\nhis life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred\nheresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia.\nWith beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of\na widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.\n\nAirs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves.\nThe whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of\nMananaan.\n\nI mustn't forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half\ntwelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile.\n\nYes, I must.\n\nHis pace slackened. Here. Am I going to aunt Sara's or not? My\nconsubstantial father's voice. Did you see anything of your artist\nbrother Stephen lately? No? Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with\nhis aunt Sally? Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and and\nand tell us, Stephen, how is uncle Si? O, weeping God, the things I\nmarried into! De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer\nand his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers! And\nskeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less! Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir.\nJesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ!\n\nI pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take\nme for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.\n\n--It's Stephen, sir.\n\n--Let him in. Let Stephen in.\n\nA bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.\n\n--We thought you were someone else.\n\nIn his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the\nhillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the\nupper moiety.\n\n--Morrow, nephew.\n\nHe lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for\nthe eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and\ncommon searches and a writ of _Duces Tecum_. A bogoak frame over his\nbald head: Wilde's _Requiescat_. The drone of his misleading whistle\nbrings Walter back.\n\n--Yes, sir?\n\n--Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?\n\n--Bathing Crissie, sir.\n\nPapa's little bedpal. Lump of love.\n\n--No, uncle Richie...\n\n--Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!\n\n--Uncle Richie, really...\n\n--Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down.\n\nWalter squints vainly for a chair.\n\n--He has nothing to sit down on, sir.\n\n--He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair.\nWould you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs\nhere. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the\nbetter. We have nothing in the house but backache pills.\n\n_All'erta_!\n\nHe drones bars of Ferrando's _aria di sortita_. The grandest number,\nStephen, in the whole opera. Listen.\n\nHis tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air,\nhis fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.\n\nThis wind is sweeter.\n\nHouses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you\nhad an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of\nthem, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh's\nlibrary where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For whom?\nThe hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind\nran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon,\nhis eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine\nfaces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbas\nfather,--furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff!\n_Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris_. A garland of grey hair\non his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace\n(_descende_!), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, baldpoll!\nA choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns,\nthe snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured\nand oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.\n\nAnd at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating\nit. Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.\nDringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own\ncheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,\ninvincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled\nhis brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his\nsecond bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and,\nrising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang\nin diphthong.\n\nCousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were\nawfully holy, weren't you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you\nmight not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue\nthat the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the\nwet street. _O si, certo_! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned\nround a squaw. More tell me, more still!! On the top of the Howth tram\nalone crying to the rain: Naked women! _naked women_! What about that,\neh?\n\nWhat about what? What else were they invented for?\n\nReading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young.\nYou bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause\nearnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one\nsaw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles.\nHave you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O\nyes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply\ndeep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the\nworld, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few\nthousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very\nlike a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one\nfeels that one is at one with one who once...\n\nThe grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again\na damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the\nunnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.\nUnwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing\nupward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a\nmidden of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle\nstood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel:\nisle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze\nof dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the\nhigher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams\nof brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.\n\nHe halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going there?\nSeems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand\ntowards the Pigeonhouse.\n\n_--Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?_\n\n_--c'est le pigeon, Joseph._\n\nPatrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon.\nSon of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird, he\nlapped the sweet _lait chaud_ with pink young tongue, plump bunny's\nface. Lap, _lapin._ He hopes to win in the _gros lots_. About the nature\nof women he read in Michelet. But he must send me _La Vie de Jesus_ by\nM. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.\n\n_--C'est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas\nen l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re._\n\n_--Il croit?_\n\n_--Mon pere, oui._\n\n_Schluss_. He laps.\n\nMy Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want\npuce gloves. You were a student, weren't you? Of what in the other\ndevil's name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: _physiques, chimiques et\nnaturelles_. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of _mou en civet_, fleshpots\nof Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural\ntone: when I was in Paris; _boul' Mich'_, I used to. Yes, used to\ncarry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder\nsomewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the\nprisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me.\nHat, tie, overcoat, nose. _Lui, c'est moi_. You seem to have enjoyed\nyourself.\n\nProudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a\ndispossessed. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the banging\ndoor of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger\ntoothache. _Encore deux minutes_. Look clock. Must get. _Ferme_. Hired\ndog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered\nwalls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not\nhurt? O, that's all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that's\nall right. Shake a shake. O, that's all only all right.\n\nYou were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery\nColumbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from\ntheir pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: _Euge! Euge_! Pretending to speak\nbroken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across\nthe slimy pier at Newhaven. _Comment?_ Rich booty you brought back; _Le\nTutu_, five tattered numbers of _Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge_; a\nblue French telegram, curiosity to show:\n\n--Mother dying come home father.\n\nThe aunt thinks you killed your mother. That's why she won't.\n\n     _Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt\n     And I'll tell you the reason why.\n     She always kept things decent in\n     The Hannigan famileye._\n\n\nHis feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by\nthe boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stone\nmammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is\nthere, the slender trees, the lemon houses.\n\nParis rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of\nfarls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court\nthe air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's wife, the\nkerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. In\nRodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering\nwith gold teeth _chaussons_ of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the\n_pus_ of _flan breton_. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased\npleasers, curled conquistadores.\n\nNoon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers\nsmeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his\nwhite. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. _Un demi\nsetier!_ A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me\nat his beck. _Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux irlandais,\nnous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui!_ She thought you wanted a cheese\n_hollandais_. Your postprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial.\nThere was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call\nit his postprandial. Well: _slainte_! Around the slabbed tables the\ntangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our\nsaucestained plates, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips.\nOf Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith\nnow, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. To yoke me as his yokefellow,\nour crimes our common cause. You're your father's son. I know the voice.\nHis fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at\nhis secrets. M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called\nqueen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. _Vieille ogresse_\nwith the _dents jaunes_. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, _La Patrie_, M.\nMillevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken,\n_bonne a tout faire_, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala.\n_Moi faire_, she said, _Tous les messieurs_. Not this _Monsieur_, I\nsaid. Most licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn't let\nmy brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. Green eyes,\nI see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.\n\nThe blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose\ntobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw\nfacebones under his peep of day boy's hat. How the head centre got away,\nauthentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms,\ndrove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the\nbetrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.\n\nSpurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell you.\nI'll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love he\nprowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls\nof Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward\nin the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides,\nEgan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his day's stations,\nthe dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps\nshort night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of\nthe gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy\nwithout her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two\nbuck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's.\nSpurned and undespairing. Tell Pat you saw me, won't you? I wanted to\nget poor Pat a job one time. _Mon fils_, soldier of France. I taught him\nto sing _The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades_. Know that old\nlay? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's\ncastle on the Nore. Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by\nthe hand.\n\n     _O, O THE BOYS OF\n     KILKENNY..._\n\n\nWeak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them.\nRemembering thee, O Sion.\n\nHe had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots.\nThe new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of\nseeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship,\nam I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the\nquaking soil. Turn back.\n\nTurning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly\nin new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the\nbarbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my\nfeet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk,\nnightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait,\ntheir pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned\nplatters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when\nthis night comes. A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their--blind\nbodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He lifted his\nfeet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take\nall, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon's\nmidwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing\nElsinore's tempting flood.\n\nThe flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back\nthen by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedge\nand eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a\ngrike.\n\nA bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the\ngunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. _Un coche ensablé_ Louis Veuillot\ncalled Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind\nhave silted here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren\nof weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and\nstones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout's toys. Mind you don't get one\nbang on the ear. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well\nboulders, bones for my steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloodz odz\nan Iridzman.\n\nA point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand.\nLord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty. You will not\nbe master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. From\nfarther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures,\ntwo. The two maries. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes.\nPeekaboo. I see you. No, the dog. He is running back to them. Who?\n\nGalleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their\nbloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Dane vikings,\ntorcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the\ncollar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon,\nspouting, hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city\na horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers' knives, running,\nscaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and\nslaughters. Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves. I moved among\nthem on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering\nresin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to me.\n\nThe dog's bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my enemy. I\njust simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. _Terribilia meditans_. A\nprimrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. For that are you\npining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live their lives. The\nBruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck,\nYork's false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of\na day, and Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion\ncrowned. All kings' sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved\nmen from drowning and you shake at a cur's yelping. But the courtiers\nwho mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House of...\nWe don't want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he\ndid? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy. _Natürlich_, put there for you.\nWould you or would you not? The man that was drowned nine days ago off\nMaiden's rock. They are waiting for him now. The truth, spit it out. I\nwould want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft.\nWhen I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can't see! Who's\nbehind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing quickly in\non all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured? If\nI had land under my feet. I want his life still to be his, mine to be\nmine. A drowning man. His human eyes scream to me out of horror of his\ndeath. I... With him together down... I could not save her. Waters:\nbitter death: lost.\n\nA woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.\n\nTheir dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on\nall sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made\noff like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a\nlowskimming gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He\nturned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a\nfield tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of\nthe tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His\nsnout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented\ntowards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking,\nplashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.\n\nCocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping,\nsoused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped\nrunning to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again\nreared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as\nthey came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from\nhis jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a\ncalf's gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked\nround it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like\na dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes\non the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies\npoor dogsbody's body.\n\n--Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel!\n\nThe cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless\nkick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight. He\nslunk back in a curve. Doesn't see me. Along by the edge of the mole he\nlolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed\nagainst it. He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed\nquick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. His\nhindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.\nSomething he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in the sand,\ndabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand\nagain with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in\nspousebreach, vulturing the dead.\n\nAfter he woke me last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open hallway.\nStreet of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That\nman led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against my\nface. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come. Red\ncarpet spread. You will see who.\n\nShouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians. His blued feet\nout of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler\nstrangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed: the\nruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and\nshellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hair trailed.\nBehind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. When night hides\nher body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway\nwhere dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in\nO'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O,\nmy dimber wapping dell! A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags.\nFumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells.\n\n     _White thy fambles, red thy gan\n     And thy quarrons dainty is.\n     Couch a hogshead with me then.\n     In the darkmans clip and kiss._\n\n\nMorose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, _frate porcospino_.\nUnfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: _thy quarrons\ndainty is_. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber\non their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.\n\nPassing now.\n\nA side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? I\nam not. Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun's flaming\nsword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps,\ntrains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in\nher wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, _oinopa\nponton_, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon. In sleep\nthe wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of\ndeath, ghostcandled. _Omnis caro ad te veniet_. He comes, pale vampire,\nthrough storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her\nmouth's kiss.\n\nHere. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss.\n\nNo. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her mouth's kiss.\n\nHis lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her moomb.\nOomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched:\nooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring\nwayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy's\nletter. Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off.\nTurning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and\nscribbled words. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library\ncounter.\n\nHis shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till\nthe farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness\nshining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there\nwith his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid\nsea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars.\nI throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back.\nEndless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who\never anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a white field.\nSomewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloyne\ntook the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with\ncoloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat:\nyes, that's right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far, flat\nI see, east, back. Ah, see now! Falls back suddenly, frozen in\nstereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness is\nin our souls do you not think? Flutier. Our souls, shamewounded by our\nsins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the\nmore.\n\nShe trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue\nhell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of\nthe ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin at Hodges\nFiggis' window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you\nwere going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the\nbraided jesse of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with a grief\nand kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a\npickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and\nyellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Talk about apple dumplings,\n_piuttosto_. Where are your wits?\n\nTouch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me\nsoon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone.\nSad too. Touch, touch me.\n\nHe lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled\nnote and pencil into a pock his hat. His hat down on his eyes. That is\nKevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. _Et\nvidit Deus. Et erant valde bona_. Alo! _Bonjour_. Welcome as the flowers\nin May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the\nsouthing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal\nnoon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the\ntawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far.\n\n     _And no more turn aside and brood._\n\nHis gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck's castoffs,\n_nebeneinander_. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein\nanother's foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground in\ntripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's\nshoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. _Tiens, quel petit pied!_\nStaunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its\nname. His arm: Cranly's arm. He now will leave me. And the blame? As I\nam. As I am. All or not at all.\n\nIn long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering\ngreengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float\naway. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the\nlow rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a\nfourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of\nwaters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops:\nflop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It\nflows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.\n\nUnder the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and\nsway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water\nswaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night:\nlifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary; and, whispered to,\nthey sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting,\nawaiting the fullness of their times, _diebus ac noctibus iniurias\npatiens ingemiscit_. To no end gathered; vainly then released,\nforthflowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of\nlovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a\ntoil of waters.\n\nFive fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, he\nsaid. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose\ndrift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising\nsaltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward.\nThere he is. Hook it quick. Pull. Sunk though he be beneath the watery\nfloor. We have him. Easy now.\n\nBag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a\nspongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly.\nGod becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed\nmountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a\nurinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes\nupward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to\nthe sun.\n\nA seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths\nknown to man. Old Father Ocean. _Prix de paris_: beware of imitations.\nJust you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.\n\nCome. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there?\nThunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect,\n_Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum_. No. My cockle hat and staff and\nhismy sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.\n\nHe took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying\nstill. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make\ntheir end. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest\nday. Of all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn\nTennyson, gentleman poet. _Già_. For the old hag with the yellow teeth.\nAnd Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. _Già_. My teeth are very\nbad. Why, I wonder. Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to a\ndentist, I wonder, with that money? That one. This. Toothless Kinch, the\nsuperman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps?\n\nMy handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up?\n\nHis hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buy one.\n\nHe laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock,\ncarefully. For the rest let look who will.\n\nBehind. Perhaps there is someone.\n\nHe turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the\nair high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees,\nhoming, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship. +\n\n\n\n\n-- II --\n\nMr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.\nHe liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart,\nliverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all\nhe liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of\nfaintly scented urine.\n\nKidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting\nher breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the\nkitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel\na bit peckish.\n\nThe coals were reddening.\n\nAnother slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like\nher plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off\nthe hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat,\nits spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked\nstiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.\n\n--Mkgnao!\n\n--O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.\n\nThe cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the\ntable, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my\nhead. Prr.\n\nMr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see:\nthe gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her\ntail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his\nknees.\n\n--Milk for the pussens, he said.\n\n--Mrkgnao! the cat cried.\n\nThey call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we\nunderstand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too.\nCruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder\nwhat I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.\n\n--Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the\nchookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.\n\nCruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.\n\n--Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.\n\nShe blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively\nand long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits\nnarrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to\nthe dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him,\npoured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.\n\n--Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.\n\nHe watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped\nthree times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they\ncan't mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or\nkind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.\n\nHe listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this\ndrouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a\nmutton kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better\na pork kidney at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped\nslower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough?\nTo lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round\nhim. No.\n\nOn quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by\nthe bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter\nshe likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.\n\nHe said softly in the bare hall:\n\n--I'm going round the corner. Be back in a minute.\n\nAnd when he had heard his voice say it he added:\n\n--You don't want anything for breakfast?\n\nA sleepy soft grunt answered:\n\n--Mn.\n\nNo. She didn't want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer,\nas she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled.\nMust get those settled really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar.\nForgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for\nit. Old style. Ah yes! of course. Bought it at the governor's auction.\nGot a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At\nPlevna that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it.\nStill he had brains enough to make that corner in stamps. Now that was\nfarseeing.\n\nHis hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat\nand his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback\npictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. Course they do.\nThe sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's\nhigh grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White slip\nof paper. Quite safe.\n\nOn the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there.\nIn the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe.\nNo use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. He pulled\nthe halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped\ngently over the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut. All right till I\ncome back anyhow.\n\nHe crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number\nseventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Be a\nwarm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Black\nconducts, reflects, (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldn't go in\nthat light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as\nhe walked in happy warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our\ndaily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot.\nMakes you feel young. Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at\ndawn. Travel round in front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep\nit up for ever never grow a day older technically. Walk along a strand,\nstrange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old\nTweedy's big moustaches, leaning on a long kind of a spear. Wander\nthrough awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of carpet\nshops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled\npipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented with fennel,\nsherbet. Dander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well,\nmeet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques among the\npillars: priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal,\nthe evening wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches me from\nher doorway. She calls her children home in their dark language. High\nwall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's\nnew garters. Strings. Listen. A girl playing one of those instruments\nwhat do you call them: dulcimers. I pass.\n\nProbably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read: in the track\nof the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled, pleasing himself. What\nArthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the _Freeman_ leader: a\nhomerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank\nof Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule\nsun rising up in the north-west.\n\nHe approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar grating floated up the\nflabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out\nwhiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just the\nend of the city traffic. For instance M'Auley's down there: n. g. as\nposition. Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from\nthe cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot.\n\nBaldhead over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an\nad. Still he knows his own business best. There he is, sure enough, my\nbold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching\nthe aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedalus takes him\noff to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do you know what I'm going to\ntell you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke? Do you know what? The Russians,\nthey'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese.\n\nStop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor\nDignam, Mr O'Rourke.\n\nTurning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the\ndoorway:\n\n--Good day, Mr O'Rourke.\n\n--Good day to you.\n\n--Lovely weather, sir.\n\n--'Tis all that.\n\nWhere do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from the county\nLeitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and behold,\nthey blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then thin of the\ncompetition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without\npassing a pub. Save it they can't. Off the drunks perhaps. Put down\nthree and carry five. What is that, a bob here and there, dribs and\ndrabs. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the\ntown travellers. Square it you with the boss and we'll split the job,\nsee?\n\nHow much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten barrels\nof stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Fifteen. He passed Saint\nJoseph's National school. Brats' clamour. Windows open. Fresh air\nhelps memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee\ndoubleyou. Boys are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At\ntheir joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.\n\nHe halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the hanks of sausages,\npolonies, black and white. Fifteen multiplied by. The figures whitened\nin his mind, unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links,\npacked with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the\nlukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood.\n\nA kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He\nstood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too, calling\nthe items from a slip in her hand? Chapped: washingsoda. And a pound and\na half of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips.\nWoods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New blood.\nNo followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the\nclothesline. She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt\nswings at each whack.\n\nThe ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with\nblotchy fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there: like a stallfed heifer.\n\nHe took a page up from the pile of cut sheets: the model farm at\nKinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Can become ideal winter\nsanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round\nit, blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting:\nread it nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the page\nrustling. A young white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket, the\nbeasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the\nbreeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm\non a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in\ntheir hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and\nhis will, his soft subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt swinging,\nwhack by whack by whack.\n\nThe porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime\nsausages and made a red grimace.\n\n--Now, my miss, he said.\n\nShe tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.\n\n--Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you,\nplease?\n\nMr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she went\nslowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the\nmorning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She stood\noutside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He\nsighed down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted\ntoenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways.\nThe sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For\nanother: a constable off duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. They like\nthem sizeable. Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the\nwood.\n\n--Threepence, please.\n\nHis hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket.\nThen it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them\non the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid,\ndisc by disc, into the till.\n\n--Thank you, sir. Another time.\n\nA speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his gaze\nafter an instant. No: better not: another time.\n\n--Good morning, he said, moving away.\n\n--Good morning, sir.\n\nNo sign. Gone. What matter?\n\nHe walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath Netaim:\nplanters' company. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish\ngovernment and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuel\nand construction. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa.\nYou pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives,\noranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial\nirrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered\nfor life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the\nbalance in yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.\n\nNothing doing. Still an idea behind it.\n\nHe looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered\nolivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Olives are packed in\njars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows\nthe taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons\ntoo. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky\nwith the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron's\nbasketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it\nto the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild\nperfume. Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too,\nMoisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times.\nMust be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar,\nMediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa,\nchap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in\nsoiled dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you? Doesn't\nsee. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that\nNorwegian captain's. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To\nprovoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven.\n\nA cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far.\n\nNo, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead\nsea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind could lift those\nwaves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it\nraining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead\nnames. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the\noldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a\nnaggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over\nall the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born\neverywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more. Dead: an old\nwoman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world.\n\nDesolation.\n\nGrey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned\ninto Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins,\nchilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here\nnow. Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of\nthe bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down.\nBlotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that?\nValuation is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur:\nparlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. To smell\nthe gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her\nample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.\n\nQuick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in slim\nsandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a\ngirl with gold hair on the wind.\n\nTwo letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped and gathered\nthem. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once. Bold hand.\nMrs Marion.\n\n--Poldy!\n\nEntering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm\nyellow twilight towards her tousled head.\n\n--Who are the letters for?\n\nHe looked at them. Mullingar. Milly.\n\n--A letter for me from Milly, he said carefully, and a card to you. And\na letter for you.\n\nHe laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her\nknees.\n\n--Do you want the blind up?\n\nLetting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her\nglance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.\n\n--That do? he asked, turning.\n\nShe was reading the card, propped on her elbow.\n\n--She got the things, she said.\n\nHe waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back\nslowly with a snug sigh.\n\n--Hurry up with that tea, she said. I'm parched.\n\n--The kettle is boiling, he said.\n\nBut he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled\nlinen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.\n\nAs he went down the kitchen stairs she called:\n\n--Poldy!\n\n--What?\n\n--Scald the teapot.\n\nOn the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the spout. He scalded and\nrinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the\nkettle then to let the water flow in. Having set it to draw he took off\nthe kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the lump\nof butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed\nhungrily against him. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Say they\nwon't eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to\nher and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He\nsprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup.\n\nThen he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. Thanks:\nnew tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan's\nseaside girls.\n\nThe tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown\n\nDerby, smiling. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Only five she was then. No,\nwait: four. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces\nof folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring.\n\n     _O, Milly Bloom, you are my darling.\n     You are my lookingglass from night to morning.\n     I'd rather have you without a farthing\n     Than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden._\n\n\nPoor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he was a courteous\nold chap. Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the platform. And\nthe little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought it into\nthe parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! All we\nlaughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was.\n\nHe prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the\nteapot on the tray. Its hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on\nit? Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it\nupstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.\n\nNudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on\nthe chair by the bedhead.\n\n--What a time you were! she said.\n\nShe set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on\nthe pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft\nbubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. The warmth\nof her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the\ntea she poured.\n\nA strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the\nact of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.\n\n--Who was the letter from? he asked.\n\nBold hand. Marion.\n\n--O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme.\n\n--What are you singing?\n\n--_La ci darem_ with J. C. Doyle, she said, and _Love's Old Sweet Song_.\n\nHer full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves\nnext day. Like foul flowerwater.\n\n--Would you like the window open a little?\n\nShe doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:\n\n--What time is the funeral?\n\n--Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn't see the paper.\n\nFollowing the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled\ndrawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a\nstocking: rumpled, shiny sole.\n\n--No: that book.\n\nOther stocking. Her petticoat.\n\n--It must have fell down, she said.\n\nHe felt here and there. _Voglio e non vorrei_. Wonder if she pronounces\nthat right: _voglio_. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped\nand lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of\nthe orangekeyed chamberpot.\n\n--Show here, she said. I put a mark in it. There's a word I wanted to\nask you.\n\nShe swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and,\nhaving wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the\ntext with the hairpin till she reached the word.\n\n--Met him what? he asked.\n\n--Here, she said. What does that mean?\n\nHe leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail.\n\n--Metempsychosis?\n\n--Yes. Who's he when he's at home?\n\n--Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It's Greek: from the Greek. That\nmeans the transmigration of souls.\n\n--O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words.\n\nHe smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. The same young eyes.\nThe first night after the charades. Dolphin's Barn. He turned over\nthe smudged pages. _Ruby: the Pride of the Ring_. Hello. Illustration.\nFierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor\nnaked. Sheet kindly lent. _The monster Maffei desisted and flung his\nvictim from him with an oath_. Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals.\nTrapeze at Hengler's. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break your\nneck and we'll break our sides. Families of them. Bone them young so\nthey metamspychosis. That we live after death. Our souls. That a man's\nsoul after he dies. Dignam's soul...\n\n--Did you finish it? he asked.\n\n--Yes, she said. There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the\nfirst fellow all the time?\n\n--Never read it. Do you want another?\n\n--Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has.\n\nShe poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways.\n\nMust get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to\nKearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's the word.\n\n--Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another body\nafter death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That\nwe all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other\nplanet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past\nlives.\n\nThe sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Better remind\nher of the word: metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example?\n\nThe _Bath of the Nymph_ over the bed. Given away with the Easter number\nof _Photo Bits_: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you\nput milk in. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Three and six\nI gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked\nnymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people that lived then.\n\nHe turned the pages back.\n\n--Metempsychosis, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. They\nused to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for\ninstance. What they called nymphs, for example.\n\nHer spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her,\ninhaling through her arched nostrils.\n\n--There's a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire?\n\n--The kidney! he cried suddenly.\n\nHe fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes\nagainst the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping\nhastily down the stairs with a flurried stork's legs. Pungent smoke shot\nup in an angry jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the\nfork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back.\nOnly a little burnt. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the\nscanty brown gravy trickle over it.\n\nCup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf.\nHe shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a\nforkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant\nmeat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread,\nsopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about\nsome young student and a picnic? He creased out the letter at his side,\nreading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the\ngravy and raising it to his mouth.\n\nDearest Papli\n\nThanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It suits me\nsplendid. Everyone says I am quite the belle in my new tam. I got\nmummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I am\ngetting on swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me\nand Mrs. Will send when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair day\nand all the beef to the heels were in. We are going to lough Owel on\nMonday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to\nmummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano\ndownstairs. There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday.\nThere is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his\ncousins or something are big swells and he sings Boylan's (I was on the\npop of writing Blazes Boylan's) song about those seaside girls. Tell him\nsilly Milly sends my best respects. I must now close with fondest love\n\nYour fond daughter, MILLY.\n\nP. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Byby. M.\n\nFifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first\nbirthday away from home. Separation. Remember the summer morning she\nwas born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old\nwoman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from\nthe first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well, God is good, sir. She\nknew at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived.\n\nHis vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse bad writing.\nHurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell. Row with her in the\nXL Cafe about the bracelet. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look.\nSaucebox. He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after\npiece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she might do\nworse. Music hall stage. Young student. He drank a draught of cooler tea\nto wash down his meal. Then he read the letter again: twice.\n\nO, well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not? No, nothing has\nhappened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A wild\npiece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny.\nRipening now.\n\nVain: very.\n\nHe smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day I caught\nher in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a little.\nWas given milk too long. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the Kish.\nDamned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf\nloose in the wind with her hair. _All dimpled cheeks and curls, Your\nhead it simply swirls._\n\n\nSeaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers' pockets,\njarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says.\nPier with lamps, summer evening, band,\n\n     _Those girls, those girls,\n     Those lovely seaside girls._\n\n\nMilly too. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past. Mrs Marion.\nReading, lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling,\nbraiding.\n\nA soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will happen,\nyes. Prevent. Useless: can't move. Girl's sweet light lips. Will happen\ntoo. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move now.\nLips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman's lips.\n\nBetter where she is down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to pass\nthe time. Might take a trip down there. August bank holiday, only two\nand six return. Six weeks off, however. Might work a press pass. Or\nthrough M'Coy.\n\nThe cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper,\nnosed at it and stalked to the door. She looked back at him, mewing.\nWants to go out. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Let her wait.\nHas the fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her ear\nwith her back to the fire too.\n\nHe felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood up,\nundoing the waistband of his trousers. The cat mewed to him.\n\n--Miaow! he said in answer. Wait till I'm ready.\n\nHeaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to the\nlanding.\n\nA paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes knocking just as\nI'm.\n\nIn the tabledrawer he found an old number of _Titbits_. He folded it\nunder his armpit, went to the door and opened it. The cat went up in\nsoft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.\n\nListening, he heard her voice:\n\n--Come, come, pussy. Come.\n\nHe went out through the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen\ntowards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry.\nThe maid was in the garden. Fine morning.\n\nHe bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall.\nMake a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to\nmanure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur.\nAll soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this\nthat is? The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top\ndressing. Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they are\nfed on those oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid\ngloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in\nthat corner there. Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still gardens\nhave their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.\n\nHe walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the\npeg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don't remember that. Hallstand\ntoo full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters.\nDrago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown\nbrillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder\nhave I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox\nthere got away James Stephens, they say. O'Brien.\n\nDeep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it? Now, my miss.\nEnthusiast.\n\nHe kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get\nthese trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head\nunder the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy\nlimewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he\npeered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was in his\ncountinghouse. Nobody.\n\nAsquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over\non his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a\nbit. Our prize titbit: _Matcham's Masterstroke_. Written by Mr Philip\nBeaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea\na column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds\nthree. Three pounds, thirteen and six.\n\nQuietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but\nresisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he\nallowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still\npatiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's\nnot too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive. One\ntabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touch\nhim but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly\nseason. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat\ncertainly. _Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the\nlaughing witch who now_. Begins and ends morally. _Hand in hand_. Smart.\nHe glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water\nflow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and\nreceived payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.\n\nMight manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story for\nsome proverb. Which? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she\nsaid dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting\nher nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.l5.\nDid Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What\npossessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled after that cabbage. A\nspeck of dust on the patent leather of her boot.\n\nRubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. Morning\nafter the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the\nhours. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then\nnight hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Her head\ndancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money.\nWhy? I noticed he had a good rich smell off his breath dancing. No use\nhumming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night. The\nmirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen\nvest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it. Lines in her eyes.\nIt wouldn't pan out somehow.\n\nEvening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then: black with daggers\nand eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then grey, then black.\nStill, true to life also. Day: then the night.\n\nHe tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it.\nThen he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled\nback the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom\ninto the air.\n\nIn the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his\nblack trousers: the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time\nis the funeral? Better find out in the paper.\n\nA creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of George's\nchurch. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron.\n\n     _Heigho! Heigho!\n     Heigho! Heigho!\n     Heigho! Heigho!_\n\n\nQuarter to. There again: the overtone following through the air, third.\n\nPoor Dignam!\n\n\nBy lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past\nWindmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office.\nCould have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned\nfrom the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street.\nBy Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal\nlinked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema\non her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell\nhim if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of\nroses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da.\nSlack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed\nthe frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past\nNichols' the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny\nKelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut.\nCorny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout.\nHer name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay.\nO, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my\ntooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.\n\n\nIn Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental\nTea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend,\nfinest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom\nKernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still read\nblandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his\nright hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning.\nUnder their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather\nheadband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down\ninto the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the\nheadband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.\n\nSo warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and\nhair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice\nblend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it\nmust be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on,\ncactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like\nthat. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in _dolce far niente_,\nnot doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot\nto quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The\nair feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants.\nWaterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on\nroseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap\nI saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his\nback, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so\nthick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of\nthe body in the water is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it the\nvolume is equal to the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in\nHigh school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum.\nCracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight?\nThirtytwo feet per second per second. Law of falling bodies: per second\nper second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of\ngravity of the earth is the weight.\n\nHe turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her\nsausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded _Freeman_\nfrom his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and\ntapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air:\njust drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second\nit means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of\nthe postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.\n\nHe handed the card through the brass grill.\n\n--Are there any letters for me? he asked.\n\nWhile the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting\nposter with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his\nbaton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer\nprobably. Went too far last time.\n\nThe postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a\nletter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.\n\nHenry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City.\n\nAnswered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket,\nreviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment?\nCastoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a\ngrenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats.\nToo showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to\nenlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell\nstreet at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on\nthe same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or\nhalfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front.\nMark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed\nup as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.\n\nHe strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if\nthat would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger\nfelt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks.\nWomen will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the\nletter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something\npinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.\n\nM'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when\nyou.\n\n--Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?\n\n--Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.\n\n--How's the body?\n\n--Fine. How are you?\n\n--Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.\n\nHis eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:\n\n--Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're...\n\n--O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.\n\n--To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?\n\nA photo it isn't. A badge maybe.\n\n--E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.\n\n--I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard\nit last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?\n\n--I know.\n\nMr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door\nof the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She\nstood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her,\nsearched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll\ncollar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless\nstand of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty\ncreature at the polo match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot.\nHandsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable\nMrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch\nout of her.\n\n--I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do\nyou call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.\n\nDoran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came\nHoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath\nhis vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the\nbraided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight\nperhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will\nshe get up?\n\n--And he said: _Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy?_ I\nsaid. _Poor little Paddy Dignam_, he said.\n\nOff to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces\ndangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for?\nSees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two\nstrings to her bow.\n\n--_Why?_ I said. _What's wrong with him?_ I said.\n\nProud: rich: silk stockings.\n\n--Yes, Mr Bloom said.\n\nHe moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a\nminute.\n\n--_What's wrong with him_? He said. _He's dead_, he said. And, faith,\nhe filled up. _Is it Paddy Dignam_? I said. I couldn't believe it when I\nheard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in\nthe Arch. _Yes,_ he said. _He's gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow_.\nWatch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!\n\nA heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.\n\nLost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and\nthe peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace\nstreet hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering\nthe display of _esprit de corps_. Well, what are you gaping at?\n\n--Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.\n\n--One of the best, M'Coy said.\n\nThe tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich\ngloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her\nhat in the sun: flicker, flick.\n\n--Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.\n\n--O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.\n\nHe unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:\n\n_What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete With it an\nabode of bliss._\n\n--My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.\n\nValise tack again. By the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks.\n\nMr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.\n\n--My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the\nUlster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth.\n\n--That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?\n\nMrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and.\nNo book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady\nand fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.\n\n     _Love's\n     Old\n     Sweet\n     Song\n     Comes lo-ove's old..._\n\n--It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully.\n_Sweeeet song_. There's a committee formed. Part shares and part\nprofits.\n\nM'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.\n\n--O, well, he said. That's good news.\n\nHe moved to go.\n\n--Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.\n\n--Yes, Mr Bloom said.\n\n--Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral,\nwill you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a\ndrowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself\nwould have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if\nI'm not there, will you?\n\n--I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right.\n\n--Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly\ncould. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do.\n\n--That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.\n\nDidn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd\nlike my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped\ncorners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him\nhis for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of\nit from that good day to this.\n\nMr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just\ngot an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its\nway: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know:\nin the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can't\nhe hear the difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against\nmy grain somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that\nsmallpox up there doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be\nvaccinated again. Your wife and my wife.\n\nWonder is he pimping after me?\n\nMr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured\nhoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's Summer\nSale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. _Leah_ tonight. Mrs Bandmann\nPalmer. Like to see her again in that. _Hamlet_ she played last night.\nMale impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed\nsuicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside\nthe Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before\nI was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the\nright name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was\nalways talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice\nand puts his fingers on his face.\n\nNathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his\nfather to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his\nfather and left the God of his father.\n\nEvery word is so deep, Leopold.\n\nPoor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his\nface. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for\nhim.\n\nMr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the\nhazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met\nthat M'Coy fellow.\n\nHe came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing\nteeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet\noaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they\nknow or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags.\nToo full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss.\nGelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their\nhaunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they\nlook. Still their neigh can be very irritating.\n\nHe drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he\ncarried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.\n\nHe passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies.\nAll weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. _Voglio\ne non_. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying\nsyllables as they pass. He hummed:\n\n     _La ci darem la mano\n     La la lala la la._\n\nHe turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the\nlee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins\nand tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with\nits forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted\nchild at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise\ntabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb\nthem. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it.\nAnd once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She\nliked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter within the\nnewspaper.\n\nA flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not\nannoyed then? What does she say?\n\nDear Henry\n\nI got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry\nyou did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am\nawfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called\nyou naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me\nwhat is the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in your home\nyou poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you.\nPlease tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful\nname you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often\nyou have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as\nyou. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me\nmore. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I\nwill do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to\nmeet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are\nexhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I\nhave such a bad headache. today. and write _by return_ to your longing\n\nMartha\n\nP. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to\nknow.\n\nHe tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell\nand placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it\nbecause no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then\nwalking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and\nthere a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus\nif you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses\nwhen we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume.\nHaving read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his\nsidepocket.\n\nWeak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she\nwrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me,\nrespectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank\nyou: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners.\nBad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go\nfurther next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course.\nBrutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.\n\nFingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it.\nCommon pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere:\npinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses\nwithout thorns.\n\nFlat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the\nCoombe, linked together in the rain.\n\n     _O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.\n     She didn't know what to do\n     To keep it up\n     To keep it up._\n\nIt? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all\nday typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife\nuse. Now could you make out a thing like that?\n\n     _To keep it up._\n\nMartha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or\nfaked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also\nthe two sluts in the Coombe would listen.\n\n     _To keep it up._\n\nNice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there:\nquiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been,\nstrange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper:\nfruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole\nin the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the\ntrottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and\nmore: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.\n\nGoing under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly\nin shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered\naway, sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank.\n\nHenry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the\nsame way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure\ncheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be\nmade out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change\nhis shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A\nmillion pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart,\neightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter.\nOne and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions\nof barrels of porter.\n\nWhat am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.\n\nAn incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach.\nBarrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside.\nThe bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing\ntogether, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy\npooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.\n\nHe had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch\nhe doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again\nbehind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy\nfor a pass to Mullingar.\n\nSame notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S.J.\non saint Peter Claver S.J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the\nconversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The\nprotestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the true\nreligion. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the\nheathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for\nthem. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy\nwith hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown\nof thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks?\nConmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I\ndidn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that\nFather Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's\nnot going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise\nblacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see\nthem sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still\nlife. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.\n\nThe cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps,\npushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.\n\nSomething going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place\nto be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow\nmusic. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the\nbenches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch\nknelt at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring,\nholding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a\ncommunion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it\nneatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat\nsank at once. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down\nto put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one.\nShut your eyes and open your mouth. What? _Corpus:_ body. Corpse. Good\nidea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They\ndon't seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a\ncorpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it.\n\nHe stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by\none, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in\nits corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear.\nWe ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here\nand there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for\nit to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that\nsort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes\nthem feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called.\nThere's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel.\nFirst communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family\nparty, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of\nthat. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish.\nLet off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure,\nwaters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Old\nfellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith.\nSafe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next\nyear.\n\nHe saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an\ninstant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace\naffair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what\nto do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S.\nMolly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have\nsuffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.\n\nMeet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with\na veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here\nwith a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the\nsly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the\ninvincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion\nevery morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am\nthinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children\nat home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers,\nnow that's a good name for them, there's always something shiftylooking\nabout them. They're not straight men of business either. O, no, she's\nnot here: the flower: no, no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope?\nYes: under the bridge.\n\nThe priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs\nsmartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank\nwhat they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage\nWheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale\n(aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other.\nCold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old\nbooser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the\nwhole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.\n\nMr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity.\nWho has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that\ninstrument talk, the _vibrato_: fifty pounds a year they say he had in\nGardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the _Stabat Mater_\nof Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate?\nChrist, but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted.\nFootdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice\nagainst that corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the\npeople looking up:\n\n_Quis est homo._\n\nSome of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last words.\nMozart's twelfth mass: _Gloria_ in that. Those old popes keen on music,\non art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example\ntoo. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting,\nregular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still,\nhaving eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind\nof voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses.\nConnoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a\nplacid. No worry. Fall into flesh, don't they? Gluttons, tall, long\nlegs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.\n\nHe saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and\nbless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom\nglanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand\nup at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again\nand he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the\naltar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered\neach other in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a\ncard:\n\n--O God, our refuge and our strength...\n\nMr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them\nthe bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Glorious\nand immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More\ninteresting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful\norganisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants\nto. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon\nin their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I\nschschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look\ndown at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears.\nHusband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes.\nRepentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy\nMary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation\narmy blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting.\nHow I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they\nwork the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests\nalso: to the P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion.\nMasses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors.\nMonasteries and convents. The priest in that Fermanagh will case in the\nwitnessbox. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything.\nLiberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the\nchurch: they mapped out the whole theology of it.\n\nThe priest prayed:\n\n--Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be\nour safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God\nrestrain him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly\nhost, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those\nother wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.\n\nThe priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women\nremained behind: thanksgiving.\n\nBetter be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate\nperhaps. Pay your Easter duty.\n\nHe stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the\ntime? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a\n(whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.\nGlimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me\nbefore. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south.\nHe passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main\ndoor into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble\nbowl while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in\nthe low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow\nin her weeds. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself.\nHow goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion\nmade up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place.\nChemists rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir.\nHamilton Long's, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard\nnear there. Visit some day.\n\nHe walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other\ntrousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair.\nO well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it made up\nlast? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must\nhave been or the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions book.\n\nThe chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems\nto have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone. The\nalchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why?\nReaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character.\nLiving all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his\nalabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid.\nSmell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor Whack. He\nought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow\nthat picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to\nbe careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue\nlitmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts.\nLovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the\nphlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever\nof nature.\n\n--About a fortnight ago, sir?\n\n--Yes, Mr Bloom said.\n\nHe waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the\ndusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling\nyour aches and pains.\n\n--Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then\norangeflower water...\n\nIt certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.\n\n--And white wax also, he said.\n\nBrings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to\nher eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my\ncuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the\nteeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk.\nSkinfood. One of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only\none skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to\nmake it worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your? _Peau\nd'Espagne_. That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps\nhave. Pure curd soap. Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam.\nTurkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice\ngirl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing\nI. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for\nmassage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather glum.\n\n--Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a\nbottle?\n\n--No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and\nI'll take one of these soaps. How much are they?\n\n--Fourpence, sir.\n\nMr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.\n\n--I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.\n\n--Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you\ncome back.\n\n--Good, Mr Bloom said.\n\nHe strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the\ncoolwrappered soap in his left hand.\n\nAt his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:\n\n--Hello, Bloom. What's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute.\n\nShaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look\nyounger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.\n\nBantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a\nwash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears'\nsoap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.\n\n--I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam\nLyons said. Where the bugger is it?\n\nHe rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar.\nBarber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the\npaper and get shut of him.\n\n--You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.\n\n--Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the\nsecond.\n\n--I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.\n\nBantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.\n\n--What's that? his sharp voice said.\n\n--I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away\nthat moment.\n\nBantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread\nsheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.\n\n--I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.\n\nHe sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.\n\nMr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap\nin it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it\nlately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large\ntender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming\nembezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now.\nThey never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.\n\nHe walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a\nmosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He\neyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled\nup like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round\nlike a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big:\ncollege. Something to catch the eye.\n\nThere's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on hands:\nmight take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How\ndo you do, sir?\n\nHeavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.\nSit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it\nhere. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the\nKildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more\nin their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the\nfloor. Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which\nin the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.\n\nEnjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid\nstream. This is my body.\n\nHe foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of\nwarmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his\ntrunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward,\nlemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of\nhis bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of\nthousands, a languid floating flower.\n\n\n\nMartin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking\ncarriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after\nhim, curving his height with care.\n\n--Come on, Simon.\n\n--After you, Mr Bloom said.\n\nMr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying:\n\nYes, yes.\n\n--Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.\n\nMr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to\nafter him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. He passed an arm\nthrough the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriagewindow\nat the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman\npeeping. Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she\nwas passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad\nto see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them.\nHuggermugger in corners. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd\nwake. Then getting it ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making\nthe bed. Pull it more to your side. Our windingsheet. Never know who\nwill touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and\nthe hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grows all the same after. Unclean\njob.\n\nAll waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am\nsitting on something hard. Ah, that soap: in my hip pocket. Better shift\nit out of that. Wait for an opportunity.\n\nAll waited. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning: then nearer:\nthen horses' hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking and\nswaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of\nthe avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At\nwalking pace.\n\nThey waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were\npassing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels\nrattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook\nrattling in the doorframes.\n\n--What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.\n\n--Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.\n\nMr Dedalus nodded, looking out.\n\n--That's a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died\nout.\n\nAll watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by\npassers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the\nsmoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man,\nclad in mourning, a wide hat.\n\n--There's a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.\n\n--Who is that?\n\n--Your son and heir.\n\n--Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.\n\nThe carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway\nbefore the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back\nto the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. Mr Dedalus\nfell back, saying:\n\n--Was that Mulligan cad with him? His _fidus Achates_!\n\n--No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.\n\n--Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding\nfaction, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump\nof dung, the wise child that knows her own father.\n\nMr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros: the\nbottleworks: Dodder bridge.\n\nRichie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls\nthe firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was. Waltzing\nin Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the\nlandlady's two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night.\nBeginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing\nhis back. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are.\nAbout six hundred per cent profit.\n\n--He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a\ncontaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks\nall over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I'll\nmake it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother\nor his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate.\nI'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.\n\nHe cried above the clatter of the wheels:\n\n--I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper's\nson. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Not likely.\n\nHe ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's mild\nface and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy\nselfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand on. If\nlittle Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house.\nWalking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange\nfeeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been that morning\nin Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two dogs at it by\nthe wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up. She had\nthat cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch,\nPoldy. God, I'm dying for it. How life begins.\n\nGot big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her.\nI could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn\nGerman too.\n\n--Are we late? Mr Power asked.\n\n--Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch.\n\nMolly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping\nJupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, she's a dear girl. Soon be a\nwoman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman too.\nLife, life.\n\nThe carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying.\n\n--Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said.\n\n--He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Do\nyou follow me?\n\nHe closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away\ncrustcrumbs from under his thighs.\n\n--What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs?\n\n--Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power\nsaid.\n\nAll raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless\nleather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward\nand said:\n\n--Unless I'm greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin?\n\n--It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.\n\nMr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite\nclean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.\n\nMr Dedalus sighed resignedly.\n\n--After all, he said, it's the most natural thing in the world.\n\n--Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of\nhis beard gently.\n\n--Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He's behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes.\n\n--And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.\n\n--At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.\n\n--I met M'Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he'd try to come.\n\nThe carriage halted short.\n\n--What's wrong?\n\n--We're stopped.\n\n--Where are we?\n\nMr Bloom put his head out of the window.\n\n--The grand canal, he said.\n\nGasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good job Milly never got\nit. Poor children! Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. Shame\nreally. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Only measles. Flaxseed\ntea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don't miss\nthis chance. Dogs' home over there. Poor old Athos! Be good to Athos,\nLeopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave.\nA dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men's\ndogs usually are.\n\nA raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of shower\nspray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a colander.\nI thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.\n\n--The weather is changing, he said quietly.\n\n--A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said.\n\n--Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There's the sun again coming\nout.\n\nMr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a\nmute curse at the sky.\n\n--It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said.\n\n--We're off again.\n\nThe carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed\ngently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.\n\n--Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking\nhim off to his face.\n\n--O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear\nhim, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of _The Croppy Boy_.\n\n--Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. _His singing of that simple\nballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the\nwhole course of my experience._\n\n--Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He's dead nuts on that. And the\nretrospective arrangement.\n\n--Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Martin Cunningham asked.\n\n--I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?\n\n--In the paper this morning.\n\nMr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change\nfor her.\n\n--No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on please.\n\nMr Bloom's glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the\ndeaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what\nPeake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? no, Sexton,\nUrbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper.\nThanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of\nhis. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Month's mind: Quinlan. On\nwhose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.\n\n_It is now a month since dear Henry fled To his home up above in the sky\nWhile his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet him\non high._\n\nI tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it\nin the bath? He patted his waistcoatpocket. There all right. Dear Henry\nfled. Before my patience are exhausted.\n\nNational school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding.\nFull as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round\nwith a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their\nhats.\n\nA pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a\ntramway standard by Mr Bloom's window. Couldn't they invent something\nautomatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow\nwould lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job\nmaking the new invention?\n\nAntient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a\ncrape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law\nperhaps.\n\nThey went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the railway\nbridge, past the Queen's theatre: in silence. Hoardings: Eugene\nStratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I wonder.\nI said I. Or the _Lily of Killarney_? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big\npowerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. _Fun on the Bristol_.\nMartin Cunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety. Have to stand a\ndrink or two. As broad as it's long.\n\nHe's coming in the afternoon. Her songs.\n\nPlasto's. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Who was he?\n\n--How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in\nsalute.\n\n--He doesn't see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do?\n\n--Who? Mr Dedalus asked.\n\n--Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff.\n\nJust that moment I was thinking.\n\nMr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the\nwhite disc of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed.\n\nMr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right\nhand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she sees?\nFascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes\nfeel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I\nam just looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. Body\ngetting a bit softy. I would notice that: from remembering. What causes\nthat? I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh\nfalls off. But the shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders.\nHips. Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks\nbehind.\n\nHe clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant\nglance over their faces.\n\nMr Power asked:\n\n--How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?\n\n--O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It's a good\nidea, you see...\n\n--Are you going yourself?\n\n--Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the\ncounty Clare on some private business. You see the idea is to tour the\nchief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.\n\n--Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now.\n\nHave you good artists?\n\n--Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, we'll have all\ntopnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in\nfact.\n\n--And _Madame_, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not least.\n\nMr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped\nthem. Smith O'Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman.\nMust be his deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage wheeling by\nFarrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.\n\nOot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his\nmouth opening: oot.\n\n--Four bootlaces for a penny.\n\nWonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street.\nSame house as Molly's namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford.\nHas that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too.\nTerrible comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at a wake.\nO'Callaghan on his last legs.\n\nAnd _Madame_. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. Doing\nher hair, humming. _voglio e non vorrei_. No. _vorrei e non_. Looking at\nthe tips of her hairs to see if they are split. _Mi trema un poco\nil_. Beautiful on that _tre_ her voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A\nthrostle. There is a word throstle that expresses that.\n\nHis eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. Greyish over\nthe ears. _Madame_: smiling. I smiled back. A smile goes a long way.\nOnly politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the\nwoman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it\ntold me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played\nout pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her\na pound of rumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the\nMoira, was it?\n\nThey passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.\n\nMartin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.\n\n--Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.\n\nA tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the corner\nof Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his spine.\n\n--In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.\n\nMr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly:\n\n--The devil break the hasp of your back!\n\nMr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as the\ncarriage passed Gray's statue.\n\n--We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly.\n\nHis eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. He caressed his beard, adding:\n\n--Well, nearly all of us.\n\nMr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces.\n\n--That's an awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J and\nthe son.\n\n--About the boatman? Mr Power asked.\n\n--Yes. Isn't it awfully good?\n\n--What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn't hear it.\n\n--There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined to\nsend him to the Isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were both\n...\n\n--What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?\n\n--Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he tried\nto drown...\n\n--Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did!\n\nMr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.\n\n--No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself...\n\nMartin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely:\n\n--Reuben and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on\ntheir way to the Isle of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got\nloose and over the wall with him into the Liffey.\n\n--For God's sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is he dead?\n\n--Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A boatman got a pole and fished\nhim out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the father\non the quay more dead than alive. Half the town was there.\n\n--Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is...\n\n--And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for\nsaving his son's life.\n\nA stifled sigh came from under Mr Power's hand.\n\n--O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A silver florin.\n\n--Isn't it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.\n\n--One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily.\n\nMr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage.\n\nNelson's pillar.\n\n--Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!\n\n--We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said.\n\nMr Dedalus sighed.\n\n--Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a laugh.\nMany a good one he told himself.\n\n--The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his\nfingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week ago when I saw him last and\nhe was in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this. He's\ngone from us.\n\n--As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went\nvery suddenly.\n\n--Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.\n\nHe tapped his chest sadly.\n\nBlazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose.\nDrink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent\ncolouring it.\n\nMr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.\n\n--He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said.\n\n--The best death, Mr Bloom said.\n\nTheir wide open eyes looked at him.\n\n--No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep.\n\nNo-one spoke.\n\nDead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents,\ntemperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college,\nGill's, catholic club, the industrious blind. Why? Some reason. Sun or\nwind. At night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the\nlate Father Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.\n\nWhite horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner,\ngalloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourning\ncoach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for\na nun.\n\n--Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.\n\nA dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's body,\nweak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society\npays. Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant\nnothing. Mistake of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother. If not\nfrom the man. Better luck next time.\n\n--Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It's well out of it.\n\nThe carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his\nbones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.\n\n--In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.\n\n--But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own\nlife.\n\nMartin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.\n\n--The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.\n\n--Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We\nmust take a charitable view of it.\n\n--They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.\n\n--It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.\n\nMr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham's\nlarge eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent.\nLike Shakespeare's face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy\non that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive\na stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn't broken\nalready. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in the riverbed\nclutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife\nof his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the\nfurniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the\ndamned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. Start\nafresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight\nthat night Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and\ncapering with Martin's umbrella.\n\n     _And they call me the jewel of Asia,\n     Of Asia,\n     The Geisha._\n\nHe looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.\n\nThat afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The\nroom in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through\nthe slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and\nhairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like\nyellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed.\nVerdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son\nLeopold.\n\nNo more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.\n\nThe carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.\n\n--We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.\n\n--God grant he doesn't upset us on the road, Mr Power said.\n\n--I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow\nin Germany. The Gordon Bennett.\n\n--Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith.\n\nAs they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent\nover and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody\nhere seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead March from _Saul._ He's\nas bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The _Mater\nMisericordiae_. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for\nincurables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady's Hospice for the dying.\nDeadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look\nterrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the\nspoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student\nthat was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He's gone over to the\nlying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other. The\ncarriage galloped round a corner: stopped.\n\n--What's wrong now?\n\nA divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching\nby on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony\ncroups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their\nfear.\n\n--Emigrants, Mr Power said.\n\n--Huuuh! the drover's voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks.\n\nHuuuh! out of that!\n\nThursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them\nabout twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old\nEngland. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter\nlost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a\nyear. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries,\nsoap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off\nthe train at Clonsilla.\n\nThe carriage moved on through the drove.\n\n--I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the\nparkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken\nin trucks down to the boats.\n\n--Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite\nright. They ought to.\n\n--Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought, is to have\nmunicipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line\nout to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage\nand all. Don't you see what I mean?\n\n--O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and saloon\ndiningroom.\n\n--A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.\n\n--Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't it be more decent\nthan galloping two abreast?\n\n--Well, there's something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.\n\n--And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes like that when\nthe hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road.\n\n--That was terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell\nabout the road. Terrible!\n\n--First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.\n\n--Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.\n\nBom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy Dignam\nshot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large\nfor him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what's up now.\nQuite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose\nquickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax.\nThe sphincter loose. Seal up all.\n\n--Dunphy's, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.\n\nDunphy's corner. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. A\npause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up\nhere on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation.\nElixir of life.\n\nBut suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him\nin the knocking about? He would and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on\nwhere. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery. It\nwould be better to bury them in red: a dark red.\n\nIn silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted\nby, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.\n\nCrossguns bridge: the royal canal.\n\nWater rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his\ndropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a\nslacktethered horse. Aboard of the _Bugabu._\n\nTheir eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his\nraft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of\nreeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar,\nMoyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or\ncycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at\nthe auction but a lady's. Developing waterways. James M'Cann's hobby\nto row me o'er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats.\nCamping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will without\nwriting. Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by\nlock to Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his\nbrown straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam.\n\nThey drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now.\n\n--I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said.\n\n--Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.\n\n--How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping, I suppose?\n\n--Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear.\n\nThe carriage steered left for Finglas road.\n\nThe stonecutter's yard on the right. Last lap. Crowded on the spit of\nland silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands,\nknelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white silence:\nappealing. The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and\nsculptor.\n\nPassed.\n\nOn the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the sexton's, an old tramp sat,\ngrumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge dustbrown\nyawning boot. After life's journey.\n\nGloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses.\n\nMr Power pointed.\n\n--That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house.\n\n--So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him off.\nMurdered his brother. Or so they said.\n\n--The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said.\n\n--Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham added. That's the maxim of the\nlaw. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person\nto be wrongfully condemned.\n\nThey looked. Murderer's ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered, tenantless,\nunweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully condemned. Murder.\nThe murderer's image in the eye of the murdered. They love reading about\nit. Man's head found in a garden. Her clothing consisted of. How she met\nher death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still at large.\nClues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed. Murder will out.\n\nCramped in this carriage. She mightn't like me to come that way without\nletting her know. Must be careful about women. Catch them once with\ntheir pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.\n\nThe high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Dark poplars,\nrare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the\ntrees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain\ngestures on the air.\n\nThe felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin Cunningham put\nout his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with\nhis knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed.\n\nChange that soap now. Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly\nand transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket.\nHe stepped out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand\nstill held.\n\nPaltry funeral: coach and three carriages. It's all the same.\nPallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death.\nBeyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and\nfruit. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead.\nDogbiscuits. Who ate them? Mourners coming out.\n\nHe followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed, Hynes\nwalking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took\nout the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.\n\nWhere is that child's funeral disappeared to?\n\nA team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread,\ndragging through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a\ngranite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted.\n\nCoffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at it\nwith his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck, pressing\non a bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here\nevery day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then Mount\nJerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every\nminute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands\nevery hour. Too many in the world.\n\nMourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy,\nhard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl's face stained with dirt\nand tears, holding the woman's arm, looking up at her for a sign to cry.\nFish's face, bloodless and livid.\n\nThe mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So\nmuch dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First\nthe stiff: then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the\nboy followed with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the\nbrother-in-law.\n\nAll walked after.\n\nMartin Cunningham whispered:\n\n--I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.\n\n--What? Mr Power whispered. How so?\n\n--His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the\nQueen's hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he was going to Clare.\nAnniversary.\n\n--O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself?\n\nHe glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed\ntowards the cardinal's mausoleum. Speaking.\n\n--Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.\n\n--I believe so, Mr Kernan answered. But the policy was heavily\nmortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.\n\n--How many children did he leave?\n\n--Five. Ned Lambert says he'll try to get one of the girls into Todd's.\n\n--A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.\n\n--A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.\n\n--Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.\n\nHas the laugh at him now.\n\nHe looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had\noutlived him. Lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must\noutlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the\nworld. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you'll soon follow\nhim. For Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who\nknows after. Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn on\na guncarriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But\nin the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of\nhearts. All for a shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the\nsubstance. Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back,\nwaiting. It never comes. One must go first: alone, under the ground: and\nlie no more in her warm bed.\n\n--How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't\nseen you for a month of Sundays.\n\n--Never better. How are all in Cork's own town?\n\n--I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert\nsaid. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.\n\n--And how is Dick, the solid man?\n\n--Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.\n\n--By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?\n\n--Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said,\npointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the\ninsurance is cleared up.\n\n--Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front?\n\n--Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is\nbehind. He put down his name for a quid.\n\n--I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought\nto mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.\n\n--How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?\n\n--Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.\n\nThey halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom stood behind\nthe boy with the wreath looking down at his sleekcombed hair and at the\nslender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he there\nwhen the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment\nand recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three\nshillings to O'Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin\ninto the chapel. Which end is his head?\n\nAfter a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened\nlight. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow\ncandles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a\nwreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners\nknelt here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the\nfont and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper\nfrom his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black\nhat gently on his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.\n\nA server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out through a\ndoor. The whitesmocked priest came after him, tidying his stole with one\nhand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad's belly.\nWho'll read the book? I, said the rook.\n\nThey halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book\nwith a fluent croak.\n\nFather Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. _Domine-namine._ Bully\nabout the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe\nbetide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter. Burst\nsideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on\nhim like a poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn:\nburst sideways.\n\n_--Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine._\n\nMakes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem mass.\nCrape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist. Chilly\nplace this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in the\ngloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too.\nWhat swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of\nthe place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot\nof bad gas round the place. Butchers, for instance: they get like raw\nbeefsteaks. Who was telling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults of\nsaint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a\nhole in the coffins sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it\nrushes: blue. One whiff of that and you're a goner.\n\nMy kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That's better.\n\nThe priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's\nbucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and\nshook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you\nwere before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it.\n\n_--Et ne nos inducas in tentationem._\n\nThe server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be\nbetter to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that, of course\n...\n\nHoly water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed\nup with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up.\nWhat harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal\nday a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in\nchildbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls\nwith little sparrows' breasts. All the year round he prayed the same\nthing over them all and shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam\nnow.\n\n_--In paradisum._\n\nSaid he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over\neverybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.\n\nThe priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny\nKelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the\ncoffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny Kelleher\ngave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All followed\nthem out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last\nfolding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground\ntill the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the\ngravel with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the\ntrundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres.\n\nThe ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.\n\n--The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.\n\nMr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone.\n\n--He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But\nhis heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here,\nSimon!\n\n--Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I'll soon be stretched\nbeside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.\n\nBreaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little\nin his walk. Mr Power took his arm.\n\n--She's better where she is, he said kindly.\n\n--I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I suppose she is in\nheaven if there is a heaven.\n\nCorny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to\nplod by.\n\n--Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.\n\nMr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.\n\n--The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can\ndo so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place.\n\nThey covered their heads.\n\n--The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think?\nMr Kernan said with reproof.\n\nMr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret\neyes, secretsearching. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We\nare the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something else.\n\nMr Kernan added:\n\n--The service of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more\nimpressive I must say.\n\nMr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing.\n\nMr Kernan said with solemnity:\n\n--_I am the resurrection and the life_. That touches a man's inmost\nheart.\n\n--It does, Mr Bloom said.\n\nYour heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two\nwith his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections.\nBroken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood\nevery day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of\nthem lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn\nthe thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are\ndead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come\nforth, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day!\nThen every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the\nrest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of\npowder in a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure.\n\nCorny Kelleher fell into step at their side.\n\n--Everything went off A1, he said. What?\n\nHe looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman's shoulders. With\nyour tooraloom tooraloom.\n\n--As it should be, Mr Kernan said.\n\n--What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.\n\nMr Kernan assured him.\n\n--Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I\nknow his face.\n\nNed Lambert glanced back.\n\n--Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the\nsoprano. She's his wife.\n\n--O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some\ntime. He was a finelooking woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen\nseventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. And a good\narmful she was.\n\nHe looked behind through the others.\n\n--What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery\nline? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls.\n\nNed Lambert smiled.\n\n--Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely's. A traveller for blottingpaper.\n\n--In God's name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon like\nthat for? She had plenty of game in her then.\n\n--Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.\n\nJohn Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead.\n\nThe barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the\ngrasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps.\n\n--John O'Connell, Mr Power said pleased. He never forgets a friend.\n\nMr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said:\n\n--I am come to pay you another visit.\n\n--My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don't want\nyour custom at all.\n\nSaluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin\nCunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his back.\n\n--Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?\n\n--I did not, Martin Cunningham said.\n\nThey bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The\ncaretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watchchain and spoke\nin a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.\n\n--They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy\nevening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for\nMulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried. After\ntraipsing about in the fog they found the grave sure enough. One of the\ndrunks spelt out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking\nup at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.\n\nThe caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He\nresumed:\n\n--And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, _Not a bloody bit like\nthe man_, says he. _That's not Mulcahy_, says he, _whoever done it_.\n\nRewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting\nthe dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked.\n\n--That's all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes.\n\n--I know, Hynes said. I know that.\n\n--To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure\ngoodheartedness: damn the thing else.\n\nMr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on good\nterms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys:\nlike Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No passout checks.\n_Habeas corpus_. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I\nwrite Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me\nwriting to Martha? Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office. Be\nthe better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That's the first sign when\nthe hairs come out grey. And temper getting cross. Silver threads among\nthe grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder he had the gumption to propose to\nany girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that before her. It\nmight thrill her first. Courting death... Shades of night hovering\nhere with all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when\nchurchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant I suppose\nwho is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the\nsame like a big giant in the dark. Will o' the wisp. Gas of graves.\nWant to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women especially are so\ntouchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever\nseen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was on\nthe stroke of twelve. Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up.\nWhores in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. You might\npick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones.\nRomeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both\nends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to\nthe starving. Gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting\nto do it at the window. Eight children he has anyway.\n\nHe has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field\nafter field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing.\nSitting or kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His head might come up some\nday above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed\nthe ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too: trim\ngrass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well,\nso it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant\npoppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic\nGardens are just over there. It's the blood sinking in the earth gives\nnew life. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every\nman his price. Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable\nfor fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor\nand accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six. With\nthanks.\n\nI daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh,\nnails. Charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink decomposing. Rot\nquick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy\nkind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, black treacle oozing out of\nthem. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they\nare go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to\nfeed on feed on themselves.\n\nBut they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply\nswirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little\nseaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of\npower seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life.\nCracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about\nthe bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11 p.m.\n(closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men\nanyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in\nfashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep\nout the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way.\nGravediggers in _Hamlet_. Shows the profound knowledge of the human\nheart. Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least. _De mortuis\nnil nisi prius_. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral.\nSeems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live\nlonger. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.\n\n--How many have-you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.\n\n--Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.\n\nThe caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to\ntrundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping\nwith care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its\nnose on the brink, looping the bands round it.\n\nBurying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He\ndoesn't know who is here nor care. Now who is that lankylooking galoot\nover there in the macintosh? Now who is he I'd like to know? Now I'd\ngive a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never\ndreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he\ncould. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died though he\ncould dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No, ants too. First\nthing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to\nlife. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you\ncome to look at it.\n\n     _O, poor Robinson Crusoe!\n     How could you possibly do so?_\n\nPoor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of\nthem all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could\ninvent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that\nway. Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's.\nThey're so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from\nthe holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one\ncoffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible\neven in the earth. The Irishman's house is his coffin. Embalming in\ncatacombs, mummies the same idea.\n\nMr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads.\nTwelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's\nnumber. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that\nI'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.\n\nNice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had\none like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was\nonce. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit\nof mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot he's not\nmarried or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.\n\nThe coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the\ngravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.\n\nPause.\n\nIf we were all suddenly somebody else.\n\nFar away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they\nsay. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.\n\nGentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper. The\nboy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in\nthe black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly caretaker.\nWellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next.\nWell, it is a long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feel. Must be\ndamned unpleasant. Can't believe it at first. Mistake must be: someone\nelse. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven't yet. Then\ndarkened deathchamber. Light they want. Whispering around you. Would you\nlike to see a priest? Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you hid\nall your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not natural. Press his\nlower eyelid. Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw sinking are the\nsoles of his feet yellow. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the\nfloor since he's doomed. Devil in that picture of sinner's death showing\nhim a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt. Last act of _Lucia.\nShall i nevermore behold thee_? Bam! He expires. Gone at last. People\ntalk about you a bit: forget you. Don't forget to pray for him. Remember\nhim in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then they follow:\ndropping into a hole, one after the other.\n\nWe are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you're well and\nnot in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the fryingpan of life into the\nfire of purgatory.\n\nDoes he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do when\nyou shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Callboy's warning. Near\nyou. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma, poor\nmamma, and little Rudy.\n\nThe gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in\non the coffin. Mr Bloom turned away his face. And if he was alive all\nthe time? Whew! By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of\ncourse. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have\nsome law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or\na telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of\ndistress. Three days. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well\nto get shut of them as soon as you are sure there's no.\n\nThe clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.\n\nThe caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of\nit. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves\nwithout show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its\nway deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he\ntraversed the dismal fields.\n\nHynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he\nknows them all. No: coming to me.\n\n--I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his breath. What is your\nchristian name? I'm not sure.\n\n--L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might put down M'Coy's name too. He\nasked me to.\n\n--Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the _Freeman_ once.\n\nSo he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good\nidea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know.\nHe died of a Tuesday. Got the run. Levanted with the cash of a few ads.\nCharley, you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, does\nno harm. I saw to that, M'Coy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged. Leave him\nunder an obligation: costs nothing.\n\n--And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was\nover there in the...\n\nHe looked around.\n\n--Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?\n\n--M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don't know who he is. Is that his\nname?\n\nHe moved away, looking about him.\n\n--No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!\n\nDidn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all\nthe. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible. Good\nLord, what became of him?\n\nA seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade.\n\n--O, excuse me!\n\nHe stepped aside nimbly.\n\nClay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over.\nA mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their\nspades. All uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped\nhis wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The\ngravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards\nthe barrow. Then knocked the blades lightly on the turf: clean. One bent\nto pluck from the haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates,\nwalked slowly on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing.\nSilently at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. His navelcord.\nThe brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free hand.\nThanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. Headshake. I know that. For\nyourselves just.\n\nThe mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at\nwhiles to read a name on a tomb.\n\n--Let us go round by the chief's grave, Hynes said. We have time.\n\n--Let us, Mr Power said.\n\nThey turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr\nPower's blank voice spoke:\n\n--Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled\nwith stones. That one day he will come again.\n\nHynes shook his head.\n\n--Parnell will never come again, he said. He's there, all that was\nmortal of him. Peace to his ashes.\n\nMr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses,\nbroken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes,\nold Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some\ncharity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does anybody\nreally? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot. Then\nlump them together to save time. All souls' day. Twentyseventh I'll be\nat his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds.\nOld man himself. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Near death's\ndoor. Who passed away. Who departed this life. As if they did it of\ntheir own accord. Got the shove, all of them. Who kicked the\nbucket. More interesting if they told you what they were. So and So,\nwheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid five shillings in the\npound. Or a woman's with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish stew.\nEulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose is it\nWordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Entered into rest the protestants put it.\nOld Dr Murren's. The great physician called him home. Well it's God's\nacre for them. Nice country residence. Newly plastered and painted.\nIdeal spot to have a quiet smoke and read the _Church Times._ Marriage\nads they never try to beautify. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of\nbronzefoil. Better value that for the money. Still, the flowers are more\npoetical. The other gets rather tiresome, never withering. Expresses\nnothing. Immortelles.\n\nA bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like stuffed. Like the\nwedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Hoo! Not a budge out of him.\nKnows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal even sadder.\nSilly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, a\ndaisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.\n\nThe Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve. Ought to be\nsideways and red it should be painted like a real heart. Ireland was\ndedicated to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. Why this\ninfliction? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket\nof fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the\nboy. Apollo that was.\n\nHow many! All these here once walked round Dublin. Faithful departed. As\nyou are now so once were we.\n\nBesides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the\nvoice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in\nthe house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather.\nKraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain\nhellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind you of the voice like the photograph\nreminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after\nfifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some fellow that died\nwhen I was in Wisdom Hely's.\n\nRtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop!\n\nHe looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait. There he\ngoes.\n\nAn obese grey rat toddled along the side of the crypt, moving the\npebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey\nalive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it.\nGood hidingplace for treasure.\n\nWho lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. Robert Emmet was\nburied here by torchlight, wasn't he? Making his rounds.\n\nTail gone now.\n\nOne of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones\nclean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse is meat\ngone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that\n_Voyages in China_ that the Chinese say a white man smells like a\ncorpse. Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the\nother firm. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the\nplague. Quicklime feverpits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes.\nOr bury at sea. Where is that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds.\nEarth, fire, water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See your whole\nlife in a flash. But being brought back to life no. Can't bury in the\nair however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder does the news go about\nwhenever a fresh one is let down. Underground communication. We learned\nthat from them. Wouldn't be surprised. Regular square feed for them.\nFlies come before he's well dead. Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn't care\nabout the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste\nlike raw white turnips.\n\nThe gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world again.\nEnough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I\nwas here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa too. The love that kills.\nAnd even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case\nI read of to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running\ngravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after\ndeath. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after\ndeath. There is another world after death named hell. I do not like that\nother world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel\nyet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty\nbeds. They are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds: warm\nfullblooded life.\n\nMartin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.\n\nSolicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton, John Henry, solicitor,\ncommissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be in his office.\nMat Dillon's long ago. Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings. Cold fowl, cigars,\nthe Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his rag out\nthat evening on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him. Pure fluke\nof mine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate\nat first sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree,\nlaughing. Fellow always like that, mortified if women are by.\n\nGot a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.\n\n--Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.\n\nThey stopped.\n\n--Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said pointing.\n\nJohn Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.\n\n--There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. John Henry Menton took\noff his hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care on his\ncoatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.\n\n--It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said.\n\nJohn Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.\n\n--Thank you, he said shortly.\n\nThey walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind\na few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin\ncould wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger, without his\nseeing it.\n\nOyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him.\nGet the pull over him that way.\n\nThank you. How grand we are this morning!\n\n\nIN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS\n\n\nBefore Nelson's pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started\nfor Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure,\nPalmerston Park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Rathmines,\nRingsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. The hoarse Dublin United\nTramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off:\n\n--Rathgar and Terenure!\n\n--Come on, Sandymount Green!\n\nRight and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a singledeck\nmoved from their railheads, swerved to the down line, glided parallel.\n\n--Start, Palmerston Park!\n\n\nTHE WEARER OF THE CROWN\n\n\nUnder the porch of the general post office shoeblacks called and\npolished. Parked in North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion\nmailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R., received\nloudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured\nand paid, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.\n\nGENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS\n\n\nGrossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores\nand bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped\ndullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's\nstores.\n\n--There it is, Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes.\n\n--Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to\nthe _Telegraph_ office.\n\nThe door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in a\nlarge capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with\na roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier.\n\nRed Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the newspaper\nin four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.\n\n--I'll go through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut\nsquare.\n\n--Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind\nhis ear, we can do him one.\n\n--Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in.\n\nWe.\n\nWILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT\n\n\nRed Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:\n\n--Brayden.\n\nMr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a\nstately figure entered between the newsboards of the _Weekly Freeman\nand National Press_ and the _Freeman's Journal and National Press_.\nDullthudding Guinness's barrels. It passed statelily up the staircase,\nsteered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back\nascended each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck,\nSimon Dedalus says. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck,\nfat, neck, fat, neck.\n\n--Don't you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.\n\nThe door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. They always build\none door opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Way out.\n\nOur Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the dusk. Mary, Martha.\nSteered by an umbrella sword to the footlights: Mario the tenor.\n\n--Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.\n\n--Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be the picture of Our\nSaviour.\n\nJesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his\nheart. In _Martha._\n\n     _Co-ome thou lost one,\n     Co-ome thou dear one!_\n\nTHE CROZIER AND THE PEN\n\n\n--His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.\n\nThey watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.\n\nA telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and\nstepped off posthaste with a word:\n\n_--Freeman!_\n\nMr Bloom said slowly:\n\n--Well, he is one of our saviours also.\n\nA meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed\nin through a sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage,\nalong the now reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation?\nThumping. Thumping.\n\nHe pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn\npacking paper. Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards\nNannetti's reading closet.\n\nWITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS WE ANNOUNCE THE DISSOLUTION OF A MOST\nRESPECTED DUBLIN BURGESS\n\n\nHynes here too: account of the funeral probably. Thumping. Thump. This\nmorning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash a man\nto atoms if they got him caught. Rule the world today. His machineries\nare pegging away too. Like these, got out of hand: fermenting. Working\naway, tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in.\n\nHOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT\n\n\nMr Bloom halted behind the foreman's spare body, admiring a glossy\ncrown.\n\nStrange he never saw his real country. Ireland my country. Member for\nCollege green. He boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was worth.\nIt's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale news in the\nofficial gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by authority in the year\none thousand and. Demesne situate in the townland of Rosenallis, barony\nof Tinnahinch. To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute\nshowing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina.\nNature notes. Cartoons. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. Uncle\nToby's page for tiny tots. Country bumpkin's queries. Dear Mr Editor,\nwhat is a good cure for flatulence? I'd like that part. Learn a lot\nteaching others. The personal note. M. A. P. Mainly all pictures.\nShapely bathers on golden strand. World's biggest balloon. Double\nmarriage of sisters celebrated. Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at\neach other. Cuprani too, printer. More Irish than the Irish.\n\nThe machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thump. Now if he\ngot paralysed there and no-one knew how to stop them they'd clank on and\non the same, print it over and over and up and back. Monkeydoodle the\nwhole thing. Want a cool head.\n\n--Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said.\n\nSoon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him, they say.\n\nThe foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the sheet\nand made a sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently over the\ndirty glass screen.\n\n--Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.\n\nMr Bloom stood in his way.\n\n--If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunch, he said,\npointing backward with his thumb.\n\n--Did you? Hynes asked.\n\n--Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and you'll catch him.\n\n--Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I'll tap him too.\n\nHe hurried on eagerly towards the _Freeman's Journal_.\n\nThree bob I lent him in Meagher's. Three weeks. Third hint.\n\nWE SEE THE CANVASSER AT WORK\n\n\nMr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.\n\n--Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad, you see. Keyes, you remember?\n\nMr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded.\n\n--He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said.\n\nThe foreman moved his pencil towards it.\n\n--But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants it changed. Keyes, you see. He wants\ntwo keys at the top.\n\nHell of a racket they make. He doesn't hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves.\nMaybe he understands what I.\n\nThe foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began\nto scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket.\n\n--Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top.\n\nLet him take that in first.\n\nMr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the\nforeman's sallow face, think he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the\nobedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles\nof it unreeled. What becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat, parcels:\nvarious uses, thousand and one things.\n\nSlipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew\nswiftly on the scarred woodwork.\n\nHOUSE OF KEY(E)S\n\n\n--Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name.\nAlexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on.\n\nBetter not teach him his own business.\n\n--You know yourself, councillor, just what he wants. Then round the top\nin leaded: the house of keys. You see? Do you think that's a good idea?\n\nThe foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched\nthere quietly.\n\n--The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor,\nthe Manx parliament. Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from the\nisle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that?\n\nI could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that _voglio._ But then\nif he didn't know only make it awkward for him. Better not.\n\n--We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design?\n\n--I can get it, Mr Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a\nhouse there too. I'll just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that\nand just a little par calling attention. You know the usual. Highclass\nlicensed premises. Longfelt want. So on.\n\nThe foreman thought for an instant.\n\n--We can do that, he said. Let him give us a three months' renewal.\n\nA typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. He began to check it\nsilently. Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching\nthe silent typesetters at their cases.\n\nORTHOGRAPHICAL\n\n\nWant to be sure of his spelling. Proof fever. Martin Cunningham forgot\nto give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning. It is amusing to view\nthe unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? double ess ment of a\nharassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry with a y of a peeled pear\nunder a cemetery wall. Silly, isn't it? Cemetery put in of course on\naccount of the symmetry.\n\nI should have said when he clapped on his topper. Thank you. I ought\nto have said something about an old hat or something. No. I could have\nsaid. Looks as good as new now. See his phiz then.\n\nSllt. The nethermost deck of the first machine jogged forward its\nflyboard with sllt the first batch of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost\nhuman the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its level best to speak.\nThat door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its\nown way. Sllt.\n\nNOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR\n\n\nThe foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying:\n\n--Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the\n_Telegraph._ Where's what's his name?\n\nHe looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.\n\n--Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.\n\n--Ay. Where's Monks?\n\n--Monks!\n\nMr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out.\n\n--Then I'll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a\ngood place I know.\n\n--Monks!\n\n--Yes, sir.\n\nThree months' renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it\nanyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists\nover for the show.\n\nA DAYFATHER\n\n\nHe walked on through the caseroom passing an old man, bowed, spectacled,\naproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have put\nthrough his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches,\ndivorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his tether now. Sober\nserious man with a bit in the savingsbank I'd say. Wife a good cook and\nwasher. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn\nnonsense. AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER\n\n\nHe stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type.\nReads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice\nthat. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah book, reading backwards\nwith his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear, O dear!\nAll that long business about that brought us out of the land of Egypt\nand into the house of bondage _Alleluia. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu_.\nNo, that's the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. And then\nthe lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the\nbutcher. And then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the\nox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look\ninto it well. Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else.\nThat's what life is after all. How quickly he does that job. Practice\nmakes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers.\n\nMr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to\nthe landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch\nhim out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? Yes. Same as\nCitron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.\n\nONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP\n\n\nHe went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over those\nwalls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy\nsmell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door\nwhen I was there.\n\nHe took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap\nI put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief\nhe took out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into the hip pocket\nof his trousers.\n\nWhat perfume does your wife use? I could go home still: tram: something\nI forgot. Just to see: before: dressing. No. Here. No.\n\nA sudden screech of laughter came from the _Evening Telegraph_ office.\nKnow who that is. What's up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it\nis.\n\nHe entered softly.\n\nERIN, GREEN GEM OF THE SILVER SEA\n\n\n--The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to\nthe dusty windowpane.\n\nMr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing\nface, asked of it sourly:\n\n--Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse?\n\nNed Lambert, seated on the table, read on:\n\n--_Or again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles\non its way, tho' quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to the tumbling\nwaters of Neptune's blue domain, 'mid mossy banks, fanned by gentlest\nzephyrs, played on by the glorious sunlight or 'neath the shadows cast\no'er its pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the giants of\nthe forest_. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his\nnewspaper. How's that for high?\n\n--Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.\n\nNed Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating:\n\n--_The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage_. O boys! O boys!\n\n--And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again on\nthe fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea.\n\n--That will do, professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don't want to\nhear any more of the stuff.\n\nHe ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been nibbling and,\nhungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.\n\nHigh falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see.\nRather upsets a man's day, a funeral does. He has influence they\nsay. Old Chatterton, the vicechancellor, is his granduncle or his\ngreatgranduncle. Close on ninety they say. Subleader for his death\nwritten this long time perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go first\nhimself. Johnny, make room for your uncle. The right honourable Hedges\nEyre Chatterton. Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on\ngale days. Windfall when he kicks out. Alleluia.\n\n--Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said.\n\n--What is it? Mr Bloom asked.\n\n--A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh answered\nwith pomp of tone. _Our lovely land_. SHORT BUT TO THE POINT\n\n\n--Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.\n\n--Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With an\naccent on the whose.\n\n--Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus said.\n\n--Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked.\n\nNed Lambert nodded.\n\n--But listen to this, he said.\n\nThe doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of the back as the door was\npushed in.\n\n--Excuse me, J. J. O'Molloy said, entering.\n\nMr Bloom moved nimbly aside.\n\n--I beg yours, he said.\n\n--Good day, Jack.\n\n--Come in. Come in.\n\n--Good day.\n\n--How are you, Dedalus?\n\n--Well. And yourself?\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy shook his head.\n\nSAD\n\n\nCleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline, poor chap.\nThat hectic flush spells finis for a man. Touch and go with him. What's\nin the wind, I wonder. Money worry.\n\n--_Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks._\n\n--You're looking extra.\n\n--Is the editor to be seen? J. J. O'Molloy asked, looking towards the\ninner door.\n\n--Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He's in\nhis sanctum with Lenehan.\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to turn back the\npink pages of the file.\n\nPractice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts of\nhonour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and T.\nFitzgerald. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Brains on their sleeve\nlike the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work for the\n_Express_ with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford began\non the _Independent._ Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when\nthey get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the same\nbreath. Wouldn't know which to believe. One story good till you hear\nthe next. Go for one another baldheaded in the papers and then all blows\nover. Hail fellow well met the next moment.\n\n--Ah, listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. _Or again if we\nbut climb the serried mountain peaks..._\n\n--Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated\nwindbag!\n\n--_Peaks_, Ned Lambert went on, _towering high on high, to bathe our\nsouls, as it were..._\n\n--Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he\ntaking anything for it?\n\n_--As 'twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio,\nunmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize\nregions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating plain and\nluscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent\ntranslucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight..._\n\nHIS NATIVE DORIC\n\n\n--The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.\n\n_--That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of\nthe moon shine forth to irradiate her silver effulgence..._\n\n--O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan. Shite and\nonions! That'll do, Ned. Life is too short.\n\nHe took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy\nmoustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.\n\nNed Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An\ninstant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's\nunshaven blackspectacled face.\n\n--Doughy Daw! he cried.\n\nWHAT WETHERUP SAID\n\n\nAll very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot\ncake that stuff. He was in the bakery line too, wasn't he? Why they call\nhim Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that\nchap in the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked that nicely.\nEntertainments. Open house. Big blowout. Wetherup always said that. Get\na grip of them by the stomach.\n\nThe inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested\nby a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes stared\nabout them and the harsh voice asked:\n\n--What is it?\n\n--And here comes the sham squire himself! professor MacHugh said\ngrandly.\n\n--Getonouthat, you bloody old pedagogue! the editor said in recognition.\n\n--Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink\nafter that.\n\n--Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before mass.\n\n--Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.\n\nNed Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor's blue eyes roved\ntowards Mr Bloom's face, shadowed by a smile.\n\n--Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.\n\nMEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED\n\n\n--North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the mantelpiece. We\nwon every time! North Cork and Spanish officers!\n\n--Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance at\nhis toecaps.\n\n--In Ohio! the editor shouted.\n\n--So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.\n\nPassing out he whispered to J. J. O'Molloy:\n\n--Incipient jigs. Sad case.\n\n--Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face.\nMy Ohio!\n\n--A perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.\n\nO, HARP EOLIAN!\n\n\nHe took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking\noff a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant\nunwashed teeth.\n\n--Bingbang, bangbang.\n\nMr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door.\n\n--Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I just want to phone about an ad.\n\nHe went in.\n\n--What about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming\nto the editor and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.\n\n--That'll be all right, Myles Crawford said more calmly. Never you fret.\nHello, Jack. That's all right.\n\n--Good day, Myles, J. J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip\nlimply back on the file. Is that Canada swindle case on today?\n\nThe telephone whirred inside.\n\n--Twentyeight... No, twenty... Double four... Yes.\n\nSPOT THE WINNER\n\n\nLenehan came out of the inner office with SPORT'S tissues.\n\n--Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O.\nMadden up.\n\nHe tossed the tissues on to the table.\n\nScreams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door was\nflung open.\n\n--Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops.\n\nProfessor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin\nby the collar as the others scampered out of the hall and down the\nsteps. The tissues rustled up in the draught, floated softly in the air\nblue scrawls and under the table came to earth.\n\n--It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.\n\n--Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There's a hurricane\nblowing.\n\nLenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he\nstooped twice.\n\n--Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat\nFarrell shoved me, sir.\n\nHe pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.\n\n--Him, sir.\n\n--Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.\n\nHe hustled the boy out and banged the door to.\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking:\n\n--Continued on page six, column four.\n\n--Yes, _Evening Telegraph_ here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office.\nIs the boss...? Yes, _Telegraph_... To where? Aha! Which auction rooms\n?... Aha! I see... Right. I'll catch him.\n\nA COLLISION ENSUES\n\n\nThe bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped\nagainst Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.\n\n--_Pardon, monsieur_, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and\nmaking a grimace.\n\n--My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I'm in a\nhurry.\n\n--Knee, Lenehan said.\n\nHe made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee:\n\n--The accumulation of the _anno Domini_.\n\n--Sorry, Mr Bloom said.\n\nHe went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J. O'Molloy slapped\nthe heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan,\nechoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps:\n\n     _--We are the boys of Wexford\n     Who fought with heart and hand._\n\nEXIT BLOOM\n\n\n--I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, about this\nad of Keyes's. Want to fix it up. They tell me he's round there in\nDillon's.\n\nHe looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor who,\nleaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand,\nsuddenly stretched forth an arm amply.\n\n--Begone! he said. The world is before you.\n\n--Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them,\nblowing them apart gently, without comment.\n\n--He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through his\nblackrimmed spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young scamps\nafter him.\n\n--Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window.\n\nA STREET CORTEGE\n\n\nBoth smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr\nBloom's wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a\ntail of white bowknots.\n\n--Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said,\nand you'll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the\nwalk. Small nines. Steal upon larks.\n\nHe began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor on sliding\nfeet past the fireplace to J. J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues in his\nreceiving hands.\n\n--What's that? Myles Crawford said with a start. Where are the other two\ngone?\n\n--Who? the professor said, turning. They're gone round to the Oval for a\ndrink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.\n\n--Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where's my hat?\n\nHe walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the vent of his\njacket, jingling his keys in his back pocket. They jingled then in the\nair and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer.\n\n--He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voice.\n\n--Seems to be, J. J. O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarettecase in\nmurmuring meditation, but it is not always as it seems. Who has the most\nmatches?\n\nTHE CALUMET OF PEACE\n\n\nHe offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan\npromptly struck a match for them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J. J.\nO'Molloy opened his case again and offered it.\n\n--_Thanky vous_, Lenehan said, helping himself.\n\nThe editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He\ndeclaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:\n\n_--'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy\nheart._\n\nThe professor grinned, locking his long lips.\n\n--Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said.\n\nHe took a cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, lighting it for him\nwith quick grace, said:\n\n--Silence for my brandnew riddle!\n\n--_Imperium romanum_, J. J. O'Molloy said gently. It sounds nobler than\nBritish or Brixton. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire.\n\nMyles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling.\n\n--That's it, he said. We are the fat. You and I are the fat in the fire.\nWe haven't got the chance of a snowball in hell.\n\nTHE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME\n\n\n--Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We\nmustn't be led away by words, by sounds of words. We think of Rome,\nimperial, imperious, imperative.\n\nHe extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing:\n\n--What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow: but vile. Cloacae: sewers.\nThe Jews in the wilderness and on the mountaintop said: _It is meet\nto be here. Let us build an altar to Jehovah_. The Roman, like the\nEnglishman who follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on\nwhich he set his foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal\nobsession. He gazed about him in his toga and he said: _It is meet to be\nhere. Let us construct a watercloset._\n\n--Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said. Our old ancient\nancestors, as we read in the first chapter of Guinness's, were partial\nto the running stream.\n\n--They were nature's gentlemen, J. J. O'Molloy murmured. But we have\nalso Roman law.\n\n--And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh responded.\n\n--Do you know that story about chief baron Palles? J. J. O'Molloy asked.\nIt was at the royal university dinner. Everything was going swimmingly\n...\n\n--First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are you ready?\n\nMr O'Madden Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal tweed, came in from\nthe hallway. Stephen Dedalus, behind him, uncovered as he entered.\n\n--_Entrez, mes enfants!_ Lenehan cried.\n\n--I escort a suppliant, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Youth led by\nExperience visits Notoriety.\n\n--How do you do? the editor said, holding out a hand. Come in. Your\ngovernor is just gone.???\n\n\nLenehan said to all:\n\n--Silence! What opera resembles a railwayline? Reflect, ponder,\nexcogitate, reply.\n\nStephen handed over the typed sheets, pointing to the title and\nsignature.\n\n--Who? the editor asked.\n\nBit torn off.\n\n--Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said.\n\n--That old pelters, the editor said. Who tore it? Was he short taken?\n\n     _On swift sail flaming\n     From storm and south\n     He comes, pale vampire,\n     Mouth to my mouth._\n\n--Good day, Stephen, the professor said, coming to peer over their\nshoulders. Foot and mouth? Are you turned...?\n\nBullockbefriending bard.\n\nSHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT\n\n\n--Good day, sir, Stephen answered blushing. The letter is not mine. Mr\nGarrett Deasy asked me to...\n\n--O, I know him, Myles Crawford said, and I knew his wife too. The\nbloodiest old tartar God ever made. By Jesus, she had the foot and mouth\ndisease and no mistake! The night she threw the soup in the waiter's\nface in the Star and Garter. Oho!\n\nA woman brought sin into the world. For Helen, the runaway wife of\nMenelaus, ten years the Greeks. O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.\n\n--Is he a widower? Stephen asked.\n\n--Ay, a grass one, Myles Crawford said, his eye running down the\ntypescript. Emperor's horses. Habsburg. An Irishman saved his life on\nthe ramparts of Vienna. Don't you forget! Maximilian Karl O'Donnell,\ngraf von Tirconnell in Ireland. Sent his heir over to make the king\nan Austrian fieldmarshal now. Going to be trouble there one day. Wild\ngeese. O yes, every time. Don't you forget that!\n\n--The moot point is did he forget it, J. J. O'Molloy said quietly,\nturning a horseshoe paperweight. Saving princes is a thank you job.\n\nProfessor MacHugh turned on him.\n\n--And if not? he said.\n\n--I'll tell you how it was, Myles Crawford began. A Hungarian it was one\nday... LOST CAUSES\n\nNOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED\n\n\n--We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for\nus is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. We were never\nloyal to the successful. We serve them. I teach the blatant Latin\nlanguage. I speak the tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is\nthe maxim: time is money. Material domination. _Dominus!_ Lord! Where is\nthe spirituality? Lord Jesus? Lord Salisbury? A sofa in a westend club.\nBut the Greek!\n\nKYRIE ELEISON!\n\n\nA smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long\nlips.\n\n--The Greek! he said again. _Kyrios!_ Shining word! The vowels the\nSemite and the Saxon know not. _Kyrie!_ The radiance of the intellect.\nI ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind. _Kyrie eleison!_ The\nclosetmaker and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. We\nare liege subjects of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at\nTrafalgar and of the empire of the spirit, not an _imperium,_ that\nwent under with the Athenian fleets at Aegospotami. Yes, yes. They went\nunder. Pyrrhus, misled by an oracle, made a last attempt to retrieve the\nfortunes of Greece. Loyal to a lost cause.\n\nHe strode away from them towards the window.\n\n--They went forth to battle, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but they\nalways fell.\n\n--Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a brick received in\nthe latter half of the _matinée_. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!\n\nHe whispered then near Stephen's ear:\n\nLENEHAN'S LIMERICK\n\n\n     _There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh\n     Who wears goggles of ebony hue.\n     As he mostly sees double\n     To wear them why trouble?\n     I can't see the Joe Miller. Can you?_\n\nIn mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother is beastly dead.\n\nMyles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket.\n\n--That'll be all right, he said. I'll read the rest after. That'll be\nall right.\n\nLenehan extended his hands in protest.\n\n--But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railwayline?\n\n--Opera? Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.\n\nLenehan announced gladly:\n\n--_The Rose of Castile_. See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel. Gee!\n\nHe poked Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O'Madden Burke fell\nback with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.\n\n--Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.\n\nLenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling\ntissues.\n\nThe professor, returning by way of the files, swept his hand across\nStephen's and Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties.\n\n--Paris, past and present, he said. You look like communards.\n\n--Like fellows who had blown up the Bastile, J. J. O'Molloy said in\nquiet mockery. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between\nyou? You look as though you had done the deed. General Bobrikoff.\n\nOMNIUM GATHERUM\n\n\n--We were only thinking about it, Stephen said.\n\n--All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics...\n\n--The turf, Lenehan put in.\n\n--Literature, the press.\n\n--If Bloom were here, the professor said. The gentle art of\nadvertisement.\n\n--And Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke added. The vocal muse. Dublin's\nprime favourite.\n\nLenehan gave a loud cough.\n\n--Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath air! I caught a\ncold in the park. The gate was open.\n\nYOU CAN DO IT!\n\n\nThe editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder.\n\n--I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a bite\nin it. You can do it. I see it in your face. _In the lexicon of youth_\n...\n\nSee it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little schemer.\n\n--Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried in scornful invective. Great\nnationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. All balls! Bulldosing the\npublic! Give them something with a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn\nits soul. Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M'Carthy.\n\n--We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said.\n\nStephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare.\n\n--He wants you for the pressgang, J. J. O'Molloy said.\n\nTHE GREAT GALLAHER\n\n\n--You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand in\nemphasis. Wait a minute. We'll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher\nused to say when he was on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the\nClarence. Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You\nknow how he made his mark? I'll tell you. That was the smartest piece of\njournalism ever known. That was in eightyone, sixth of May, time of\nthe invincibles, murder in the Phoenix park, before you were born, I\nsuppose. I'll show you.\n\nHe pushed past them to the files.\n\n--Look at here, he said turning. The _New York World_ cabled for a\nspecial. Remember that time?\n\nProfessor MacHugh nodded.\n\n--_New York World_, the editor said, excitedly pushing back his straw\nhat. Where it took place. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean. Joe Brady and\nthe rest of them. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car. Whole route, see?\n\n--Skin-the-Goat, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Fitzharris. He has that\ncabman's shelter, they say, down there at Butt bridge. Holohan told me.\nYou know Holohan?\n\n--Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawford said.\n\n--And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me, minding stones for\nthe corporation. A night watchman.\n\nStephen turned in surprise.\n\n--Gumley? he said. You don't say so? A friend of my father's, is it?\n\n--Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Let Gumley mind\nthe stones, see they don't run away. Look at here. What did Ignatius\nGallaher do? I'll tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled right away.\nHave you _Weekly Freeman_ of 17 March? Right. Have you got that?\n\nHe flung back pages of the files and stuck his finger on a point.\n\n--Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let us say. Have\nyou got that? Right.\n\nThe telephone whirred.\n\nA DISTANT VOICE\n\n\n--I'll answer it, the professor said, going.\n\n--B is parkgate. Good.\n\nHis finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.\n\n--T is viceregal lodge. C is where murder took place. K is Knockmaroon\ngate.\n\nThe loose flesh of his neck shook like a cock's wattles. An illstarched\ndicky jutted up and with a rude gesture he thrust it back into his\nwaistcoat.\n\n--Hello? _Evening Telegraph_ here... Hello?... Who's there?... Yes...\nYes... Yes.\n\n--F to P is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an alibi,\nInchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. F.A.B.P.\nGot that? X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.\n\nThe professor came to the inner door.\n\n--Bloom is at the telephone, he said.\n\n--Tell him go to hell, the editor said promptly. X is Davy's\npublichouse, see? CLEVER, VERY\n\n\n--Clever, Lenehan said. Very.\n\n--Gave it to them on a hot plate, Myles Crawford said, the whole bloody\nhistory.\n\nNightmare from which you will never awake.\n\n--I saw it, the editor said proudly. I was present. Dick Adams, the\nbesthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the breath of life in, and\nmyself.\n\nLenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing:\n\n--Madam, I'm Adam. And Able was I ere I saw Elba.\n\n--History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of Prince's street was\nthere first. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. Out of\nan advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it. That gave him the\nleg up. Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on to the _Star._\nNow he's got in with Blumenfeld. That's press. That's talent. Pyatt! He\nwas all their daddies!\n\n--The father of scare journalism, Lenehan confirmed, and the\nbrother-in-law of Chris Callinan.\n\n--Hello?... Are you there?... Yes, he's here still. Come across\nyourself.\n\n--Where do you find a pressman like that now, eh? the editor cried. He\nflung the pages down.\n\n--Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke.\n\n--Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said.\n\nProfessor MacHugh came from the inner office.\n\n--Talking about the invincibles, he said, did you see that some hawkers\nwere up before the recorder?\n\n--O yes, J. J. O'Molloy said eagerly. Lady Dudley was walking home\nthrough the park to see all the trees that were blown down by that\ncyclone last year and thought she'd buy a view of Dublin. And it\nturned out to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or\nSkin-the-Goat. Right outside the viceregal lodge, imagine!\n\n--They're only in the hook and eye department, Myles Crawford said.\nPsha! Press and the bar! Where have you a man now at the bar like those\nfellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O'Hagan.\nEh? Ah, bloody nonsense. Psha! Only in the halfpenny place.\n\nHis mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain.\n\nWould anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? How do you know? Why did you\nwrite it then?\n\nRHYMES AND REASONS\n\n\nMouth, south. Is the mouth south someway? Or the south a mouth? Must be\nsome. South, pout, out, shout, drouth. Rhymes: two men dressed the same,\nlooking the same, two by two.\n\n     _........................ la tua pace\n    .................. che parlar ti piace\n    .... mentreché il vento, come fa, si tace._\n\nHe saw them three by three, approaching girls, in green, in rose, in\nrusset, entwining, _per l'aer perso_, in mauve, in purple, _quella\npacifica oriafiamma_, gold of oriflamme, _di rimirar fe piu ardenti._\nBut I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth\nsouth: tomb womb.\n\n--Speak up for yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke said.\n\nSUFFICIENT FOR THE DAY...\n\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.\n\n--My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, you put a false\nconstruction on my words. I hold no brief, as at present advised, for\nthe third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are running away\nwith you. Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes and\nEdmund Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod boss,\nHarmsworth of the farthing press, and his American cousin of the Bowery\nguttersheet not to mention _Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences_\nand our watchful friend _The Skibbereen Eagle_. Why bring in a master\nof forensic eloquence like Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the\nnewspaper thereof. LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE\n\n\n--Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried in his\nface. Irish volunteers. Where are you now? Established 1763. Dr Lucas.\nWho have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha!\n\n--Well, J. J. O'Molloy said, Bushe K.C., for example.\n\n--Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes: Bushe, yes. He has a strain of it\nin his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.\n\n--He would have been on the bench long ago, the professor said, only for\n... But no matter.\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly:\n\n--One of the most polished periods I think I ever listened to in my life\nfell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide,\nthe Childs murder case. Bushe defended him. _And in the porches of mine\near did pour._\n\n\nBy the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep. Or the other\nstory, beast with two backs?\n\n--What was that? the professor asked.\n\nITALIA, MAGISTRA ARTIUM\n\n\n--He spoke on the law of evidence, J. J. O'Molloy said, of Roman justice\nas contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the _lex talionis_. And he\ncited the Moses of Michelangelo in the vatican.\n\n--Ha.\n\n--A few wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence!\n\nPause. J. J. O'Molloy took out his cigarettecase.\n\nFalse lull. Something quite ordinary.\n\nMessenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar.\n\nI have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that\nit was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match,\nthat determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives. A POLISHED\nPERIOD\n\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy resumed, moulding his words:\n\n--He said of it: _that stony effigy in frozen music, horned and\nterrible, of the human form divine, that eternal symbol of wisdom and\nof prophecy which, if aught that the imagination or the hand of sculptor\nhas wrought in marble of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring\ndeserves to live, deserves to live._\n\nHis slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.\n\n--Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.\n\n--The divine afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke said.\n\n--You like it? J. J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.\n\nStephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed. He\ntook a cigarette from the case. J. J. O'Molloy offered his case to Myles\nCrawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and took his trophy,\nsaying:\n\n--Muchibus thankibus.\n\nA MAN OF HIGH MORALE\n\n\n--Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J. J. O'Molloy said\nto Stephen. What do you think really of that hermetic crowd, the opal\nhush poets: A. E. the mastermystic? That Blavatsky woman started it.\nShe was a nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee\ninterviewer that you came to him in the small hours of the morning to\nask him about planes of consciousness. Magennis thinks you must have\nbeen pulling A. E.'s leg. He is a man of the very highest morale,\nMagennis.\n\nSpeaking about me. What did he say? What did he say? What did he say\nabout me? Don't ask.\n\n--No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, waving the cigarettecase aside.\nWait a moment. Let me say one thing. The finest display of oratory I\never heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at the college historical\nsociety. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had\nspoken and the paper under debate was an essay (new for those days),\nadvocating the revival of the Irish tongue.\n\nHe turned towards Myles Crawford and said:\n\n--You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you can imagine the style of his\ndiscourse.\n\n--He is sitting with Tim Healy, J. J. O'Molloy said, rumour has it, on\nthe Trinity college estates commission.\n\n--He is sitting with a sweet thing, Myles Crawford said, in a child's\nfrock. Go on. Well?\n\n--It was the speech, mark you, the professor said, of a finished orator,\nfull of courteous haughtiness and pouring in chastened diction I will\nnot say the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man's contumely\nupon the new movement. It was then a new movement. We were weak,\ntherefore worthless.\n\nHe closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised\nan outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with trembling thumb and\nringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a new\nfocus.\n\nIMPROMPTU\n\n\nIn ferial tone he addressed J. J. O'Molloy:\n\n--Taylor had come there, you must know, from a sickbed. That he\nhad prepared his speech I do not believe for there was not even one\nshorthandwriter in the hall. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy\nbeard round it. He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogether he\nlooked (though he was not) a dying man.\n\nHis gaze turned at once but slowly from J. J. O'Molloy's towards\nStephen's face and then bent at once to the ground, seeking. His\nunglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his\nwithering hair. Still seeking, he said:\n\n--When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply.\nBriefly, as well as I can bring them to mind, his words were these.\n\nHe raised his head firmly. His eyes bethought themselves once more.\nWitless shellfish swam in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking outlet.\n\nHe began:\n\n_--Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in\nlistening to the remarks addressed to the youth of Ireland a moment\nsince by my learned friend. It seemed to me that I had been transported\ninto a country far away from this country, into an age remote from\nthis age, that I stood in ancient Egypt and that I was listening to the\nspeech of some highpriest of that land addressed to the youthful Moses._\n\nHis listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smokes\nascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. _And let our\ncrooked smokes._ Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand\nat it yourself?\n\n_--And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyptian\nhighpriest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. I heard\nhis words and their meaning was revealed to me._\n\nFROM THE FATHERS\n\n\nIt was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted\nwhich neither if they were supremely good nor unless they were good\ncould be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That's saint Augustine.\n\n_--Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our\nlanguage? You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we are a mighty people. You\nhave no cities nor no wealth: our cities are hives of humanity and\nour galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all manner merchandise\nfurrow the waters of the known globe. You have but emerged from\nprimitive conditions: we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong\nhistory and a polity._\n\nNile.\n\nChild, man, effigy.\n\nBy the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple\nin combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.\n\n_--You pray to a local and obscure idol: our temples, majestic and\nmysterious, are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra.\nYours serfdom, awe and humbleness: ours thunder and the seas. Israel\nis weak and few are her children: Egypt is an host and terrible are her\narms. Vagrants and daylabourers are you called: the world trembles at\nour name._\n\nA dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it\nboldly:\n\n_--But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and\naccepted that view of life, had he bowed his head and bowed his will\nand bowed his spirit before that arrogant admonition he would never have\nbrought the chosen people out of their house of bondage, nor followed\nthe pillar of the cloud by day. He would never have spoken with the\nEternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have come down\nwith the light of inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in\nhis arms the tables of the law, graven in the language of the outlaw._\n\nHe ceased and looked at them, enjoying a silence.\n\nOMINOUS--FOR HIM!\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy said not without regret:\n\n--And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.\n\n--A sudden--at--the--moment--though--from--lingering--illness--often--\npreviously--expectorated--demise, Lenehan added. And with a great future\nbehind him.\n\nThe troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway and pattering\nup the staircase.\n\n--That is oratory, the professor said uncontradicted. Gone with the\nwind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the kings. Miles of ears of\nporches. The tribune's words, howled and scattered to the four winds.\nA people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic records of all\nthat ever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him: me no more.\n\nI have money.\n\n--Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the agenda paper may I\nsuggest that the house do now adjourn?\n\n--You take my breath away. It is not perchance a French compliment?\nMr O'Madden Burke asked. 'Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug,\nmetaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.\n\n--That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All that are in favour\nsay ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it carried. To\nwhich particular boosing shed?... My casting vote is: Mooney's!\n\nHe led the way, admonishing:\n\n--We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Yes,\nwe will not. By no manner of means.\n\nMr O'Madden Burke, following close, said with an ally's lunge of his\numbrella:\n\n--Lay on, Macduff!\n\n--Chip of the old block! the editor cried, clapping Stephen on the\nshoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys?\n\nHe fumbled in his pocket pulling out the crushed typesheets.\n\n--Foot and mouth. I know. That'll be all right. That'll go in. Where are\nthey? That's all right.\n\nHe thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office. LET US HOPE\n\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen:\n\n--I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.\n\nHe went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.\n\n--Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn't it? It\nhas the prophetic vision. _Fuit Ilium!_ The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms\nof this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.\n\nThe first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and\nrushed out into the street, yelling:\n\n--Racing special!\n\nDublin. I have much, much to learn.\n\nThey turned to the left along Abbey street.\n\n--I have a vision too, Stephen said.\n\n--Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will\nfollow.\n\nAnother newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran:\n\n--Racing special!\n\nDEAR DIRTY DUBLIN\n\n\nDubliners.\n\n--Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty\nand fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.\n\n--Where is that? the professor asked.\n\n--Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.\n\nDamp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistering\ntallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker,\ndarlint!\n\nOn now. Dare it. Let there be life.\n\n--They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson's pillar.\nThey save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. They\nshake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies\nwith the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven\nin coppers. They put on their bonnets and best clothes and take their\numbrellas for fear it may come on to rain.\n\n--Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.\n\nLIFE ON THE RAW\n\n\n--They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at\nthe north city diningrooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins,\nproprietress... They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a girl\nat the foot of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn. They\ngive two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begin\nto waddle slowly up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each\nother, afraid of the dark, panting, one asking the other have you the\nbrawn, praising God and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down,\npeeping at the airslits. Glory be to God. They had no idea it was that\nhigh.\n\nTheir names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the\nlumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a lady who got\na bottleful from a passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen\nand a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.\n\n--Antithesis, the professor said nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can\nsee them. What's keeping our friend?\n\nHe turned.\n\nA bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all\ndirections, yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them\nMyles Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet\nface, talking with J. J. O'Molloy.\n\n--Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm.\n\nHe set off again to walk by Stephen's side. RETURN OF BLOOM\n\n\n--Yes, he said. I see them.\n\nMr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the\noffices of the _Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal_, called:\n\n--Mr Crawford! A moment!\n\n--_Telegraph_! Racing special!\n\n--What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace.\n\nA newsboy cried in Mr Bloom's face:\n\n--Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows!\n\nINTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR\n\n\n--Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the steps,\npuffing, and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes\njust now. He'll give a renewal for two months, he says. After he'll\nsee. But he wants a par to call attention in the _Telegraph_ too,\nthe Saturday pink. And he wants it copied if it's not too late I told\ncouncillor Nannetti from the _Kilkenny People_. I can have access to\nit in the national library. House of keys, don't you see? His name is\nKeyes. It's a play on the name. But he practically promised he'd give\nthe renewal. But he wants just a little puff. What will I tell him, Mr\nCrawford? K.M.A.\n\n\n--Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said throwing\nout his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable.\n\nA bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All off for a drink. Arm in arm.\nLenehan's yachting cap on the cadge beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is\nthat young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a good pair of boots on him\ntoday. Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in\nmuck somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?\n\n--Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I\nsuppose it's worth a short par. He'd give the ad, I think. I'll tell him\n... K.M.R.I.A.\n\n\n--He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his\nshoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.\n\nWhile Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on\njerkily.\n\nRAISING THE WIND\n\n\n--_Nulla bona_, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to\nhere. I've been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to\nback a bill for me no later than last week. Sorry, Jack. You must take\nthe will for the deed. With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind\nanyhow.\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently. They caught up\non the others and walked abreast.\n\n--When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their twenty\nfingers in the paper the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the\nrailings.\n\n--Something for you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two old\nDublin women on the top of Nelson's pillar.\n\nSOME COLUMN!--THAT'S WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID\n\n\n--That's new, Myles Crawford said. That's copy. Out for the waxies\nDargle. Two old trickies, what?\n\n--But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on. They see\nthe roofs and argue about where the different churches are: Rathmines'\nblue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. But it makes them\ngiddy to look so they pull up their skirts...\n\nTHOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES\n\n\n--Easy all, Myles Crawford said. No poetic licence. We're in the\narchdiocese here.\n\n--And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering up at the statue\nof the onehandled adulterer.\n\n--Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the\nidea. I see what you mean.\n\nDAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, BELIEF\n\n\n--It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too\ntired to look up or down or to speak. They put the bag of plums between\nthem and eat the plums out of it, one after another, wiping off with\ntheir handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and\nspitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings.\n\nHe gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden\nBurke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney's.\n\n--Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse.\n\nSOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS. SPARTANS GNASH\nMOLARS. ITHACANS VOW PEN IS CHAMP.\n\n\n--You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of\nGorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were\nbitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of a noble\nand a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of\nbeauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.\n\nPoor Penelope. Penelope Rich.\n\nThey made ready to cross O'Connell street.\n\nHELLO THERE, CENTRAL!\n\n\nAt various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless\ntrolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines,\nRathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend\nand Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines,\nall still, becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery\nwaggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with\nrattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.\n\nWHAT?--AND LIKEWISE--WHERE?\n\n\n--But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the\nplums?\n\nVIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN MOSES.\n\n\n--Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to\nreflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: _deus nobis haec otia fecit._\n\n--No, Stephen said. I call it _A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the\nParable of The Plums._\n\n--I see, the professor said.\n\nHe laughed richly.\n\n--I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land.\nWe gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O'Molloy.\n\nHORATIO IS CYNOSURE THIS FAIR JUNE DAY\n\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue and held\nhis peace.\n\n--I see, the professor said.\n\nHe halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson\nthrough the meshes of his wry smile.\n\nDIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR FRISKY FRUMPS. ANNE WIMBLES,\nFLO WANGLES--YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?\n\n\n--Onehandled adulterer, he said smiling grimly. That tickles me, I must\nsay.\n\n--Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty's\ntruth was known.\n\n\nPineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl\nshovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school\ntreat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His\nMajesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red\njujubes white.\n\n\nA sombre Y.M.C.A. young man, watchful among the warm sweet fumes of\nGraham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom.\n\nHeart to heart talks.\n\nBloo... Me? No.\n\nBlood of the Lamb.\n\nHis slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved? All are\nwashed in the blood of the lamb. God wants blood victim. Birth, hymen,\nmartyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering,\ndruids' altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of\nthe church in Zion is coming.\n\n_Is coming! Is coming!! Is coming!!! All heartily welcome._ Paying game.\nTorry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. His wife will put the stopper\non that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix.\nOur Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on the wall,\nhanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran in.\n\n\nPhosphorus it must be done with. If you leave a bit of codfish for\ninstance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night I went down to the\npantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells in it waiting to rush\nout. What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain.\nBefore Rudy was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good\nfor the brain.\n\nFrom Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk.\nDedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be\nselling off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father.\nLobbing about waiting for him. Home always breaks up when the mother\ngoes. Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. That's in their\ntheology or the priest won't give the poor woman the confession, the\nabsolution. Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat\nyou out of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on the\nfat of the land. Their butteries and larders. I'd like to see them do\nthe black fast Yom Kippur. Crossbuns. One meal and a collation for fear\nhe'd collapse on the altar. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you\ncould pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her. Like getting l.s.d.\nout of him. Does himself well. No guests. All for number one. Watching\nhis water. Bring your own bread and butter. His reverence: mum's the\nword.\n\nGood Lord, that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks\ntoo. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It's after they feel it.\nProof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution.\n\nAs he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from\nthe parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it,\nI heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the\nbrewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats get in\ntoo. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on\nthe porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking\nthat! Rats: vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things.\n\nLooking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt\nquaywalls, gulls. Rough weather outside. If I threw myself down? Reuben\nJ's son must have swallowed a good bellyful of that sewage. One and\neightpence too much. Hhhhm. It's the droll way he comes out with the\nthings. Knows how to tell a story too.\n\nThey wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.\n\nHe threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet\nper sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of\nswells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn fools. Also the\nday I threw that stale cake out of the Erin's King picked it up in the\nwake fifty yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.\n\n     _The hungry famished gull\n     Flaps o'er the waters dull._\n\nThat is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has\nno rhymes: blank verse. The flow of the language it is. The thoughts.\nSolemn.\n\n\n     _Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit\n     Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth._\n     --Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!\n\n\nHis gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand. Australians\nthey must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them up with a rag\nor a handkerchief.\n\nWait. Those poor birds.\n\nHe halted again and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for\na penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into\nthe Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently, two, then all from\ntheir heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.\n\nAware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his\nhands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fish, fishy flesh they\nhave, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffey swim down\nhere sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes. Wonder\nwhat kind is swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.\n\nThey wheeled flapping weakly. I'm not going to throw any more. Penny\nquite enough. Lot of thanks I get. Not even a caw. They spread foot and\nmouth disease too. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes\nlike that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fish are\nnot salty? How is that?\n\nHis eyes sought answer from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor\non the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.\n\n_Kino's_ 11/- _Trousers_\n\nGood idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can you\nown water really? It's always flowing in a stream, never the same, which\nin the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream. All kinds of\nplaces are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used to be stuck\nup in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential. Dr\nHy Franks. Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing master self\nadvertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himself for\nthat matter on the q. t. running in to loosen a button. Flybynight.\nJust the place too. POST NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. Some chap with a dose\nburning him.\n\nIf he...?\n\nO!\n\nEh?\n\nNo... No.\n\nNo, no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely?\n\nNo, no.\n\nMr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about\nthat. After one. Timeball on the ballastoffice is down. Dunsink time.\nFascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Parallax. I never\nexactly understood. There's a priest. Could ask him. Par it's Greek:\nparallel, parallax. Met him pike hoses she called it till I told her\nabout the transmigration. O rocks!\n\nMr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballastoffice. She's right\nafter all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound.\nShe's not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I was thinking.\nStill, I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone\nvoice. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing into a\nbarrel. Now, isn't that wit. They used to call him big Ben. Not half as\nwitty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross. Get\noutside of a baron of beef. Powerful man he was at stowing away number\none Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? It all works out.\n\nA procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards him\nalong the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like\nthat priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered. He\nread the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S.\nWisdom Hely's. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his\nforeboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our\nstaple food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after\nstreet. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are\nnot Boyl: no, M Glade's men. Doesn't bring in any business either.\nI suggested to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls\nsitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. I\nbet that would have caught on. Smart girls writing something catch the\neye at once. Everyone dying to know what she's writing. Get twenty of\nthem round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Women\ntoo. Curiosity. Pillar of salt. Wouldn't have it of course because he\ndidn't think of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a\nfalse stain of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted\nunder the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick 'em. What?\nOur envelopes. Hello, Jones, where are you going? Can't stop, Robinson,\nI am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser _Kansell,_ sold\nby Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a\njob it was collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla convent.\nThat was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small\nhead. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes.\nVery hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her\ndevotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world.\nOur great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name\ntoo: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the way she. If she had\nmarried she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of\nmoney. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for\nthem. My heart's broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves\nin and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the\npawnbroker's daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.\n\nHe crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Rover\ncycleshop. Those races are on today. How long ago is that? Year Phil\nGilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. Wait: was in Thom's.\nGot the job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. Six years. Ten years ago:\nninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's. Val Dillon\nwas lord mayor. The Glencree dinner. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying\nthe port into his soup before the flag fell. Bobbob lapping it for the\ninner alderman. Couldn't hear what the band played. For what we have\nalready received may the Lord make us. Milly was a kiddy then. Molly\nhad that elephantgrey dress with the braided frogs. Mantailored with\nselfcovered buttons. She didn't like it because I sprained my ankle\nfirst day she wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. As if that. Old\nGoodwin's tall hat done up with some sticky stuff. Flies' picnic\ntoo. Never put a dress on her back like it. Fitted her like a glove,\nshoulders and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbitpie we\nhad that day. People looking after her.\n\nHappy. Happier then. Snug little room that was with the red wallpaper.\nDockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen. Milly's tubbing night. American\nsoap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she\nlooked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's\ndaguerreotype atelier he told me of. Hereditary taste.\n\nHe walked along the curbstone.\n\nStream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking chap was always\nsquinting in when he passed? Weak eyes, woman. Stopped in Citron's saint\nKevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is getting. Pen\n...? Of course it's years ago. Noise of the trams probably. Well, if he\ncouldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day.\n\nBartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her home\nafter practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her\nthat song _Winds that blow from the south_.\n\nWindy night that was I went to fetch her there was that lodge meeting on\nabout those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supperroom or\noakroom of the Mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of her music blew\nout of my hand against the High school railings. Lucky it didn't.\nThing like that spoils the effect of a night for her. Professor Goodwin\nlinking her in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot. His farewell\nconcerts. Positively last appearance on any stage. May be for months and\nmay be for never. Remember her laughing at the wind, her blizzard collar\nup. Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all her\nskirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed\nin the wind. Remember when we got home raking up the fire and frying up\nthose pieces of lap of mutton for her supper with the Chutney sauce she\nliked. And the mulled rum. Could see her in the bedroom from the hearth\nunclamping the busk of her stays: white.\n\nSwish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always warm from her.\nAlways liked to let her self out. Sitting there after till near two\ntaking out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy.\nThat was the night...\n\n--O, Mr Bloom, how do you do?\n\n--O, how do you do, Mrs Breen?\n\n--No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't seen her for\nages.\n\n--In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily. Milly has a position down in\nMullingar, you know.\n\n--Go away! Isn't that grand for her?\n\n--Yes. In a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How\nare all your charges?\n\n--All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.\n\nHow many has she? No other in sight.\n\n--You're in black, I see. You have no...\n\n--No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral.\n\nGoing to crop up all day, I foresee. Who's dead, when and what did he\ndie of? Turn up like a bad penny.\n\n--O, dear me, Mrs Breen said. I hope it wasn't any near relation.\n\nMay as well get her sympathy.\n\n--Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite suddenly,\npoor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.\n\n_Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the rye.\nDiddlediddle dumdum Diddlediddle..._\n\n--Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily.\n\nNow that's quite enough about that. Just: quietly: husband.\n\n--And your lord and master?\n\nMrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't lost them anyhow.\n\n--O, don't be talking! she said. He's a caution to rattlesnakes. He's\nin there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. He has me\nheartscalded. Wait till I show you.\n\nHot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured\nout from Harrison's. The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's\ngullet. Want to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar,\nor they'd taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A barefoot\narab stood over the grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw of\nhunger that way. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and fork\nchained to the table.\n\nOpening her handbag, chipped leather. Hatpin: ought to have a guard on\nthose things. Stick it in a chap's eye in the tram. Rummaging. Open.\nMoney. Please take one. Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise Cain.\nHusband barging. Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are\nyou feeding your little brother's family? Soiled handkerchief:\nmedicinebottle. Pastille that was fell. What is she?...\n\n--There must be a new moon out, she said. He's always bad then. Do you\nknow what he did last night?\n\nHer hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in\nalarm, yet smiling.\n\n--What? Mr Bloom asked.\n\nLet her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.\n\n--Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.\n\nIndiges.\n\n--Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.\n\n--The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.\n\nShe took a folded postcard from her handbag.\n\n--Read that, she said. He got it this morning.\n\n--What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.?\n\n--U.P.: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It's a great\nshame for them whoever he is.\n\n--Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.\n\nShe took back the card, sighing.\n\n--And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. He's going to take an\naction for ten thousand pounds, he says.\n\nShe folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.\n\nSame blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its\nbest days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three old\ngrapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a\ntasty dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than\nMolly.\n\nSee the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.\n\nHe looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent.\nPungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. Flakes of pastry\non the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek.\nRhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell\nthat was. In Luke Doyle's long ago. Dolphin's Barn, the charades. U.P.:\nup.\n\nChange the subject.\n\n--Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Mr Bloom asked.\n\n--Mina Purefoy? she said.\n\nPhilip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers' Club. Matcham often thinks of\nthe masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.\n\n--Yes.\n\n--I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She's in the\nlying-in hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got her in. She's three\ndays bad now.\n\n--O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that.\n\n--Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It's a very stiff\nbirth, the nurse told me.\n\n---O, Mr Bloom said.\n\nHis heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. His tongue clacked in\ncompassion. Dth! Dth!\n\n--I'm sorry to hear that, he said. Poor thing! Three days! That's\nterrible for her.\n\nMrs Breen nodded.\n\n--She was taken bad on the Tuesday...\n\nMr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her:\n\n--Mind! Let this man pass.\n\nA bony form strode along the curbstone from the river staring with a\nrapt gaze into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass. Tight as a\nskullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From his arm a folded dustcoat,\na stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.\n\n--Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts.\nWatch!\n\n--Who is he if it's a fair question? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty?\n\n--His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr\nBloom said smiling. Watch!\n\n--He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these\ndays.\n\nShe broke off suddenly.\n\n--There he is, she said. I must go after him. Goodbye. Remember me to\nMolly, won't you?\n\n--I will, Mr Bloom said.\n\nHe watched her dodge through passers towards the shopfronts. Denis Breen\nin skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's\nhugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old\ntimes. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust\nhis dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke\nearnestly.\n\nMeshuggah. Off his chump.\n\nMr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the\ntight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two\ndays. Watch him! Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world.\nAnd that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have\nwith him.\n\nU.P.: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote\nit for a lark in the Scotch house I bet anything. Round to Menton's\noffice. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the\ngods.\n\nHe passed the _Irish Times_. There might be other answers Iying there.\nLike to answer them all. Good system for criminals. Code. At their lunch\nnow. Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know me. O, leave them there\nto simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. Wanted, smart\nlady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called you naughty\ndarling because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is\nthe meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me who\nmade the world. The way they spring those questions on you. And the\nother one Lizzie Twigg. My literary efforts have had the good fortune to\nmeet with the approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo. Russell). No\ntime to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry.\n\nBest paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook\nand general, exc. cuisine, housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit\ncounter. Resp. girl (R.C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop.\nJames Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent dividend. Made a big\ndeal on Coates's shares. Ca' canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the\ntoady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the _Irish Field_\nnow. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and\nrode out with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement yesterday\nat Rathoath. Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make\nit tender enough for them. Riding astride. Sit her horse like a man.\nWeightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion for her, not for Joe.\nFirst to the meet and in at the death. Strong as a brood mare some of\nthose horsey women. Swagger around livery stables. Toss off a glass\nof brandy neat while you'd say knife. That one at the Grosvenor this\nmorning. Up with her on the car: wishswish. Stonewall or fivebarred gate\nput her mount to it. Think that pugnosed driver did it out of spite. Who\nis this she was like? O yes! Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old\nwraps and black underclothes in the Shelbourne hotel. Divorced Spanish\nAmerican. Didn't take a feather out of her my handling them. As if I was\nher clotheshorse. Saw her in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park\nranger got me in with Whelan of the _Express._ Scavenging what the\nquality left. High tea. Mayonnaise I poured on the plums thinking it was\ncustard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a few weeks after. Want to\nbe a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work for her, thanks.\n\nPoor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness. Saffron bun\nand milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy. Y. M. C. A. Eating\nwith a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. And still his\nmuttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodore's\ncousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardy\nannuals he presents her with. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topers\nmarching along bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a\nmarketnet. The squallers. Poor thing! Then having to give the breast\nyear after year all hours of the night. Selfish those t.t's are. Dog in\nthe manger. Only one lump of sugar in my tea, if you please.\n\nHe stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval. A sixpenny at\nRowe's? Must look up that ad in the national library. An eightpenny in\nthe Burton. Better. On my way.\n\nHe walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot\nto tap Tom Kernan.\n\nSss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a\nvinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her belly swollen out. Phew!\nDreadful simply! Child's head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her\ntrying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Kill me\nthat would. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. They ought to invent\nsomething to stop that. Life with hard labour. Twilight sleep idea:\nqueen Victoria was given that. Nine she had. A good layer. Old\nwoman that lived in a shoe she had so many children. Suppose he was\nconsumptive. Time someone thought about it instead of gassing about the\nwhat was it the pensive bosom of the silver effulgence. Flapdoodle to\nfeed fools on. They could easily have big establishments whole thing\nquite painless out of all the taxes give every child born five quid at\ncompound interest up to twentyone five per cent is a hundred shillings\nand five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system encourage\npeople to put by money save hundred and ten and a bit twentyone years\nwant to work it out on paper come to a tidy sum more than you think.\n\nNot stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for\nnothing.\n\nFunny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs\nMoisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then\nreturns. How flat they look all of a sudden after. Peaceful eyes. Weight\noff their mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All my babies,\nshe said. The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed them. O, that's\nnyumnyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son. His first bow to\nthe public. Head like a prize pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren. People knocking\nthem up at all hours. For God' sake, doctor. Wife in her throes. Then\nkeep them waiting months for their fee. To attendance on your wife. No\ngratitude in people. Humane doctors, most of them.\n\nBefore the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of\npigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it on? I\npick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck. Must be thrilling\nfrom the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees near\nGoose green playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me.\n\nA squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian\nfile. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their\ntruncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their\nbelts. Policeman's lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groups and\nscattered, saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment\nto attack one in pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of others,\nmarching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the station.\nBound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive\nsoup.\n\nHe crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right to put him\nup over a urinal: meeting of the waters. Ought to be places for women.\nRunning into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. _There is not in this\nwide world a vallee_. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up to\nthe very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she?\n\nHe gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack\nPower could a tale unfold: father a G man. If a fellow gave them trouble\nbeing lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the bridewell.\nCan't blame them after all with the job they have especially the young\nhornies. That horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was given his\ndegree in Trinity he got a run for his money. My word he did! His\nhorse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky I had the\npresence of mind to dive into Manning's or I was souped. He did come a\nwallop, by George. Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones. I\noughtn't to have got myself swept along with those medicals. And the\nTrinity jibs in their mortarboards. Looking for trouble. Still I got to\nknow that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now\nhe's in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within wheels. Police\nwhistle in my ears still. All skedaddled. Why he fixed on me. Give me in\ncharge. Right here it began.\n\n--Up the Boers!\n\n--Three cheers for De Wet!\n\n--We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.\n\nSilly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill.\nThe Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them magistrates and\ncivil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows\nused to. Whether on the scaffold high.\n\nNever know who you're talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in\nhis eye. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on\nthe invincibles. Member of the corporation too. Egging raw youths on to\nget in the know all the time drawing secret service pay from the castle.\nDrop him like a hot potato. Why those plainclothes men are always\ncourting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to uniform. Squarepushing up\nagainst a backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next thing on the menu. And\nwho is the gentleman does be visiting there? Was the young master saying\nanything? Peeping Tom through the keyhole. Decoy duck. Hotblooded young\nstudent fooling round her fat arms ironing.\n\n--Are those yours, Mary?\n\n--I don't wear such things... Stop or I'll tell the missus on you. Out\nhalf the night.\n\n--There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you see.\n\n--Ah, gelong with your great times coming.\n\nBarmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls.\n\nJames Stephens' idea was the best. He knew them. Circles of ten so that\na fellow couldn't round on more than his own ring. Sinn Fein. Back out\nyou get the knife. Hidden hand. Stay in. The firing squad. Turnkey's\ndaughter got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up in the\nBuckingham Palace hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi.\n\nYou must have a certain fascination: Parnell. Arthur Griffith is a\nsquareheaded fellow but he has no go in him for the mob. Or gas about\nour lovely land. Gammon and spinach. Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom.\nDebating societies. That republicanism is the best form of government.\nThat the language question should take precedence of the economic\nquestion. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house. Stuff them\nup with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's a good lump of thyme\nseasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease\nbefore it gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk with\nthe band. No grace for the carver. The thought that the other chap pays\nbest sauce in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show us\nover those apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Homerule\nsun rising up in the northwest.\n\nHis smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly,\nshadowing Trinity's surly front. Trams passed one another, ingoing,\noutgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same, day after day:\nsquads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies\nmooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a\nbed groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every second\nsomewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes.\nThree hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing the\nblood off, all are washed in the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.\n\nCityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other\ncoming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of\npavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that.\nLandlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets\nhis notice to quit. They buy the place up with gold and still they have\nall the gold. Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away age\nafter age. Pyramids in sand. Built on bread and onions. Slaves Chinese\nwall. Babylon. Big stones left. Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawling\nsuburbs, jerrybuilt. Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze. Shelter,\nfor the night.\n\nNo-one is anything.\n\nThis is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate\nthis hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.\n\nProvost's house. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Well tinned in\nthere. Like a mortuary chapel. Wouldn't live in it if they paid me. Hope\nthey have liver and bacon today. Nature abhors a vacuum.\n\nThe sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware\nopposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell passed,\nunseeing.\n\nThere he is: the brother. Image of him. Haunting face. Now that's a\ncoincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of a person and don't\nmeet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows him. Must be a\ncorporation meeting today. They say he never put on the city marshal's\nuniform since he got the job. Charley Kavanagh used to come out on\nhis high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Look at the\nwoebegone walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a\npain. Great man's brother: his brother's brother. He'd look nice on the\ncity charger. Drop into the D.B.C. probably for his coffee, play chess\nthere. His brother used men as pawns. Let them all go to pot. Afraid to\npass a remark on him. Freeze them up with that eye of his. That's the\nfascination: the name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and his other sister\nMrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness. Bolt upright lik\nsurgeon M'Ardle. Still David Sheehy beat him for south Meath. Apply\nfor the Chiltern Hundreds and retire into public life. The patriot's\nbanquet. Eating orangepeels in the park. Simon Dedalus said when they\nput him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the grave and\nlead him out of the house of commons by the arm.\n\n--Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is the head upon which\nthe ends of the world have forgotten to come while the other speaks with\na Scotch accent. The tentacles...\n\nThey passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and bicycle.\nYoung woman.\n\nAnd there he is too. Now that's really a coincidence: second time.\nComing events cast their shadows before. With the approval of the\neminent poet, Mr Geo. Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg with him. A.\nE.: what does that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund,\nAlphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the world\nwith a Scotch accent. Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism.\nHolding forth. She's taking it all in. Not saying a word. To aid\ngentleman in literary work.\n\nHis eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle,\na listening woman at his side. Coming from the vegetarian. Only\nweggebobbles and fruit. Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of\nthat cow will pursue you through all eternity. They say it's healthier.\nWindandwatery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as\na bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that thing they gave me\nnutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you are eating\nrumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by the\ntap all night.\n\nHer stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that: so tasteless.\nThose literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy,\nsymbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that\nkind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical.\nFor example one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts\nyou couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry\nis even. Must be in a certain mood.\n\n     _The dreamy cloudy gull\n     Waves o'er the waters dull._\n\nHe crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates\nand Son, pricing the fieldglasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and\nhave a chat with young Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. Probably at his\nlunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Goerz lenses six\nguineas. Germans making their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to\ncapture trade. Undercutting. Might chance on a pair in the railway lost\nproperty office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them in\ntrains and cloakrooms. What do they be thinking about? Women too.\nIncredible. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up that farmer's\ndaughter's ba and hand it to her at Limerick junction. Unclaimed money\ntoo. There's a little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test\nthose glasses by.\n\n\nHis lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't see it. If you\nimagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it.\n\nHe faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right\nhand at arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes:\ncompletely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk.\nMust be the focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses.\nInteresting. There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we\nwere in Lombard street west. Looking up from the back garden. Terrific\nexplosions they are. There will be a total eclipse this year: autumn\nsome time.\n\nNow that I come to think of it that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's\nthe clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there\nsome first Saturday of the month. If I could get an introduction to\nprofessor Joly or learn up something about his family. That would do to:\nman always feels complimented. Flattery where least expected. Nobleman\nproud to be descended from some king's mistress. His foremother. Lay it\non with a trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt\nout what you know you're not to: what's parallax? Show this gentleman\nthe door.\n\nAh.\n\nHis hand fell to his side again.\n\nNever know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about,\ncrossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas: then solid:\nthen world: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock,\nlike that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she said. I\nbelieve there is.\n\nHe went on by la maison Claire.\n\nWait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there\nis a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon.\nShe was humming. The young May moon she's beaming, love. He other side\nof her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch.\nFingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.\n\nStop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.\n\nMr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.\n\nWith a keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is the street here\nmiddle of the day of Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. On his annual bend,\nM Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or _cherchez la\nfemme_. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the\nrest of the year sober as a judge.\n\nYes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do him\ngood. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the\nQueen's. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon\nface in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How time flies,\neh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers, drinking,\nlaughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More power, Pat.\nCoarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that white\nhat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp\nthat once did starve us all.\n\nI was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She\ntwentythree. When we left Lombard street west something changed. Could\nnever like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding\nwater in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then.\nWould you? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy?\nWants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.\n\nGrafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin prints,\nsilkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the\nbaking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings. Hope\nthe rain mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon. All the beef to\nthe heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of\nplumb.\n\nHe passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Cascades\nof ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a\nflood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that\nhere. _La causa è santa_! Tara tara. Great chorus that. Taree tara. Must\nbe washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.\n\nPincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all\nover the place. Needles in window curtains.\n\nHe bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today\nanyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps.\nJunejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then she mightn't\nlike it. Women won't pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.\n\nGleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk\nstockings.\n\nUseless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.\n\nHigh voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman, home and\nhouses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. Agendath Netaim.\nWealth of the world.\n\nA warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded.\nPerfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he\nmutely craved to adore.\n\nDuke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.\n\nHe turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds.\nPerfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields,\ntangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas,\ncreaking beds.\n\n--Jack, love!\n\n--Darling!\n\n--Kiss me, Reggy!\n\n--My boy!\n\n--Love!\n\nHis heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink\ngripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slush of greens. See\nthe animals feed.\n\nMen, men, men.\n\nPerched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables\ncalling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy\nfood, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced\nyoung man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New\nset of microbes. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round\nhim shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his\nplate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump\nchop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten\noff more than he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see\nus. Hungry man is an angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't! O! A bone!\nThat last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself\nat Sletty southward of the Boyne. Wonder what he was eating. Something\ngaloptious. Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity. Couldn't\nswallow it all however.\n\n--Roast beef and cabbage.\n\n--One stew.\n\nSmells of men. His gorge rose. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish\ncigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale\nof ferment.\n\nCouldn't eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork to eat all\nbefore him, old chap picking his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing\nthe cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this picture then\non that. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lick it\noff the plate, man! Get out of this.\n\nHe gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of\nhis nose.\n\n--Two stouts here.\n\n--One corned and cabbage.\n\nThat fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life depended\non it. Good stroke. Give me the fidgets to look. Safer to eat from his\nthree hands. Tear it limb from limb. Second nature to him. Born with a\nsilver knife in his mouth. That's witty, I think. Or no. Silver means\nborn rich. Born with a knife. But then the allusion is lost.\n\nAn illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the head\nbailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown from his tankard. Well\nup: it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner, knife and fork upright,\nelbows on table, ready for a second helping stared towards the foodlift\nacross his stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling him something\nwith his mouth full. Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I munched hum un\nthu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?\n\nMr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said:\n\n--Not here. Don't see him.\n\nOut. I hate dirty eaters.\n\nHe backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Stopgap.\nKeep me going. Had a good breakfast.\n\n--Roast and mashed here.\n\n--Pint of stout.\n\nEvery fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.\n\nHe came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street. Eat\nor be eaten. Kill! Kill!\n\nSuppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting down\nwith porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the\nstreet. John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity every\nmother's son don't talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity women\nand children cabmen priests parsons fieldmarshals archbishops. From\nAilesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union,\nlord mayor in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. My\nplate's empty. After you with our incorporated drinkingcup. Like sir\nPhilip Crampton's fountain. Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief.\nNext chap rubs on a new batch with his. Father O'Flynn would make\nhares of them all. Have rows all the same. All for number one. Children\nfighting for the scrapings of the pot. Want a souppot as big as the\nPhoenix park. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of it. Hate\npeople all round you. City Arms hotel _table d'hôte_ she called it.\nSoup, joint and sweet. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Then\nwho'd wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids\nthat time. Teeth getting worse and worse.\n\nAfter all there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from\nthe earth garlic of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp\nof onions mushrooms truffles. Pain to the animal too. Pluck and draw\nfowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe\nto split their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering\nbob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. Give us that\nbrisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed\nsheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling\nnosejam on sawdust. Top and lashers going out. Don't maul them pieces,\nyoung one.\n\nHot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed.\nInsidious. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts.\n\nAh, I'm hungry.\n\nHe entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat. Stands a drink now\nand then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once.\n\nWhat will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?\n\n--Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook.\n\n--Hello, Flynn.\n\n--How's things?\n\n--Tiptop... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and... let me\nsee.\n\nSardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham\nand his descendants musterred and bred there. Potted meats. What is home\nwithout Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the\nobituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignam's potted meat.\nCannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like\npickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Ought to be\ntough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. _There was\na right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the\nreverend Mr MacTrigger_. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what\nconcoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle\nfind the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was what\nthey call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and\nwar depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and\ngeese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat drink and be merry. Then casual wards\nfull after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mity cheese.\n\n--Have you a cheese sandwich?\n\n--Yes, sir.\n\nLike a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of\nburgundy take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber,\nTom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served\nme that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God made\nfood, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.\n\n--Wife well?\n\n--Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?\n\n--Yes, sir.\n\nNosey Flynn sipped his grog.\n\n--Doing any singing those times?\n\nLook at his mouth. Could whistle in his own ear. Flap ears to match.\nMusic. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him.\nDoes no harm. Free ad.\n\n--She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard\nperhaps.\n\n--No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?\n\nThe curate served.\n\n--How much is that?\n\n--Seven d., sir... Thank you, sir.\n\nMr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. _Mr MacTrigger_. Easier\nthan the dreamy creamy stuff. _His five hundred wives. Had the time of\ntheir lives._\n\n--Mustard, sir?\n\n--Thank you.\n\nHe studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. _Their lives_. I have\nit. _It grew bigger and bigger and bigger_.\n\n--Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part\nshares and part profits.\n\n--Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket\nto scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan\nmixed up in it?\n\nA warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart. He\nraised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock\nfive minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.\n\nHis midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly,\nlongingly.\n\nWine.\n\nHe smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to\nspeed it, set his wineglass delicately down.\n\n--Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact.\n\nNo fear: no brains.\n\nNosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal.\n\n--He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that\nboxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello\nbarracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he\nwas telling me...\n\nHope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.\n\n--For near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs by God\ntill further orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a\nhairy chap.\n\nDavy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves,\ncleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's blush. Whose\nsmile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Too much fat\non the parsnips.\n\n--And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give\nus a good one for the Gold cup?\n\n--I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a\nhorse.\n\n--You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.\n\nMr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of\ndisgust pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his\nwine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather\nwith the chill off.\n\nNice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like\nthe way it curves there.\n\n--I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined\nmany a man, the same horses.\n\nVintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits\nfor consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.\n\n--True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's\nno straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving\nSceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won\nat Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to one\nagainst Saint Amant a fortnight before.\n\n--That so? Davy Byrne said...\n\nHe went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned\nits pages.\n\n--I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That was a rare bit of\nhorseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm,\nRothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow\ncap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it.\nAy.\n\nHe drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the\nflutes.\n\n--Ay, he said, sighing.\n\nMr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numbskull.\nWill I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better let him\nforget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again.\nCold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Still they might like. Prickly\nbeards they like. Dogs' cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling\nstomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her\nlap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!\n\nWine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish\ncheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath\nof course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can.\nSix. Six. Time will be gone then. She...\n\nMild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so\noff colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy\nlobsters' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of\nshells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the\nFrench eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing\nin a thousand years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your\nmouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good.\nGaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it\non the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. Tempting fruit.\nIce cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial\nirrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters. Unsightly like\na clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them\nout? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect\non the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning. Was he\noysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has\nno ar no oysters. But there are people like things high. Tainted game.\nJugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old,\nblue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might\nmix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it no\nyes or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat the\nscruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course aristocrats,\nthen the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour.\nRaw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in\nthe sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the\ngrand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom\npearls. The _élite. Crème de la crème_. They want special dishes to\npretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings\nof the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff,\nCoffey, the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex. Send\nhim back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the\nRolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted _chef_ like a rabbi. Combustible duck.\nCurly cabbage _à la duchesse de Parme_. Just as well to write it on the\nbill of fare so you can know what you've eaten. Too many drugs spoil the\nbroth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Geese\nstuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarmigan.\nWouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress,\nhalfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole,\nmiss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect\nthat. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. _Du, de la_ French.\nStill it's the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped\nthe guts out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills\ncan't write his name on a cheque think he was painting the landscape\nwith his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a kish of\nbrogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.\n\nStuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.\n\nGlowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress\ngrapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me\nmemory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns\non Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple\nby the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton.\nFields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities.\nPillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub\nmy hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with\nointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn\naway. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth.\nYum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed.\nMawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate\nit: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft warm sticky\ngumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles\nfell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a\nnannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns\nshe laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips,\nher stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's\nveiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was\nkissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.\n\nMe. And me now.\n\nStuck, the flies buzzed.\n\nHis downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty:\nit curves: curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the\nworld admires. Can see them library museum standing in the round hall,\nnaked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don't care what man looks. All\nto see. Never speaking. I mean to say to fellows like Flynn. Suppose she\ndid Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Mortal! Put you in\nyour proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, all\nambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots and\nturnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods'\nfood. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we\nstuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung,\nearth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never\nlooked. I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something drop\nsee if she.\n\nDribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to\ndo there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and\nwalked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men\nlovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard.\n\nWhen the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:\n\n--What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?\n\n--He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for\nthe _Freeman._\n\n--I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?\n\n--Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?\n\n--I noticed he was in mourning.\n\n--Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at\nhome. You're right, by God. So he was.\n\n--I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a\ngentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their\nminds.\n\n--It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before\nyesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's\nwife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home\nto his better half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.\n\n--And is he doing for the _Freeman?_ Davy Byrne said.\n\nNosey Flynn pursed his lips.\n\n---He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of\nthat.\n\n--How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.\n\nNosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He\nwinked.\n\n--He's in the craft, he said.\n\n---Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.\n\n--Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. He's\nan excellent brother. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg\nup. I was told that by a--well, I won't say who.\n\n--Is that a fact?\n\n--O, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you're\ndown. I know a fellow was trying to get into it. But they're as close as\ndamn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.\n\nDavy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:\n\n--Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!\n\n--There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find\nout what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and\nswore her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the saint\nLegers of Doneraile.\n\nDavy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:\n\n--And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here\nand I never once saw him--you know, over the line.\n\n--God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips\noff when the fun gets too hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah,\nyou weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first thing he does\nhe outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to God he\ndoes.\n\n--There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say.\n\n--He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He's been known\nto put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O,\nBloom has his good points. But there's one thing he'll never do.\n\nHis hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.\n\n--I know, Davy Byrne said.\n\n--Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.\n\nPaddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning,\na plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.\n\n--Day, Mr Byrne.\n\n--Day, gentlemen.\n\nThey paused at the counter.\n\n--Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked.\n\n--I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.\n\n--Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.\n\n--I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.\n\n--How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God' sake? What's\nyours, Tom?\n\n--How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.\n\nFor answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and\nhiccupped.\n\n--Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.\n\n--Certainly, sir.\n\nPaddy Leonard eyed his alemates.\n\n--Lord love a duck, he said. Look at what I'm standing drinks to! Cold\nwater and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg.\nHe has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.\n\n--Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.\n\nTom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before\nhim.\n\n--That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.\n\n--Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.\n\nTom Rochford nodded and drank.\n\n--Is it Zinfandel?\n\n--Say nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my\nown.\n\n--Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard\nsaid. Who gave it to you?\n\nMr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.\n\n--So long! Nosey Flynn said.\n\nThe others turned.\n\n--That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.\n\n--Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two\nof your small Jamesons after that and a...\n\n--Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.\n\n--Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.\n\nMr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his teeth\nsmooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach, say. Then with\nthose Rontgen rays searchlight you could.\n\nAt Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the\ncobblestones and lapped it with new zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks\nhaving fully digested the contents. First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom\ncoasted warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jaw they move.\nWonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of his?\nWasting time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. Lean people long mouths.\nOught to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in and invent\nfree. Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering.\n\nHe hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars:\n\n_Don Giovanni, a cenar teco M'invitasti._\n\nFeel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap\nin the blues. Dutch courage. That _Kilkenny People_ in the national\nlibrary now I must.\n\nBare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller, plumber,\nturned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way down,\nswallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour round the\nbody changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of\nintestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the\ntime with his insides entrails on show. Science.\n\n--_A cenar teco._\n\nWhat does that _teco_ mean? Tonight perhaps.\n\n     _Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited\n     To come to supper tonight,\n     The rum the rumdum._\n\nDoesn't go properly.\n\nKeyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. That'll be two pounds ten about\ntwo pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Prescott's dyeworks\nvan over there. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. Five guineas\nabout. On the pig's back.\n\nCould buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new\ngarters.\n\nToday. Today. Not think.\n\nTour the south then. What about English wateringplaces? Brighton,\nMargate. Piers by moonlight. Her voice floating out. Those lovely\nseaside girls. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy\nthought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages.\nWill eat anything.\n\nMr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and\npassed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. _Why I left the church\nof Rome? Birds' Nest._ Women run him. They say they used to give pauper\nchildren soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight.\nSociety over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews. Same\nbait. Why we left the church of Rome.\n\nA blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No\ntram in sight. Wants to cross.\n\n--Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.\n\nThe blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He\nmoved his head uncertainly.\n\n--You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite.\nDo you want to cross? There's nothing in the way.\n\nThe cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom's eye followed its\nline and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Where I\nsaw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in\nJohn Long's. Slaking his drouth.\n\n--There's a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you\nacross. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?\n\n--Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.\n\n--Come, Mr Bloom said.\n\nHe touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to\nguide it forward.\n\nSay something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust\nwhat you tell them. Pass a common remark.\n\n--The rain kept off.\n\nNo answer.\n\nStains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all different\nfor him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a child's hand, his hand. Like\nMilly's was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. Wonder\nif he has a name. Van. Keep his cane clear of the horse's legs: tired\ndrudge get his doze. That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a\nhorse.\n\n--Thanks, sir.\n\nKnows I'm a man. Voice.\n\n--Right now? First turn to the left.\n\nThe blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing\nhis cane back, feeling again.\n\nMr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone\ntweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there?\nMust have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense\nof volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark. Wonder\nwould he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of\nDublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk\nin a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow\ngoing in to be a priest.\n\nPenrose! That was that chap's name.\n\nLook at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers.\nTune pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains. Why we think a\ndeformed person or a hunchback clever if he says something we might say.\nOf course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait baskets. People\nought to help. Workbasket I could buy for Molly's birthday. Hates\nsewing. Might take an objection. Dark men they call them.\n\nSense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides, bunched\ntogether. Each street different smell. Each person too. Then the spring,\nthe summer: smells. Tastes? They say you can't taste wines with your\neyes shut or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no\npleasure.\n\nAnd with a woman, for instance. More shameless not seeing. That girl\npassing the Stewart institution, head in the air. Look at me. I have\nthem all on. Must be strange not to see her. Kind of a form in his\nmind's eye. The voice, temperatures: when he touches her with his\nfingers must almost see the lines, the curves. His hands on her hair,\nfor instance. Say it was black, for instance. Good. We call it black.\nThen passing over her white skin. Different feel perhaps. Feeling of\nwhite.\n\nPostoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a postal order two\nshillings, half a crown. Accept my little present. Stationer's just here\ntoo. Wait. Think over it.\n\nWith a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above\nhis ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw. Then gently his finger felt\nthe skin of his right cheek. Downy hair there too. Not smooth enough.\nThe belly is the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes into Frederick\nstreet. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Might be settling\nmy braces.\n\nWalking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand between his waistcoat\nand trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a slack fold of\nhis belly. But I know it's whitey yellow. Want to try in the dark to\nsee.\n\nHe withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.\n\nPoor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Really terrible. What dreams would\nhe have, not seeing? Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being\nborn that way? All those women and children excursion beanfeast burned\nand drowned in New York. Holocaust. Karma they call that transmigration\nfor sins you did in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses.\nDear, dear, dear. Pity, of course: but somehow you can't cotton on to\nthem someway.\n\nSir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons' hall. Solemn as Troy.\nAfter his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Old legal cronies cracking\na magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat\nschool. I sentenced him to ten years. I suppose he'd turn up his nose\nat that stuff I drank. Vintage wine for them, the year marked on a\ndusty bottle. Has his own ideas of justice in the recorder's court.\nWellmeaning old man. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their\npercentage manufacturing crime. Sends them to the rightabout. The devil\non moneylenders. Gave Reuben J. a great strawcalling. Now he's really\nwhat they call a dirty jew. Power those judges have. Crusty old topers\nin wigs. Bear with a sore paw. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.\n\nHello, placard. Mirus bazaar. His Excellency the lord lieutenant.\nSixteenth. Today it is. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. _The\nMessiah_ was first given for that. Yes. Handel. What about going out\nthere: Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like a\nleech. Wear out my welcome. Sure to know someone on the gate.\n\nMr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library.\n\nStraw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.\n\nHis heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to\nthe right.\n\nIs it? Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too\nheady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.\n\nMaking for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes.\nHandsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following me?\n\nDidn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.\n\nThe flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold\nstatues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.\n\nNo. Didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate.\n\nMy heart!\n\nHis eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir Thomas\nDeane was the Greek architecture.\n\nLook for something I.\n\nHis hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded\nAgendath Netaim. Where did I?\n\nBusy looking.\n\nHe thrust back quick Agendath.\n\nAfternoon she said.\n\nI am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. _Freeman._\nWhere did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Potato. Purse. Where?\n\nHurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.\n\nHis hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap\nlotion have to call tepid paper stuck. Ah soap there I yes. Gate.\n\nSafe!\n\n\nUrbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred:\n\n\n--And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of _Wilhelm Meister_.\nA great poet on a great brother poet. A hesitating soul taking arms\nagainst a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as one sees in\nreal life.\n\nHe came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a step\nbackward a sinkapace on the solemn floor.\n\nA noiseless attendant setting open the door but slightly made him a\nnoiseless beck.\n\n--Directly, said he, creaking to go, albeit lingering. The beautiful\nineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts. One always\nfeels that Goethe's judgments are so true. True in the larger analysis.\n\nTwicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. Bald, most zealous by the door\nhe gave his large ear all to the attendant's words: heard them: and was\ngone.\n\nTwo left.\n\n--Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen sneered, was alive fifteen minutes\nbefore his death.\n\n--Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton asked with\nelder's gall, to write _Paradise Lost_ at your dictation? _The Sorrows\nof Satan_ he calls it.\n\nSmile. Smile Cranly's smile.\n\n     _First he tickled her\n     Then he patted her\n     Then he passed the female catheter.\n     For he was a medical\n     Jolly old medi..._\n\n--I feel you would need one more for _Hamlet._ Seven is dear to the\nmystic mind. The shining seven W.B. calls them.\n\nGlittereyed his rufous skull close to his greencapped desklamp sought\nthe face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an ollav, holyeyed. He laughed\nlow: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.\n\n     _Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood\n     Tears such as angels weep.\n     Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta._\n\nHe holds my follies hostage.\n\nCranly's eleven true Wicklowmen to free their sireland. Gaptoothed\nKathleen, her four beautiful green fields, the stranger in her house.\nAnd one more to hail him: _ave, rabbi_: the Tinahely twelve. In the\nshadow of the glen he cooees for them. My soul's youth I gave him, night\nby night. God speed. Good hunting.\n\nMulligan has my telegram.\n\nFolly. Persist.\n\n--Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured, have yet to create a\nfigure which the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare's Hamlet though\nI admire him, as old Ben did, on this side idolatry.\n\n--All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of his\nshadow. I mean, whether Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.\nClergymen's discussions of the historicity of Jesus. Art has to reveal\nto us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a\nwork of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of\nGustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley,\nthe words of Hamlet bring our minds into contact with the eternal\nwisdom, Plato's world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of\nschoolboys for schoolboys.\n\nA. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer. Wall, tarnation strike\nme!\n\n--The schoolmen were schoolboys first, Stephen said superpolitely.\nAristotle was once Plato's schoolboy.\n\n--And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton sedately said. One\ncan see him, a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm.\n\nHe laughed again at the now smiling bearded face.\n\nFormless spiritual. Father, Word and Holy Breath. Allfather, the\nheavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful, the Logos who\nsuffers in us at every moment. This verily is that. I am the fire upon\nthe altar. I am the sacrificial butter.\n\nDunlop, Judge, the noblest Roman of them all, A.E., Arval, the Name\nIneffable, in heaven hight: K.H., their master, whose identity is no\nsecret to adepts. Brothers of the great white lodge always watching\nto see if they can help. The Christ with the bridesister, moisture of\nlight, born of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the\nplane of buddhi. The life esoteric is not for ordinary person. O.P.\nmust work off bad karma first. Mrs Cooper Oakley once glimpsed our very\nillustrious sister H.P.B.'s elemental.\n\nO, fie! Out on't! _Pfuiteufel!_ You naughtn't to look, missus, so you\nnaughtn't when a lady's ashowing of her elemental.\n\nMr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. He bore in his hand with\ngrace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.\n\n--That model schoolboy, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings about\nthe afterlife of his princely soul, the improbable, insignificant and\nundramatic monologue, as shallow as Plato's.\n\nJohn Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth:\n\n--Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle\nwith Plato.\n\n--Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished me from his\ncommonwealth?\n\nUnsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of\nallhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the\nstreet: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see. Through\nspaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after\nBlake's buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a\nshadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to\nthe past.\n\nMr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague.\n\n--Haines is gone, he said.\n\n--Is he?\n\n--I was showing him Jubainville's book. He's quite enthusiastic, don't\nyou know, about Hyde's _Lovesongs of Connacht._ I couldn't bring him in\nto hear the discussion. He's gone to Gill's to buy it.\n\n     _Bound thee forth, my booklet, quick\n     To greet the callous public.\n     Writ, I ween, 'twas not my wish\n     In lean unlovely English._\n\n--The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined.\n\nWe feel in England. Penitent thief. Gone. I smoked his baccy. Green\ntwinkling stone. An emerald set in the ring of the sea.\n\n--People do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be, the auric egg of\nRussell warned occultly. The movements which work revolutions in the\nworld are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the\nhillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable ground but the\nliving mother. The rarefied air of the academy and the arena produce the\nsixshilling novel, the musichall song. France produces the finest flower\nof corruption in Mallarme but the desirable life is revealed only to the\npoor of heart, the life of Homer's Phaeacians.\n\nFrom these words Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen.\n\n--Mallarme, don't you know, he said, has written those wonderful prose\npoems Stephen MacKenna used to read to me in Paris. The one about\n_Hamlet._ He says: _il se promène, lisant au livre de lui-même_, don't\nyou know, _reading the book of himself_. He describes _Hamlet_ given in\na French town, don't you know, a provincial town. They advertised it.\n\nHis free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air.\n\n     _HAMLET\n     ou\n     LE DISTRAIT\n     Pièce de Shakespeare_\n\nHe repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown:\n\n--_Pièce de Shakespeare_, don't you know. It's so French. The French\npoint of view. _Hamlet ou_...\n\n--The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended.\n\nJohn Eglinton laughed.\n\n--Yes, I suppose it would be, he said. Excellent people, no doubt, but\ndistressingly shortsighted in some matters.\n\nSumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.\n\n--A deathsman of the soul Robert Greene called him, Stephen said. Not\nfor nothing was he a butcher's son, wielding the sledded poleaxe and\nspitting in his palms. Nine lives are taken off for his father's one.\nOur Father who art in purgatory. Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to\nshoot. The bloodboltered shambles in act five is a forecast of the\nconcentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne.\n\nCranly, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar.\n\n_Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none But we had spared..._\n\nBetween the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. The devil and the deep sea.\n\n--He will have it that _Hamlet_ is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said\nfor Mr Best's behoof. Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make our\nflesh creep.\n\n_List! List! O List!_\n\nMy flesh hears him: creeping, hears.\n\n_If thou didst ever..._\n\n--What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded\ninto impalpability through death, through absence, through change of\nmanners. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris\nlies from virgin Dublin. Who is the ghost from _limbo patrum_, returning\nto the world that has forgotten him? Who is King Hamlet?\n\nJohn Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge.\n\nLifted.\n\n--It is this hour of a day in mid June, Stephen said, begging with\na swift glance their hearing. The flag is up on the playhouse by the\nbankside. The bear Sackerson growls in the pit near it, Paris garden.\nCanvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the\ngroundlings.\n\nLocal colour. Work in all you know. Make them accomplices.\n\n--Shakespeare has left the huguenot's house in Silver street and walks\nby the swanmews along the riverbank. But he does not stay to feed the\npen chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. The swan of Avon\nhas other thoughts.\n\nComposition of place. Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me!\n\n--The play begins. A player comes on under the shadow, made up in the\ncastoff mail of a court buck, a wellset man with a bass voice. It is the\nghost, the king, a king and no king, and the player is Shakespeare who\nhas studied _Hamlet_ all the years of his life which were not vanity in\norder to play the part of the spectre. He speaks the words to Burbage,\nthe young player who stands before him beyond the rack of cerecloth,\ncalling him by a name:\n\n_Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit,_\n\nbidding him list. To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince,\nyoung Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has\ndied in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.\n\nIs it possible that that player Shakespeare, a ghost by absence, and in\nthe vesture of buried Denmark, a ghost by death, speaking his own words\nto his own son's name (had Hamnet Shakespeare lived he would have been\nprince Hamlet's twin), is it possible, I want to know, or probable that\nhe did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those premises: you\nare the dispossessed son: I am the murdered father: your mother is the\nguilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway?\n\n--But this prying into the family life of a great man, Russell began\nimpatiently.\n\nArt thou there, truepenny?\n\n--Interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean, we have the plays. I\nmean when we read the poetry of _King Lear_ what is it to us how the\npoet lived? As for living our servants can do that for us, Villiers de\nl'Isle has said. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the day,\nthe poet's drinking, the poet's debts. We have _King Lear_: and it is\nimmortal.\n\nMr Best's face, appealed to, agreed.\n\n_Flow over them with your waves and with your waters, Mananaan, Mananaan\nMacLir..._\n\nHow now, sirrah, that pound he lent you when you were hungry?\n\nMarry, I wanted it.\n\nTake thou this noble.\n\nGo to! You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's\ndaughter. Agenbite of inwit.\n\nDo you intend to pay it back?\n\nO, yes.\n\nWhen? Now?\n\nWell... No.\n\nWhen, then?\n\nI paid my way. I paid my way.\n\nSteady on. He's from beyant Boyne water. The northeast corner. You owe\nit.\n\nWait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got\npound.\n\nBuzz. Buzz.\n\nBut I, entelechy, form of forms, am I by memory because under\neverchanging forms.\n\nI that sinned and prayed and fasted.\n\nA child Conmee saved from pandies.\n\nI, I and I. I.\n\nA.E.I.O.U.\n\n--Do you mean to fly in the face of the tradition of three centuries?\nJohn Eglinton's carping voice asked. Her ghost at least has been laid\nfor ever. She died, for literature at least, before she was born.\n\n--She died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was born. She\nsaw him into and out of the world. She took his first embraces. She bore\nhis children and she laid pennies on his eyes to keep his eyelids closed\nwhen he lay on his deathbed.\n\nMother's deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me into\nthis world lies there, bronzelidded, under few cheap flowers. _Liliata\nrutilantium._\n\nI wept alone.\n\nJohn Eglinton looked in the tangled glowworm of his lamp.\n\n--The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, and got\nout of it as quickly and as best he could.\n\n--Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man of genius makes no mistakes. His\nerrors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.\n\nPortals of discovery opened to let in the quaker librarian,\nsoftcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous.\n\n--A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is not a useful portal of\ndiscovery, one should imagine. What useful discovery did Socrates learn\nfrom Xanthippe?\n\n--Dialectic, Stephen answered: and from his mother how to bring thoughts\ninto the world. What he learnt from his other wife Myrto (_absit\nnomen!_), Socratididion's Epipsychidion, no man, not a woman, will ever\nknow. But neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him\nfrom the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock.\n\n--But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. Yes, we seem\nto be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.\n\nHis look went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to remind, to\nchide them not unkindly, then to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless\nthough maligned.\n\n--He had a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, and no truant memory.\nHe carried a memory in his wallet as he trudged to Romeville whistling\n_The girl I left behind me._ If the earthquake did not time it we should\nknow where to place poor Wat, sitting in his form, the cry of hounds,\nthe studded bridle and her blue windows. That memory, _Venus and\nAdonis_, lay in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London.\nIs Katharine the shrew illfavoured? Hortensio calls her young and\nbeautiful. Do you think the writer of _Antony and Cleopatra_, a\npassionate pilgrim, had his eyes in the back of his head that he chose\nthe ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Good: he left her\nand gained the world of men. But his boywomen are the women of a boy.\nTheir life, thought, speech are lent them by males. He chose badly? He\nwas chosen, it seems to me. If others have their will Ann hath a way.\nBy cock, she was to blame. She put the comether on him, sweet and\ntwentysix. The greyeyed goddess who bends over the boy Adonis, stooping\nto conquer, as prologue to the swelling act, is a boldfaced Stratford\nwench who tumbles in a cornfield a lover younger than herself.\n\nAnd my turn? When?\n\nCome!\n\n--Ryefield, Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly,\nbrightly.\n\nHe murmured then with blond delight for all:\n\n_Between the acres of the rye These pretty countryfolk would lie._\n\nParis: the wellpleased pleaser.\n\nA tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its\ncooperative watch.\n\n--I am afraid I am due at the _Homestead._\n\nWhither away? Exploitable ground.\n\n--Are you going? John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked. Shall we see you\nat Moore's tonight? Piper is coming.\n\n--Piper! Mr Best piped. Is Piper back?\n\nPeter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper.\n\n--I don't know if I can. Thursday. We have our meeting. If I can get\naway in time.\n\nYogibogeybox in Dawson chambers. _Isis Unveiled._ Their Pali book we\ntried to pawn. Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones an\nAztec logos, functioning on astral levels, their oversoul, mahamahatma.\nThe faithful hermetists await the light, ripe for chelaship,\nringroundabout him. Louis H. Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin. Lotus ladies\ntend them i'the eyes, their pineal glands aglow. Filled with his god,\nhe thrones, Buddh under plantain. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. Hesouls,\nshesouls, shoals of souls. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled,\nwhirling, they bewail.\n\n     _In quintessential triviality\n     For years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt._\n\n--They say we are to have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian\nsaid, friendly and earnest. Mr Russell, rumour has it, is gathering\ntogether a sheaf of our younger poets' verses. We are all looking\nforward anxiously.\n\nAnxiously he glanced in the cone of lamplight where three faces,\nlighted, shone.\n\nSee this. Remember.\n\nStephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his\nashplanthandle over his knee. My casque and sword. Touch lightly with\ntwo index fingers. Aristotle's experiment. One or two? Necessity is that\nin virtue of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise. Argal,\none hat is one hat.\n\nListen.\n\nYoung Colum and Starkey. George Roberts is doing the commercial part.\nLongworth will give it a good puff in the _Express._ O, will he? I liked\nColum's _Drover._ Yes, I think he has that queer thing genius. Do you\nthink he has genius really? Yeats admired his line: _As in wild earth\na Grecian vase_. Did he? I hope you'll be able to come tonight. Malachi\nMulligan is coming too. Moore asked him to bring Haines. Did you hear\nMiss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn? That Moore is Martyn's\nwild oats? Awfully clever, isn't it? They remind one of Don Quixote and\nSancho Panza. Our national epic has yet to be written, Dr Sigerson says.\nMoore is the man for it. A knight of the rueful countenance here in\nDublin. With a saffron kilt? O'Neill Russell? O, yes, he must speak the\ngrand old tongue. And his Dulcinea? James Stephens is doing some clever\nsketches. We are becoming important, it seems.\n\nCordelia. _Cordoglio._ Lir's loneliest daughter.\n\nNookshotten. Now your best French polish.\n\n--Thank you very much, Mr Russell, Stephen said, rising. If you will be\nso kind as to give the letter to Mr Norman...\n\n--O, yes. If he considers it important it will go in. We have so much\ncorrespondence.\n\n--I understand, Stephen said. Thanks.\n\nGod ild you. The pigs' paper. Bullockbefriending.\n\nSynge has promised me an article for _Dana_ too. Are we going to be\nread? I feel we are. The Gaelic league wants something in Irish. I hope\nyou will come round tonight. Bring Starkey.\n\nStephen sat down.\n\nThe quaker librarian came from the leavetakers. Blushing, his mask said:\n\n--Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating.\n\nHe creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the altitude of a\nchopine, and, covered by the noise of outgoing, said low:\n\n--Is it your view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet?\n\nAlarmed face asks me. Why did he come? Courtesy or an inward light?\n\n--Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said, there must have been\nfirst a sundering.\n\n--Yes.\n\nChristfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway in blighted treeforks,\nfrom hue and cry. Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the chase. Women\nhe won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices,\nbully tapsters' wives. Fox and geese. And in New Place a slack\ndishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as fresh as\ncinnamon, now her leaves falling, all, bare, frighted of the narrow\ngrave and unforgiven.\n\n--Yes. So you think...\n\nThe door closed behind the outgoer.\n\nRest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of warm and\nbrooding air.\n\nA vestal's lamp.\n\nHere he ponders things that were not: what Caesar would have lived to do\nhad he believed the soothsayer: what might have been: possibilities of\nthe possible as possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore when\nhe lived among women.\n\nCoffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words.\nThoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the\nvoice of that Egyptian highpriest. _In painted chambers loaded with\ntilebooks._\n\nThey are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of\ndeath is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak\ntheir will.\n\n--Certainly, John Eglinton mused, of all great men he is the most\nenigmatic. We know nothing but that he lived and suffered. Not even so\nmuch. Others abide our question. A shadow hangs over all the rest.\n\n--But _Hamlet_ is so personal, isn't it? Mr Best pleaded. I mean, a kind\nof private paper, don't you know, of his private life. I mean, I don't\ncare a button, don't you know, who is killed or who is guilty...\n\nHe rested an innocent book on the edge of the desk, smiling his\ndefiance. His private papers in the original. _Ta an bad ar an tir. Taim\nin mo shagart_. Put beurla on it, littlejohn.\n\nQuoth littlejohn Eglinton:\n\n--I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulligan told us but\nI may as well warn you that if you want to shake my belief that\nShakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you.\n\nBear with me.\n\nStephen withstood the bane of miscreant eyes glinting stern under\nwrinkled brows. A basilisk. _E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca_. Messer\nBrunetto, I thank thee for the word.\n\n--As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said,\nfrom day to day, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the artist\nweave and unweave his image. And as the mole on my right breast is where\nit was when I was born, though all my body has been woven of new stuff\ntime after time, so through the ghost of the unquiet father the image\nof the unliving son looks forth. In the intense instant of imagination,\nwhen the mind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which I was is that\nwhich I am and that which in possibility I may come to be. So in the\nfuture, the sister of the past, I may see myself as I sit here now but\nby reflection from that which then I shall be.\n\nDrummond of Hawthornden helped you at that stile.\n\n--Yes, Mr Best said youngly. I feel Hamlet quite young. The bitterness\nmight be from the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely from\nthe son.\n\nHas the wrong sow by the lug. He is in my father. I am in his son.\n\n--That mole is the last to go, Stephen said, laughing.\n\nJohn Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow.\n\n--If that were the birthmark of genius, he said, genius would be a\ndrug in the market. The plays of Shakespeare's later years which Renan\nadmired so much breathe another spirit.\n\n--The spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian breathed.\n\n--There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a\nsundering.\n\nSaid that.\n\n--If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over\nthe hell of time of _King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida,_\nlook to see when and how the shadow lifts. What softens the heart of a\nman, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles,\nprince of Tyre?\n\nHead, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.\n\n--A child, a girl, placed in his arms, Marina.\n\n--The leaning of sophists towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a constant\nquantity, John Eglinton detected. The highroads are dreary but they lead\nto the town.\n\nGood Bacon: gone musty. Shakespeare Bacon's wild oats. Cypherjugglers\ngoing the highroads. Seekers on the great quest. What town, good\nmasters? Mummed in names: A. E., eon: Magee, John Eglinton. East of the\nsun, west of the moon: _Tir na n-og_. Booted the twain and staved.\n\n_How many miles to Dublin? Three score and ten, sir. Will we be there by\ncandlelight?_\n\n--Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said, as the first play of the closing\nperiod.\n\n--Does he? What does Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his\nname is, say of it?\n\n--Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a wonder, Perdita,\nthat which was lost. What was lost is given back to him: his daughter's\nchild. _My dearest wife_, Pericles says, _was like this maid._ Will any\nman love the daughter if he has not loved the mother?\n\n--The art of being a grandfather, Mr Best gan murmur. _l'art d'être\ngrand_...\n\n--Will he not see reborn in her, with the memory of his own youth added,\nanother image?\n\nDo you know what you are talking about? Love, yes. Word known to all\nmen. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus\n...\n\n--His own image to a man with that queer thing genius is the standard of\nall experience, material and moral. Such an appeal will touch him. The\nimages of other males of his blood will repel him. He will see in them\ngrotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.\n\nThe benign forehead of the quaker librarian enkindled rosily with hope.\n\n--I hope Mr Dedalus will work out his theory for the enlightenment of\nthe public. And we ought to mention another Irish commentator, Mr George\nBernard Shaw. Nor should we forget Mr Frank Harris. His articles on\nShakespeare in the _Saturday Review_ were surely brilliant. Oddly\nenough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady of the\nsonnets. The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I own\nthat if the poet must be rejected such a rejection would seem more in\nharmony with--what shall I say?--our notions of what ought not to have\nbeen.\n\nFelicitously he ceased and held a meek head among them, auk's egg, prize\nof their fray.\n\nHe thous and thees her with grave husbandwords. Dost love, Miriam? Dost\nlove thy man?\n\n--That may be too, Stephen said. There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr\nMagee likes to quote. Beware of what you wish for in youth because\nyou will get it in middle life. Why does he send to one who is\na _buonaroba,_ a bay where all men ride, a maid of honour with a\nscandalous girlhood, a lordling to woo for him? He was himself a lord\nof language and had made himself a coistrel gentleman and he had written\n_Romeo and Juliet_. Why? Belief in himself has been untimely killed. He\nwas overborne in a cornfield first (ryefield, I should say) and he will\nnever be a victor in his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game\nof laugh and lie down. Assumed dongiovannism will not save him. No later\nundoing will undo the first undoing. The tusk of the boar has wounded\nhim there where love lies ableeding. If the shrew is worsted yet there\nremains to her woman's invisible weapon. There is, I feel in the words,\nsome goad of the flesh driving him into a new passion, a darker shadow\nof the first, darkening even his own understanding of himself. A like\nfate awaits him and the two rages commingle in a whirlpool.\n\nThey list. And in the porches of their ears I pour.\n\n--The soul has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured in the\nporch of a sleeping ear. But those who are done to death in sleep cannot\nknow the manner of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls\nwith that knowledge in the life to come. The poisoning and the beast\nwith two backs that urged it King Hamlet's ghost could not know of were\nhe not endowed with knowledge by his creator. That is why the speech\n(his lean unlovely English) is always turned elsewhere, backward.\nRavisher and ravished, what he would but would not, go with him from\nLucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, with its\nmole cinquespotted. He goes back, weary of the creation he has piled up\nto hide him from himself, an old dog licking an old sore. But, because\nloss is his gain, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished\npersonality, untaught by the wisdom he has written or by the laws he\nhas revealed. His beaver is up. He is a ghost, a shadow now, the wind by\nElsinore's rocks or what you will, the sea's voice, a voice heard\nonly in the heart of him who is the substance of his shadow, the son\nconsubstantial with the father.\n\n--Amen! was responded from the doorway.\n\nHast thou found me, O mine enemy?\n\n_Entr'acte_.\n\nA ribald face, sullen as a dean's, Buck Mulligan came forward, then\nblithe in motley, towards the greeting of their smiles. My telegram.\n\n--You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate, if I mistake not? he\nasked of Stephen.\n\nPrimrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a bauble.\n\nThey make him welcome. _Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen._\n\nBrood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.\n\nHe Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself,\nAgenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put upon by His fiends,\nstripped and whipped, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on\ncrosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven\nand there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the right hand of His\nOwn Self but yet shall come in the latter day to doom the quick and dead\nwhen all the quick shall be dead already.\n\nGlo--o--ri--a in ex--cel--sis De--o.\n\nHe lifts his hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells with bells with bells\naquiring.\n\n--Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most instructive discussion.\nMr Mulligan, I'll be bound, has his theory too of the play and of\nShakespeare. All sides of life should be represented.\n\nHe smiled on all sides equally.\n\nBuck Mulligan thought, puzzled:\n\n--Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name.\n\nA flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.\n\n--To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like\nSynge.\n\nMr Best turned to him.\n\n--Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He'll see you after at\nthe D. B. C. He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's _Lovesongs of Connacht_.\n\n--I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here?\n\n--The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired\nperhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. I hear that an actress played\nHamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. Vining\nheld that the prince was a woman. Has no-one made him out to be an\nIrishman? Judge Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues. He\nswears (His Highness not His Lordship) by saint Patrick.\n\n--The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde's, Mr Best said,\nlifting his brilliant notebook. That _Portrait of Mr W. H._ where he\nproves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all hues.\n\n--For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked.\n\nOr Hughie Wills? Mr William Himself. W. H.: who am I?\n\n--I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending his gloss easily. Of\ncourse it's all paradox, don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues,\nthe colour, but it's so typical the way he works it out. It's the very\nessence of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch.\n\nHis glance touched their faces lightly as he smiled, a blond ephebe.\nTame essence of Wilde.\n\nYou're darned witty. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan\nDeasy's ducats.\n\nHow much did I spend? O, a few shillings.\n\nFor a plump of pressmen. Humour wet and dry.\n\nWit. You would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks\nin. Lineaments of gratified desire.\n\nThere be many mo. Take her for me. In pairing time. Jove, a cool ruttime\nsend them. Yea, turtledove her.\n\nEve. Naked wheatbellied sin. A snake coils her, fang in's kiss.\n\n--Do you think it is only a paradox? the quaker librarian was asking.\nThe mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious.\n\nThey talked seriously of mocker's seriousness.\n\nBuck Mulligan's again heavy face eyed Stephen awhile. Then, his head\nwagging, he came near, drew a folded telegram from his pocket. His\nmobile lips read, smiling with new delight.\n\n--Telegram! he said. Wonderful inspiration! Telegram! A papal bull!\n\nHe sat on a corner of the unlit desk, reading aloud joyfully:\n\n--_The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the\nimmense debtorship for a thing done._ Signed: Dedalus. Where did you\nlaunch it from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you drunk the four\nquid? The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father. Telegram!\nMalachi Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street. O, you peerless mummer!\nO, you priestified Kinchite!\n\nJoyfully he thrust message and envelope into a pocket but keened in a\nquerulous brogue:\n\n--It's what I'm telling you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were,\nHaines and myself, the time himself brought it in. 'Twas murmur we did\nfor a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I'm thinking, and he limp with\nleching. And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's\nsitting civil waiting for pints apiece.\n\nHe wailed:\n\n--And we to be there, mavrone, and you to be unbeknownst sending us your\nconglomerations the way we to have our tongues out a yard long like the\ndrouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful.\n\nStephen laughed.\n\nQuickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan bent down.\n\n--The tramper Synge is looking for you, he said, to murder you. He\nheard you pissed on his halldoor in Glasthule. He's out in pampooties to\nmurder you.\n\n--Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contribution to literature.\n\nBuck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the dark eavesdropping\nceiling.\n\n--Murder you! he laughed.\n\nHarsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash\nof lights in rue Saint-André-des-Arts. In words of words for words,\npalabras. Oisin with Patrick. Faunman he met in Clamart woods,\nbrandishing a winebottle. _C'est vendredi saint!_ Murthering Irish. His\nimage, wandering, he met. I mine. I met a fool i'the forest.\n\n--Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the door ajar.\n\n--... in which everyone can find his own. So Mr Justice Madden in his\n_Diary of Master William Silence_ has found the hunting terms... Yes?\nWhat is it?\n\n--There's a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said, coming forward and\noffering a card. From the _Freeman._ He wants to see the files of the\n_Kilkenny People_ for last year.\n\n--Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman?...\n\nHe took the eager card, glanced, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked,\nasked, creaked, asked:\n\n--Is he?... O, there!\n\nBrisk in a galliard he was off, out. In the daylit corridor he talked\nwith voluble pains of zeal, in duty bound, most fair, most kind, most\nhonest broadbrim.\n\n--This gentleman? _Freeman's Journal? Kilkenny People?_ To be sure. Good\nday, sir. _Kilkenny_... We have certainly...\n\nA patient silhouette waited, listening.\n\n--All the leading provincial... _Northern Whig, Cork Examiner,\nEnniscorthy Guardian,_ 1903... Will you please?... Evans, conduct this\ngentleman... If you just follow the atten... Or, please allow me...\nThis way... Please, sir...\n\nVoluble, dutiful, he led the way to all the provincial papers, a bowing\ndark figure following his hasty heels.\n\nThe door closed.\n\n--The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried.\n\nHe jumped up and snatched the card.\n\n--What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom.\n\nHe rattled on:\n\n--Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him over in the\nmuseum where I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth that\nhas never been twisted in prayer. Every day we must do homage to her.\n_Life of life, thy lips enkindle._\n\nSuddenly he turned to Stephen:\n\n--He knows you. He knows your old fellow. O, I fear me, he is Greeker\nthan the Greeks. His pale Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove.\nVenus Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those loins! _The god pursuing the\nmaiden hid_.\n\n--We want to hear more, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best's approval.\nWe begin to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her, if\nat all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope stayathome.\n\n--Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took the palm of beauty\nfrom Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare of Troy\nin whom a score of heroes slept, and handed it to poor Penelope. Twenty\nyears he lived in London and, during part of that time, he drew a salary\nequal to that of the lord chancellor of Ireland. His life was rich. His\nart, more than the art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, is the\nart of surfeit. Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugar\nof roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. Sir Walter\nRaleigh, when they arrested him, had half a million francs on his\nback including a pair of fancy stays. The gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor had\nunderlinen enough to vie with her of Sheba. Twenty years he dallied\nthere between conjugial love and its chaste delights and scortatory love\nand its foul pleasures. You know Manningham's story of the burgher's\nwife who bade Dick Burbage to her bed after she had seen him in _Richard\nIII_ and how Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing,\ntook the cow by the horns and, when Burbage came knocking at the gate,\nanswered from the capon's blankets: _William the conqueror came before\nRichard III_. And the gay lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry O,\nand his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a clean quality woman is\nsuited for a player, and the punks of the bankside, a penny a time.\n\nCours la Reine. _Encore vingt sous. Nous ferons de petites cochonneries.\nMinette? Tu veux?_\n\n--The height of fine society. And sir William Davenant of oxford's\nmother with her cup of canary for any cockcanary.\n\nBuck Mulligan, his pious eyes upturned, prayed:\n\n--Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!\n\n--And Harry of six wives' daughter. And other lady friends from\nneighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. But all those\ntwenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in Stratford was doing\nbehind the diamond panes?\n\nDo and do. Thing done. In a rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard, herbalist,\nhe walks, greyedauburn. An azured harebell like her veins. Lids of\nJuno's eyes, violets. He walks. One life is all. One body. Do. But do.\nAfar, in a reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.\n\nBuck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply.\n\n--Whom do you suspect? he challenged.\n\n--Say that he is the spurned lover in the sonnets. Once spurned twice\nspurned. But the court wanton spurned him for a lord, his dearmylove.\n\nLove that dare not speak its name.\n\n--As an Englishman, you mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he loved a\nlord.\n\nOld wall where sudden lizards flash. At Charenton I watched them.\n\n--It seems so, Stephen said, when he wants to do for him, and for all\nother and singular uneared wombs, the holy office an ostler does for the\nstallion. Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife to mother as he had a\nshrew to wife. But she, the giglot wanton, did not break a bedvow. Two\ndeeds are rank in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the dullbrained\nyokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother. Sweet\nAnn, I take it, was hot in the blood. Once a wooer, twice a wooer.\n\nStephen turned boldly in his chair.\n\n--The burden of proof is with you not with me, he said frowning. If you\ndeny that in the fifth scene of _Hamlet_ he has branded her with infamy\ntell me why there is no mention of her during the thirtyfour years\nbetween the day she married him and the day she buried him. All those\nwomen saw their men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, her\npoor dear Willun, when he went and died on her, raging that he was the\nfirst to go, Joan, her four brothers, Judith, her husband and all her\nsons, Susan, her husband too, while Susan's daughter, Elizabeth, to use\ngranddaddy's words, wed her second, having killed her first.\n\nO, yes, mention there is. In the years when he was living richly in\nroyal London to pay a debt she had to borrow forty shillings from her\nfather's shepherd. Explain you then. Explain the swansong too wherein he\nhas commended her to posterity.\n\nHe faced their silence.\n\n     To whom thus Eglinton:\n     You mean the will.\n     But that has been explained, I believe, by jurists.\n     She was entitled to her widow's dower\n     At common law. His legal knowledge was great\n     Our judges tell us.\n     Him Satan fleers,\n     Mocker:\n     And therefore he left out her name\n     From the first draft but he did not leave out\n     The presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters,\n     For his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford\n     And in London. And therefore when he was urged,\n     As I believe, to name her\n     He left her his\n     Secondbest\n     Bed.\n     _Punkt._\n     Leftherhis\n     Secondbest\n     Leftherhis\n     Bestabed\n     Secabest\n     Leftabed.\n\n\nWoa!\n\n--Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton observed, as\nthey have still if our peasant plays are true to type.\n\n--He was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, with a coat of arms\nand landed estate at Stratford and a house in Ireland yard, a capitalist\nshareholder, a bill promoter, a tithefarmer. Why did he not leave her\nhis best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her nights in\npeace?\n\n--It is clear that there were two beds, a best and a secondbest, Mr\nSecondbest Best said finely.\n\n--_Separatio a mensa et a thalamo_, bettered Buck Mulligan and was\nsmiled on.\n\n--Antiquity mentions famous beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling.\nLet me think.\n\n--Antiquity mentions that Stagyrite schoolurchin and bald heathen sage,\nStephen said, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays\ntribute to his elders, wills to be laid in earth near the bones of his\ndead wife and bids his friends be kind to an old mistress (don't forget\nNell Gwynn Herpyllis) and let her live in his villa.\n\n--Do you mean he died so? Mr Best asked with slight concern. I mean...\n\n--He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan capped. A quart of ale is a dish for\na king. O, I must tell you what Dowden said!\n\n--What? asked Besteglinton.\n\nWilliam Shakespeare and company, limited. The people's William. For\nterms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house...\n\n--Lovely! Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. I asked him what he thought\nof the charge of pederasty brought against the bard. He lifted his hands\nand said: _All we can say is that life ran very high in those days._\nLovely!\n\nCatamite.\n\n--The sense of beauty leads us astray, said beautifulinsadness Best to\nugling Eglinton.\n\nSteadfast John replied severe:\n\n--The doctor can tell us what those words mean. You cannot eat your cake\nand have it.\n\nSayest thou so? Will they wrest from us, from me, the palm of beauty?\n\n--And the sense of property, Stephen said. He drew Shylock out of his\nown long pocket. The son of a maltjobber and moneylender he was himself\na cornjobber and moneylender, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the\nfamine riots. His borrowers are no doubt those divers of worship\nmentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing.\nHe sued a fellowplayer for the price of a few bags of malt and exacted\nhis pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. How else could\nAubrey's ostler and callboy get rich quick? All events brought grist to\nhis mill. Shylock chimes with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging\nand quartering of the queen's leech Lopez, his jew's heart being plucked\nforth while the sheeny was yet alive: _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ with\nthe coming to the throne of a Scotch philosophaster with a turn for\nwitchroasting. The lost armada is his jeer in _Love's Labour Lost_.\nHis pageants, the histories, sail fullbellied on a tide of Mafeking\nenthusiasm. Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we have a porter's theory\nof equivocation. The _Sea Venture_ comes home from Bermudas and the play\nRenan admired is written with Patsy Caliban, our American cousin.\nThe sugared sonnets follow Sidney's. As for fay Elizabeth, otherwise\ncarrotty Bess, the gross virgin who inspired _The Merry Wives of\nWindsor_, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life long for deephid\nmeanings in the depths of the buckbasket.\n\nI think you're getting on very nicely. Just mix up a mixture of\ntheolologicophilolological. _Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere._\n\n--Prove that he was a jew, John Eglinton dared,'expectantly. Your dean\nof studies holds he was a holy Roman.\n\n_Sufflaminandus sum._\n\n--He was made in Germany, Stephen replied, as the champion French\npolisher of Italian scandals.\n\n--A myriadminded man, Mr Best reminded. Coleridge called him\nmyriadminded.\n\n_Amplius. In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia\ninter multos._\n\n--Saint Thomas, Stephen began...\n\n--_Ora pro nobis_, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a chair.\n\nThere he keened a wailing rune.\n\n--_Pogue mahone! Acushla machree!_ It's destroyed we are from this day!\nIt's destroyed we are surely!\n\nAll smiled their smiles.\n\n--Saint Thomas, Stephen smiling said, whose gorbellied works I enjoy\nreading in the original, writing of incest from a standpoint different\nfrom that of the new Viennese school Mr Magee spoke of, likens it in his\nwise and curious way to an avarice of the emotions. He means that the\nlove so given to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some\nstranger who, it may be, hungers for it. Jews, whom christians tax with\navarice, are of all races the most given to intermarriage. Accusations\nare made in anger. The christian laws which built up the hoards of the\njews (for whom, as for the lollards, storm was shelter) bound their\naffections too with hoops of steel. Whether these be sins or virtues old\nNobodaddy will tell us at doomsday leet. But a man who holds so tightly\nto what he calls his rights over what he calls his debts will hold\ntightly also to what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his\nwife. No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his wife or his\nmanservant or his maidservant or his jackass.\n\n--Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan antiphoned.\n\n--Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best said gently.\n\n--Which will? gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan. We are getting mixed.\n\n--The will to live, John Eglinton philosophised, for poor Ann, Will's\nwidow, is the will to die.\n\n_--Requiescat!_ Stephen prayed.\n\n     _What of all the will to do?\n     It has vanished long ago..._\n\n--She lies laid out in stark stiffness in that secondbest bed, the\nmobled queen, even though you prove that a bed in those days was as\nrare as a motorcar is now and that its carvings were the wonder of seven\nparishes. In old age she takes up with gospellers (one stayed with her\nat New Place and drank a quart of sack the town council paid for but in\nwhich bed he slept it skills not to ask) and heard she had a soul. She\nread or had read to her his chapbooks preferring them to the _Merry\nWives_ and, loosing her nightly waters on the jordan, she thought\nover _Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches_ and _The most Spiritual\nSnuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze_. Venus has twisted her\nlips in prayer. Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience. It is an age\nof exhausted whoredom groping for its god.\n\n--History shows that to be true, _inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos_. The\nages succeed one another. But we have it on high authority that a man's\nworst enemies shall be those of his own house and family. I feel that\nRussell is right. What do we care for his wife or father? I should say\nthat only family poets have family lives. Falstaff was not a family man.\nI feel that the fat knight is his supreme creation.\n\nLean, he lay back. Shy, deny thy kindred, the unco guid. Shy, supping\nwith the godless, he sneaks the cup. A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it\nhim. Visits him here on quarter days. Mr Magee, sir, there's a gentleman\nto see you. Me? Says he's your father, sir. Give me my Wordsworth. Enter\nMagee Mor Matthew, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in strossers with\na buttoned codpiece, his nether stocks bemired with clauber of ten\nforests, a wand of wilding in his hand.\n\nYour own? He knows your old fellow. The widower.\n\nHurrying to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the quayside I\ntouched his hand. The voice, new warmth, speaking. Dr Bob Kenny is\nattending her. The eyes that wish me well. But do not know me.\n\n--A father, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is a necessary\nevil. He wrote the play in the months that followed his father's death.\nIf you hold that he, a greying man with two marriageable daughters, with\nthirtyfive years of life, _nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita_, with\nfifty of experience, is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then\nyou must hold that his seventyyear old mother is the lustful queen. No.\nThe corpse of John Shakespeare does not walk the night. From hour to\nhour it rots and rots. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised\nthat mystical estate upon his son. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first\nand last man who felt himself with child. Fatherhood, in the sense of\nconscious begetting, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an\napostolic succession, from only begetter to only begotten. On that\nmystery and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian intellect\nflung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably\nbecause founded, like the world, macro and microcosm, upon the void.\nUpon incertitude, upon unlikelihood. _Amor matris_, subjective and\nobjective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be\na legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love\nhim or he any son?\n\nWhat the hell are you driving at?\n\nI know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons.\n\n_Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea._\n\nAre you condemned to do this?\n\n--They are sundered by a bodily shame so steadfast that the criminal\nannals of the world, stained with all other incests and bestialities,\nhardly record its breach. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters,\nlesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak their name, nephews with\ngrandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. The son\nunborn mars beauty: born, he brings pain, divides affection, increases\ncare. He is a new male: his growth is his father's decline, his youth\nhis father's envy, his friend his father's enemy.\n\nIn rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought it.\n\n--What links them in nature? An instant of blind rut.\n\nAm I a father? If I were?\n\nShrunken uncertain hand.\n\n--Sabellius, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the beasts of the\nfield, held that the Father was Himself His Own Son. The bulldog of\nAquin, with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him. Well: if\nthe father who has not a son be not a father can the son who has not a\nfather be a son? When Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another poet\nof the same name in the comedy of errors wrote _Hamlet_ he was not the\nfather of his own son merely but, being no more a son, he was and felt\nhimself the father of all his race, the father of his own grandfather,\nthe father of his unborn grandson who, by the same token, never was\nborn, for nature, as Mr Magee understands her, abhors perfection.\n\nEglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. Gladly\nglancing, a merry puritan, through the twisted eglantine.\n\nFlatter. Rarely. But flatter.\n\n--Himself his own father, Sonmulligan told himself. Wait. I am big with\nchild. I have an unborn child in my brain. Pallas Athena! A play! The\nplay's the thing! Let me parturiate!\n\nHe clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands.\n\n--As for his family, Stephen said, his mother's name lives in the\nforest of Arden. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in\n_Coriolanus._ His boyson's death is the deathscene of young Arthur in\n_King John._ Hamlet, the black prince, is Hamnet Shakespeare. Who the\ngirls in _The Tempest_, in _Pericles,_ in _Winter's Tale_ are we know.\nWho Cleopatra, fleshpot of Egypt, and Cressid and Venus are we may\nguess. But there is another member of his family who is recorded.\n\n--The plot thickens, John Eglinton said.\n\nThe quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, quake, his mask, quake, with\nhaste, quake, quack.\n\nDoor closed. Cell. Day.\n\nThey list. Three. They.\n\nI you he they.\n\nCome, mess.\n\nSTEPHEN: He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in his\nold age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer\none time mass he did and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up\nin Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man on's back. The playhouse sausage\nfilled Gilbert's soul. He is nowhere: but an Edmund and a Richard are\nrecorded in the works of sweet William.\n\nMAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! What's in a name?\n\nBEST: That is my name, Richard, don't you know. I hope you are going to\nsay a good word for Richard, don't you know, for my sake. _(Laughter)_\n\n\nBUCKMULLIGAN: (_Piano, diminuendo_)\n\n     _Then outspoke medical Dick\n     To his comrade medical Davy..._\n\nSTEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the villain shakebags, Iago,\nRichard Crookback, Edmund in _King Lear_, two bear the wicked uncles'\nnames. Nay, that last play was written or being written while his\nbrother Edmund lay dying in Southwark.\n\nBEST: I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don't want Richard, my name\n...\n\n_(Laughter)_\n\nQUAKERLYSTER: (_A tempo_) But he that filches from me my good name...\n\nSTEPHEN: _(Stringendo)_ He has hidden his own name, a fair name,\nWilliam, in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as a painter of old\nItaly set his face in a dark corner of his canvas. He has revealed it in\nthe sonnets where there is Will in overplus. Like John o'Gaunt his name\nis dear to him, as dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend\nsable a spear or steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer\nthan his glory of greatest shakescene in the country. What's in a name?\nThat is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that\nwe are told is ours. A star, a daystar, a firedrake, rose at his birth.\nIt shone by day in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the\nnight, and by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the recumbent\nconstellation which is the signature of his initial among the stars. His\neyes watched it, lowlying on the horizon, eastward of the bear, as\nhe walked by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from\nShottery and from her arms.\n\nBoth satisfied. I too.\n\nDon't tell them he was nine years old when it was quenched.\n\nAnd from her arms.\n\nWait to be wooed and won. Ay, meacock. Who will woo you?\n\nRead the skies. _Autontimorumenos. Bous Stephanoumenos._ Where's your\nconfiguration? Stephen, Stephen, cut the bread even. S. D: _sua donna.\nGià: di lui. gelindo risolve di non amare_ S. D.\n\n--What is that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a\ncelestial phenomenon?\n\n--A star by night, Stephen said. A pillar of the cloud by day.\n\nWhat more's to speak?\n\nStephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots.\n\n_Stephanos,_ my crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my\nfeet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchief too.\n\n--You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name is\nstrange enough. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.\n\nMe, Magee and Mulligan.\n\nFabulous artificer. The hawklike man. You flew. Whereto?\nNewhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Paris and back. Lapwing. Icarus.\n_Pater, ait._ Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. Lapwing you are. Lapwing\nbe.\n\nMr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say:\n\n--That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know,\nwe find also in the old Irish myths. Just what you say. The three\nbrothers Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the fairytales. The\nthird brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best\nprize.\n\nBest of Best brothers. Good, better, best.\n\nThe quaker librarian springhalted near.\n\n--I should like to know, he said, which brother you... I understand you\nto suggest there was misconduct with one of the brothers... But perhaps\nI am anticipating?\n\nHe caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained.\n\nAn attendant from the doorway called:\n\n--Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants...\n\n--O, Father Dineen! Directly.\n\nSwiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone.\n\nJohn Eglinton touched the foil.\n\n--Come, he said. Let us hear what you have to say of Richard and Edmund.\nYou kept them for the last, didn't you?\n\n--In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and\nnuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A\nbrother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.\n\nLapwing.\n\nWhere is your brother? Apothecaries' hall. My whetstone. Him, then\nCranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They\nmock to try you. Act. Be acted on.\n\nLapwing.\n\nI am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink.\n\nOn.\n\n--You will say those names were already in the chronicles from which he\ntook the stuff of his plays. Why did he take them rather than others?\nRichard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann\n(what's in a name?), woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow. Richard\nthe conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered. The\nother four acts of that play hang limply from that first. Of all his\nkings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence,\nthe angel of the world. Why is the underplot of _King Lear_ in which\nEdmund figures lifted out of Sidney's _Arcadia_ and spatchcocked on to a\nCeltic legend older than history?\n\n--That was Will's way, John Eglinton defended. We should not now combine\na Norse saga with an excerpt from a novel by George Meredith. _Que\nvoulez-vous?_ Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on the seacoast and makes\nUlysses quote Aristotle.\n\n--Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the false or\nthe usurping or the adulterous brother or all three in one is to\nShakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. The note of\nbanishment, banishment from the heart, banishment from home, sounds\nuninterruptedly from _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_ onward till Prospero\nbreaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the earth and drowns his\nbook. It doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in\nanother, repeats itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe.\nIt repeats itself again when he is near the grave, when his married\ndaughter Susan, chip of the old block, is accused of adultery. But it\nwas the original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will\nand left in him a strong inclination to evil. The words are those of\nmy lords bishops of Maynooth. An original sin and, like original sin,\ncommitted by another in whose sin he too has sinned. It is between the\nlines of his last written words, it is petrified on his tombstone under\nwhich her four bones are not to be laid. Age has not withered it. Beauty\nand peace have not done it away. It is in infinite variety everywhere in\nthe world he has created, in _Much Ado about Nothing_, twice in _As you\nlike It_, in _The Tempest_, in _Hamlet,_ in _Measure for Measure_--and\nin all the other plays which I have not read.\n\nHe laughed to free his mind from his mind's bondage.\n\nJudge Eglinton summed up.\n\n--The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost and the prince. He\nis all in all.\n\n--He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is the mature man of act five.\nAll in all. In _Cymbeline,_ in _Othello_ he is bawd and cuckold. He acts\nand is acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion, like Jose he\nkills the real Carmen. His unremitting intellect is the hornmad Iago\nceaselessly willing that the moor in him shall suffer.\n\n--Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly. O word of fear!\n\nDark dome received, reverbed.\n\n--And what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed. When\nall is said Dumas _fils_ (or is it Dumas _père?)_ is right. After God\nShakespeare has created most.\n\n--Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said. He returns after\na life of absence to that spot of earth where he was born, where he has\nalways been, man and boy, a silent witness and there, his journey of\nlife ended, he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies. The\nmotion is ended. Gravediggers bury Hamlet _(père?)_ and Hamlet _fils._\nA king and a prince at last in death, with incidental music. And, what\nthough murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for,\nDane or Dubliner, sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whom\nthey refuse to be divorced. If you like the epilogue look long on it:\nprosperous Prospero, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of\nlove, and nuncle Richie, the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the\nplace where the bad niggers go. Strong curtain. He found in the world\nwithout as actual what was in his world within as possible. Maeterlinck\nsays: _If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated\non his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps\nwill tend._ Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through\nourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives,\nwidows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves. The playwright\nwho wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us light\nfirst and the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom\nthe most Roman of catholics call _dio boia_, hangman god, is doubtless\nall in all in all of us, ostler and butcher, and would be bawd and\ncuckold too but that in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, there\nare no more marriages, glorified man, an androgynous angel, being a wife\nunto himself.\n\n_--Eureka!_ Buck Mulligan cried. _Eureka!_\n\nSuddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's\ndesk.\n\n--May I? he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.\n\nHe began to scribble on a slip of paper.\n\nTake some slips from the counter going out.\n\n--Those who are married, Mr Best, douce herald, said, all save one,\nshall live. The rest shall keep as they are.\n\nHe laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.\n\nUnwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his\nvariorum edition of _The Taming of the Shrew._\n\n--You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have\nbrought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe\nyour own theory?\n\n--No, Stephen said promptly.\n\n--Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a\ndialogue, don't you know, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.\n\nJohn Eclecticon doubly smiled.\n\n--Well, in that case, he said, I don't see why you should expect payment\nfor it since you don't believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is\nsome mystery in _Hamlet_ but will say no more. Herr Bleibtreu, the man\nPiper met in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes\nthat the secret is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to\nvisit the present duke, Piper says, and prove to him that his ancestor\nwrote the plays. It will come as a surprise to his grace. But he\nbelieves his theory.\n\nI believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help me to believe or help\nme to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? _Egomen._ Who to unbelieve? Other\nchap.\n\n--You are the only contributor to _Dana_ who asks for pieces of silver.\nThen I don't know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants space for an\narticle on economics.\n\nFraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me. Tide you over. Economics.\n\n--For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.\n\nBuck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and then\ngravely said, honeying malice:\n\n--I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper\nMecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the _Summa contra\nGentiles_ in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and\nRosalie, the coalquay whore.\n\nHe broke away.\n\n--Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Aengus of the birds.\n\nCome, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay. I will serve you your orts\nand offals.\n\nStephen rose.\n\nLife is many days. This will end.\n\n--We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. _Notre ami_ Moore says\nMalachi Mulligan must be there.\n\nBuck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.\n\n--Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of\nIreland. I'll be there. Come, Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk\nstraight?\n\nLaughing, he...\n\nSwill till eleven. Irish nights entertainment.\n\nLubber...\n\nStephen followed a lubber...\n\nOne day in the national library we had a discussion. Shakes. After. His\nlub back: I followed. I gall his kibe.\n\nStephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a wellkempt\nhead, newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into a shattering daylight of\nno thought.\n\nWhat have I learned? Of them? Of me?\n\nWalk like Haines now.\n\nThe constant readers' room. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor\nFitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item: was Hamlet\nmad? The quaker's pate godlily with a priesteen in booktalk.\n\n--O please do, sir... I shall be most pleased...\n\nAmused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding:\n\n--A pleased bottom.\n\nThe turnstile.\n\nIs that?... Blueribboned hat... Idly writing... What? Looked?...\n\nThe curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.\n\nPuck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling:\n\n_John Eglinton, my jo, John, Why won't you wed a wife?_\n\nHe spluttered to the air:\n\n--O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. We went over to their\nplaybox, Haines and I, the plumbers' hall. Our players are creating a\nnew art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Abbey Theatre! I\nsmell the pubic sweat of monks.\n\nHe spat blank.\n\nForgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him. And\nleft the _femme de trente ans._ And why no other children born? And his\nfirst child a girl?\n\nAfterwit. Go back.\n\nThe dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling,\nminion of pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair.\n\nEh... I just eh... wanted... I forgot... he...\n\n--Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there...\n\nPuck Mulligan footed featly, trilling:\n\n     _I hardly hear the purlieu cry\n     Or a tommy talk as I pass one by\n     Before my thoughts begin to run\n     On F. M'Curdy Atkinson,\n     The same that had the wooden leg\n     And that filibustering filibeg\n     That never dared to slake his drouth,\n     Magee that had the chinless mouth.\n     Being afraid to marry on earth\n     They masturbated for all they were worth._\n\n\nJest on. Know thyself.\n\nHalted, below me, a quizzer looks at me. I halt.\n\n--Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge has left off wearing\nblack to be like nature. Only crows, priests and English coal are black.\n\nA laugh tripped over his lips.\n\n--Longworth is awfully sick, he said, after what you wrote about that\nold hake Gregory. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! She gets you\na job on the paper and then you go and slate her drivel to Jaysus.\nCouldn't you do the Yeats touch?\n\nHe went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms:\n\n--The most beautiful book that has come out of our country in my time.\nOne thinks of Homer.\n\nHe stopped at the stairfoot.\n\n--I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly.\n\nThe pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. Gone the nine men's morrice\nwith caps of indices.\n\nIn sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet: _Everyman His\nown Wife or A Honeymoon in the Hand (a national immorality in three\norgasms) by Ballocky Mulligan._\n\n\nHe turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, saying:\n\n--The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.\n\nHe read, _marcato:_\n\n--Characters:\n\n     TODY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole)\n     CRAB (a bushranger)\n     MEDICAL DICK )\n     and          ) (two birds with one stone)\n     MEDICAL DAVY )\n     MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier)\n     FRESH NELLY\n     and\n     ROSALIE (the coalquay whore).\n\nHe laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen:\nand mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men:\n\n--O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin had to\nlift their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured,\nmulticoloured, multitudinous vomit!\n\n--The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted\nthem.\n\nAbout to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside.\n\nPart. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leave his house today,\nif Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies in space which I in time must\ncome to, ineluctably.\n\nMy will: his will that fronts me. Seas between.\n\nA man passed out between them, bowing, greeting.\n\n--Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.\n\nThe portico.\n\nHere I watched the birds for augury. Aengus of the birds. They go, they\ncome. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men wondered. Street of harlots\nafter. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.\n\n--The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. Did you\nsee his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. I fear thee, ancient\nmariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.\n\nManner of Oxenford.\n\nDay. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.\n\nA dark back went before them, step of a pard, down, out by the gateway,\nunder portcullis barbs.\n\nThey followed.\n\nOffend me still. Speak on.\n\nKind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street. No birds. Frail\nfrom the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and in a flaw\nof softness softly were blown.\n\nCease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic:\nfrom wide earth an altar.\n\n     _Laud we the gods\n     And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils\n     From our bless'd altars._\n\n\nThe superior, the very reverend John Conmee S.J. reset his smooth watch\nin his interior pocket as he came down the presbytery steps. Five to\nthree. Just nice time to walk to Artane. What was that boy's name again?\nDignam. Yes. _Vere dignum et iustum est._ Brother Swan was the person\nto see. Mr Cunningham's letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible. Good\npractical catholic: useful at mission time.\n\nA onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his\ncrutches, growled some notes. He jerked short before the convent of the\nsisters of charity and held out a peaked cap for alms towards the very\nreverend John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed him in the sun for his\npurse held, he knew, one silver crown.\n\nFather Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. He thought, but not for long,\nof soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot off by cannonballs,\nending their days in some pauper ward, and of cardinal Wolsey's words:\n_If I had served my God as I have served my king He would not have\nabandoned me in my old days._ He walked by the treeshade of sunnywinking\nleaves: and towards him came the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P.\n\n--Very well, indeed, father. And you, father?\n\nFather Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. He would go to Buxton\nprobably for the waters. And her boys, were they getting on well at\nBelvedere? Was that so? Father Conmee was very glad indeed to hear that.\nAnd Mr Sheehy himself? Still in London. The house was still sitting, to\nbe sure it was. Beautiful weather it was, delightful indeed. Yes, it was\nvery probable that Father Bernard Vaughan would come again to preach. O,\nyes: a very great success. A wonderful man really.\n\nFather Conmee was very glad to see the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P.\nIooking so well and he begged to be remembered to Mr David Sheehy M.P.\nYes, he would certainly call.\n\n--Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy.\n\nFather Conmee doffed his silk hat and smiled, as he took leave, at the\njet beads of her mantilla inkshining in the sun. And smiled yet again,\nin going. He had cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arecanut paste.\n\nFather Conmee walked and, walking, smiled for he thought on Father\nBernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice.\n\n--Pilate! Wy don't you old back that owlin mob?\n\nA zealous man, however. Really he was. And really did great good in his\nway. Beyond a doubt. He loved Ireland, he said, and he loved the Irish.\nOf good family too would one think it? Welsh, were they not?\n\nO, lest he forget. That letter to father provincial.\n\nFather Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy\nsquare. Yes: they were from Belvedere. The little house. Aha. And were\nthey good boys at school? O. That was very good now. And what was his\nname? Jack Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher. And the other little man?\nHis name was Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to have.\n\nFather Conmee gave a letter from his breast to Master Brunny Lynam and\npointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street.\n\n--But mind you don't post yourself into the box, little man, he said.\n\nThe boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed:\n\n--O, sir.\n\n--Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said.\n\nMaster Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put Father Conmee's letter\nto father provincial into the mouth of the bright red letterbox. Father\nConmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy square\neast.\n\nMr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, in silk hat, slate\nfrockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender\ntrousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave\ndeportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady\nMaxwell at the corner of Dignam's court.\n\nWas that not Mrs M'Guinness?\n\nMrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee from the\nfarther footpath along which she sailed. And Father Conmee smiled and\nsaluted. How did she do?\n\nA fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. And to\nthink that she was a pawnbroker! Well, now! Such a... what should he\nsay?... such a queenly mien.\n\nFather Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the shutup\nfree church on his left. The reverend T. R. Greene B.A. will (D.V.)\nspeak. The incumbent they called him. He felt it incumbent on him to say\na few words. But one should be charitable. Invincible ignorance. They\nacted according to their lights.\n\nFather Conmee turned the corner and walked along the North Circular\nroad. It was a wonder that there was not a tramline in such an important\nthoroughfare. Surely, there ought to be.\n\nA band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. All\nraised untidy caps. Father Conmee greeted them more than once benignly.\nChristian brother boys.\n\nFather Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he walked. Saint\nJoseph's church, Portland row. For aged and virtuous females.\nFather Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous: but\noccasionally they were also badtempered.\n\nNear Aldborough house Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift\nnobleman. And now it was an office or something.\n\nFather Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was saluted\nby Mr William Gallagher who stood in the doorway of his shop. Father\nConmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came\nfrom baconflitches and ample cools of butter. He passed Grogan's the\nTobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful\ncatastrophe in New York. In America those things were continually\nhappening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared. Still, an\nact of perfect contrition.\n\nFather Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the window of\nwhich two unlabouring men lounged. They saluted him and were saluted.\n\nFather Conmee passed H. J. O'Neill's funeral establishment where Corny\nKelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed a blade of hay.\nA constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmee saluted\nthe constable. In Youkstetter's, the porkbutcher's, Father Conmee\nobserved pig's puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly curled in\ntubes.\n\nMoored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a\nturfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of dirty\nstraw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above\nhim. It was idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the providence of\nthe Creator who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it\nout and bring it to town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poor\npeople.\n\nOn Newcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S.J. of saint Francis\nXavier's church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward bound\ntram.\n\nOff an inward bound tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley C. C. of\nsaint Agatha's church, north William street, on to Newcomen bridge.\n\nAt Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound tram for\nhe disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.\n\nFather Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked with\ncare in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a sixpence\nand five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm into his purse.\nPassing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector usually\nmade his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket. The\nsolemnity of the occupants of the car seemed to Father Conmee excessive\nfor a journey so short and cheap. Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.\n\nIt was a peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father\nConmee had finished explaining and looked down. His wife, Father Conmee\nsupposed. A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife of the gentleman with\nthe glasses. She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently,\ntiptapping her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinily,\nsweetly.\n\nFather Conmee perceived her perfume in the car. He perceived also that\nthe awkward man at the other side of her was sitting on the edge of the\nseat.\n\nFather Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the\nmouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.\n\nAt Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an old\nwoman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor pulled the\nbellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her basket and\na marketnet: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and\nbasket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed\nthe end of the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who had\nalways to be told twice _bless you, my child,_ that they have been\nabsolved, _pray for me._ But they had so many worries in life, so many\ncares, poor creatures.\n\nFrom the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at\nFather Conmee.\n\nFather Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow men and\nof his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the African mission and of\nthe propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and brown and\nyellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last\nhour came like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian jesuit,\n_Le Nombre des Élus,_ seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable plea. Those\nwere millions of human souls created by God in His Own likeness to\nwhom the faith had not (D.V.) been brought. But they were God's souls,\ncreated by God. It seemed to Father Conmee a pity that they should all\nbe lost, a waste, if one might say.\n\nAt the Howth road stop Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the\nconductor and saluted in his turn.\n\nThe Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee, road and name.\nThe joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide,\nimmediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seas adjoining.\nThen came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in one day.\nThose were old worldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old times\nin the barony.\n\nFather Conmee, walking, thought of his little book _Old Times in the\nBarony_ and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of\nMary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of Belvedere.\n\nA listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel,\nMary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening,\nnot startled when an otter plunged. Who could know the truth? Not the\njealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had not committed\nadultery fully, _eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris,_ with\nher husband's brother? She would half confess if she had not all sinned\nas women did. Only God knew and she and he, her husband's brother.\n\nFather Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed however for\nman's race on earth, and of the ways of God which were not our ways.\n\nDon John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was humane and\nhonoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and he smiled at\nsmiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full fruit\nclusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble to noble,\nwere impalmed by Don John Conmee.\n\nIt was a charming day.\n\nThe lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages,\ncurtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of\nsmall white clouds going slowly down the wind. _Moutonner,_ the French\nsaid. A just and homely word.\n\nFather Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds\nover Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble of\nClongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening, and heard\nthe cries of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the quiet\nevening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.\n\nFather Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out. An\nivory bookmark told him the page.\n\nNones. He should have read that before lunch. But lady Maxwell had come.\n\nFather Conmee read in secret _Pater_ and _Ave_ and crossed his breast.\n_Deus in adiutorium._\n\nHe walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till he\ncame to _Res_ in _Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum veritas:\nin eternum omnia indicia iustitiae tuae._\n\nA flushed young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came a\nyoung woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand. The young man raised\nhis cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care\ndetached from her light skirt a clinging twig.\n\nFather Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his\nbreviary. _Sin: Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis\nformidavit cor meum._\n\n* * * * *\n\nCorny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his drooping eye\nat a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He pulled himself erect,\nwent to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass\nfurnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came\nto the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes\nand leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out.\n\nFather John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge.\n\nCorny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat\ndowntilted, chewing his blade of hay.\n\nConstable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day.\n\n--That's a fine day, Mr Kelleher.\n\n--Ay, Corny Kelleher said.\n\n--It's very close, the constable said.\n\nCorny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his mouth\nwhile a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a\ncoin.\n\n--What's the best news? he asked.\n\n--I seen that particular party last evening, the constable said with\nbated breath.\n\n* * * * *\n\nA onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner, skirting\nRabaiotti's icecream car, and jerked himself up Eccles street. Towards\nLarry O'Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he growled unamiably:\n\n--_For England_...\n\nHe swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted\nand growled:\n\n--_home and beauty._\n\nJ. J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in the\nwarehouse with a visitor.\n\nA stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it\ninto the cap held out to her. The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced sourly\nat the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung himself forward four\nstrides.\n\nHe halted and growled angrily:\n\n--_For England_...\n\nTwo barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him,\ngaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.\n\nHe swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head\ntowards a window and bayed deeply:\n\n--_home and beauty._\n\nThe gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased.\nThe blind of the window was drawn aside. A card _Unfurnished Apartments_\nslipped from the sash and fell. A plump bare generous arm shone, was\nseen, held forth from a white petticoatbodice and taut shiftstraps. A\nwoman's hand flung forth a coin over the area railings. It fell on the\npath.\n\nOne of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the\nminstrel's cap, saying:\n\n--There, sir.\n\n* * * * *\n\nKatey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming kitchen.\n\n--Did you put in the books? Boody asked.\n\nMaggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds\ntwice with her potstick and wiped her brow.\n\n--They wouldn't give anything on them, she said.\n\nFather Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles\ntickled by stubble.\n\n--Where did you try? Boody asked.\n\n--M'Guinness's.\n\nBoody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table.\n\n--Bad cess to her big face! she cried.\n\nKatey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes.\n\n--What's in the pot? she asked.\n\n--Shirts, Maggy said.\n\nBoody cried angrily:\n\n--Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?\n\nKatey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked:\n\n--And what's in this?\n\nA heavy fume gushed in answer.\n\n--Peasoup, Maggy said.\n\n--Where did you get it? Katey asked.\n\n--Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.\n\nThe lacquey rang his bell.\n\n--Barang!\n\nBoody sat down at the table and said hungrily:\n\n--Give us it here.\n\nMaggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey,\nsitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her\nmouth random crumbs:\n\n--A good job we have that much. Where's Dilly?\n\n--Gone to meet father, Maggy said.\n\nBoody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added:\n\n--Our father who art not in heaven.\n\nMaggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed:\n\n--Boody! For shame!\n\nA skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the\nLiffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed\naround the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains,\nbetween the Customhouse old dock and George's quay.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe blond girl in Thornton's bedded the wicker basket with rustling\nfibre. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper\nand a small jar.\n\n--Put these in first, will you? he said.\n\n--Yes, sir, the blond girl said. And the fruit on top.\n\n--That'll do, game ball, Blazes Boylan said.\n\nShe bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe\nshamefaced peaches.\n\nBlazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the\nfruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled and plump red\ntomatoes, sniffing smells.\n\nH. E. L. Y.'S filed before him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane,\nplodding towards their goal.\n\nHe turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from\nhis fob and held it at its chain's length.\n\n--Can you send them by tram? Now?\n\nA darkbacked figure under Merchants' arch scanned books on the hawker's\ncart.\n\n--Certainly, sir. Is it in the city?\n\n--O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes.\n\nThe blond girl handed him a docket and pencil.\n\n--Will you write the address, sir?\n\nBlazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her.\n\n--Send it at once, will you? he said. It's for an invalid.\n\n--Yes, sir. I will, sir.\n\nBlazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket.\n\n--What's the damage? he asked.\n\nThe blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits.\n\nBlazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He took\na red carnation from the tall stemglass.\n\n--This for me? he asked gallantly.\n\nThe blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie\na bit crooked, blushing.\n\n--Yes, sir, she said.\n\nBending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.\n\nBlazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the\nred flower between his smiling teeth.\n\n--May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly.\n\n* * * * *\n\n_--Ma!_ Almidano Artifoni said.\n\nHe gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.\n\nTwo carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore,\ngripping the handrests. Palefaces. Men's arms frankly round their\nstunted forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of\nthe bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed.\n\n--_Anch'io ho avuto di queste idee, ALMIDANO ARTIFONI SAID, quand' ero\ngiovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia.\nÉ peccato. Perchè la sua voce... sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via.\nInvece, Lei si sacrifica._\n\n--_Sacrifizio incruento,_ Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in\nslow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.\n\n_--Speriamo,_ the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. _Ma, dia retta\na me. Ci rifletta_.\n\nBy the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram\nunloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.\n\n--_Ci rifletterò,_ Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg.\n\n--_Ma, sul serio, eh?_ Almidano Artifoni said.\n\nHis heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Human eyes. They gazed curiously\nan instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.\n\n_--Eccolo,_ Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. _Venga a trovarmi\ne ci pensi. Addio, caro._\n\n--_Arrivederla, maestro,_ Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand\nwas freed. _E grazie._\n\n--_Di che?_ Almidano Artifoni said. _Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose!_\n\nAlmidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal,\ntrotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. In vain he trotted,\nsignalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling\nimplements of music through Trinity gates.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMiss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of _The Woman in White_\nfar back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her\ntypewriter.\n\nToo much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion?\nChange it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.\n\nThe disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them:\nsix.\n\nMiss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:\n\n--16 June 1904.\n\nFive tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner and the slab\nwhere Wolfe Tone's statue was not, eeled themselves turning H. E. L.\nY.'S and plodded back as they had come.\n\nThen she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming\nsoubrette, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens and\ncapital esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She's not nicelooking,\nis she? The way she's holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that\nfellow be at the band tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to make a\nconcertina skirt like Susy Nagle's. They kick out grand. Shannon and\nall the boatclub swells never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness he\nwon't keep me here till seven.\n\nThe telephone rang rudely by her ear.\n\n--Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up after five. Only\nthose two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. All right, sir. Then I can go\nafter six if you're not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven and\nsix. I'll tell him. Yes: one, seven, six.\n\nShe scribbled three figures on an envelope.\n\n--Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from SPORT was in looking for you. Mr\nLenehan, yes. He said he'll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes, sir.\nI'll ring them up after five.\n\n* * * * *\n\nTwo pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.\n\n--Who's that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty?\n\n--Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.\n\n--Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his\npliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps there.\n\nThe vesta in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a long\nsoft flame and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died: and\nmouldy air closed round them.\n\n--How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.\n\n--Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic\ncouncil chamber of saint Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed\nhimself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin.\nO'Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days.\nThe old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and\nthe original jews' temple was here too before they built their synagogue\nover in Adelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were you?\n\n--No, Ned.\n\n--He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my memory\nserves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.\n\n--That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's quite right, sir.\n\n--If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to\nallow me perhaps...\n\n--Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever you like. I'll\nget those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it from here\nor from here.\n\nIn the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled\nseedbags and points of vantage on the floor.\n\nFrom a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.\n\n--I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won't trespass\non your valuable time...\n\n--You're welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next\nweek, say. Can you see?\n\n--Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you.\n\n--Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.\n\nHe followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among\nthe pillars. With J. J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey\nwhere draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal,\nO'Connor, Wexford.\n\nHe stood to read the card in his hand.\n\n--The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present address: Saint\nMichael's, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. He's writing a book about the\nFitzgeralds he told me. He's well up in history, faith.\n\nThe young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging\ntwig.\n\n--I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O'Molloy said.\n\nNed Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.\n\n--God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare\nafter he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? _I'm bloody\nsorry I did it,_ says he, _but I declare to God I thought the archbishop\nwas inside._ He mightn't like it, though. What? God, I'll tell him\nanyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they\nwere all of them, the Geraldines.\n\nThe horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He\nslapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:\n\n--Woa, sonny!\n\nHe turned to J. J. O'Molloy and asked:\n\n--Well, Jack. What is it? What's the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard.\n\nWith gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an\ninstant, sneezed loudly.\n\n--Chow! he said. Blast you!\n\n--The dust from those sacks, J. J. O'Molloy said politely.\n\n--No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a... cold night before... blast\nyour soul... night before last... and there was a hell of a lot of\ndraught...\n\nHe held his handkerchief ready for the coming...\n\n--I was... Glasnevin this morning... poor little... what do you call\nhim... Chow!... Mother of Moses!\n\n* * * * *\n\nTom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his\nclaret waistcoat.\n\n--See? he said. Say it's turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.\n\nHe slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove, wobbled\na while, ceased, ogling them: six.\n\nLawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the\nconsolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying\nthe costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the\nadmiralty division of king's bench to the court of appeal an elderly\nfemale with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of\ngreat amplitude.\n\n--See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over.\nThe impact. Leverage, see?\n\nHe showed them the rising column of disks on the right.\n\n--Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late\ncan see what turn is on and what turns are over.\n\n--See? Tom Rochford said.\n\nHe slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop:\nfour. Turn Now On.\n\n--I'll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound him. One good\nturn deserves another.\n\n--Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.\n\n--Goodnight, M'Coy said abruptly. When you two begin\n\nNosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.\n\n--But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.\n\n--Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later.\n\nHe followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.\n\n--He's a hero, he said simply.\n\n--I know, M'Coy said. The drain, you mean.\n\n--Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.\n\nThey passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming\nsoubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.\n\nGoing down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall\nLenehan showed M'Coy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes like\na bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck down in it, half\nchoked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest and\nall, with the rope round him. And be damned but he got the rope round\nthe poor devil and the two were hauled up.\n\n--The act of a hero, he said.\n\nAt the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past\nthem for Jervis street.\n\n--This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam's\nto see Sceptre's starting price. What's the time by your gold watch and\nchain?\n\nM'Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' sombre office, then at O'Neill's\nclock.\n\n--After three, he said. Who's riding her?\n\n--O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.\n\nWhile he waited in Temple bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle\npushes of his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellow might damn easy\nget a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.\n\nThe gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal\ncavalcade.\n\n--Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against Bantam Lyons\nin there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn't an\nearthly. Through here.\n\nThey went up the steps and under Merchants' arch. A darkbacked figure\nscanned books on the hawker's cart.\n\n--There he is, Lenehan said.\n\n--Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said, glancing behind.\n\n--_Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye,_ Lenehan said.\n\n--He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy said. I was with him one day and he\nbought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob. There were\nfine plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the moon and\ncomets with long tails. Astronomy it was about.\n\nLenehan laughed.\n\n--I'll tell you a damn good one about comets' tails, he said. Come over\nin the sun.\n\nThey crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the\nriverwall.\n\nMaster Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's,\ncarrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.\n\n--There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said\neagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord\nmayor was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan\nDawson spoke and there was music. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin\nDollard...\n\n--I know, M'Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.\n\n--Did she? Lenehan said.\n\nA card _Unfurnished Apartments_ reappeared on the windowsash of number 7\nEccles street.\n\nHe checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.\n\n--But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the\ncatering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were\nthere. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to\nwhich we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came\nsolids. Cold joints galore and mince pies...\n\n--I know, M'Coy said. The year the missus was there...\n\nLenehan linked his arm warmly.\n\n--But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after\nall the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o'clock the\nmorning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter's\nnight on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one\nside of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We started singing\nglees and duets: _Lo, the early beam of morning_. She was well primed\nwith a good load of Delahunt's port under her bellyband. Every jolt the\nbloody car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hell's delights! She\nhas a fine pair, God bless her. Like that.\n\nHe held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning:\n\n--I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time.\nKnow what I mean?\n\nHis hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his eyes tight in\ndelight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.\n\n--The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She's a gamey\nmare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets\nin the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear and\nHercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was\nlost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last\nshe spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. _And what star is that,\nPoldy?_ says she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. _That one, is it?_\nsays Chris Callinan, _sure that's only what you might call a pinprick._\nBy God, he wasn't far wide of the mark.\n\nLenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft laughter.\n\n--I'm weak, he gasped.\n\nM'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. Lenehan\nwalked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead\nrapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy.\n\n--He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He's not one\nof your common or garden... you know... There's a touch of the artist\nabout old Bloom.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMr Bloom turned over idly pages of _The Awful Disclosures of Maria\nMonk,_ then of Aristotle's _Masterpiece._ Crooked botched print. Plates:\ninfants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered\ncows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All\nbutting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute\nsomewhere. Mrs Purefoy.\n\nHe laid both books aside and glanced at the third: _Tales of the Ghetto_\nby Leopold von Sacher Masoch.\n\n--That I had, he said, pushing it by.\n\nThe shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.\n\n--Them are two good ones, he said.\n\nOnions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined mouth.\nHe bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them against his\nunbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.\n\nOn O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay\napparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c.\n\nMr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. _Fair Tyrants_ by James\nLovebirch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.\n\nHe opened it. Thought so.\n\nA woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man.\n\nNo: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once.\n\nHe read the other title: _Sweets of Sin_. More in her line. Let us see.\n\nHe read where his finger opened.\n\n_--All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on\nwondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! For raoul!_\n\nYes. This. Here. Try.\n\n--_Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands\nfelt for the opulent curves inside her deshabillé._\n\nYes. Take this. The end.\n\n--_You are late, he spoke hoarsely, eying her with a suspicious glare.\nThe beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her\nqueenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint. An imperceptible smile played\nround her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly._\n\nMr Bloom read again: _The beautiful woman._\n\nWarmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yielded amply\namid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched\nthemselves for prey. Melting breast ointments (_for Him! For Raoul!_).\nArmpits' oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (_her heaving embonpoint!_).\nFeel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions!\n\nYoung! Young!\n\nAn elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of\nchancery, king's bench, exchequer and common pleas, having heard in\nthe lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the\nadmiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the\nLady Cairns versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of appeal\nreservation of judgment in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident\nand Guarantee Corporation.\n\nPhlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy\ncurtains. The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven\nreddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the\nfloor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along it,\nand bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.\n\nMr Bloom beheld it.\n\nMastering his troubled breath, he said:\n\n--I'll take this one.\n\nThe shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.\n\n--_Sweets of Sin,_ he said, tapping on it. That's a good one.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe lacquey by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell\ntwice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet.\n\nDilly Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the\nbell, the cries of the auctioneer within. Four and nine. Those lovely\ncurtains. Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at two guineas. Any\nadvance on five shillings? Going for five shillings.\n\nThe lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it:\n\n--Barang!\n\nBang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint.\nJ. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched\nnecks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library.\n\nMr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came round from Williams's row. He\nhalted near his daughter.\n\n--It's time for you, she said.\n\n--Stand up straight for the love of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus said.\nAre you trying to imitate your uncle John, the cornetplayer, head upon\nshoulder? Melancholy God!\n\nDilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and\nheld them back.\n\n--Stand up straight, girl, he said. You'll get curvature of the spine.\nDo you know what you look like?\n\nHe let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his shoulders\nand dropping his underjaw.\n\n--Give it up, father, Dilly said. All the people are looking at you.\n\nMr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.\n\n--Did you get any money? Dilly asked.\n\n--Where would I get money? Mr Dedalus said. There is no-one in Dublin\nwould lend me fourpence.\n\n--You got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes.\n\n--How do you know that? Mr Dedalus asked, his tongue in his cheek.\n\nMr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked boldly along\nJames's street.\n\n--I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you in the Scotch house now?\n\n--I was not, then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling. Was it the little nuns\ntaught you to be so saucy? Here.\n\nHe handed her a shilling.\n\n--See if you can do anything with that, he said.\n\n--I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that.\n\n--Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly. You're like the rest of\nthem, are you? An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother\ndied. But wait awhile. You'll all get a short shrift and a long day from\nme. Low blackguardism! I'm going to get rid of you. Wouldn't care if I\nwas stretched out stiff. He's dead. The man upstairs is dead.\n\nHe left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat.\n\n--Well, what is it? he said, stopping.\n\nThe lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.\n\n--Barang!\n\n--Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him.\n\nThe lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his bell but\nfeebly:\n\n--Bang!\n\nMr Dedalus stared at him.\n\n--Watch him, he said. It's instructive. I wonder will he allow us to\ntalk.\n\n--You got more than that, father, Dilly said.\n\n--I'm going to show you a little trick, Mr Dedalus said. I'll leave\nyou all where Jesus left the jews. Look, there's all I have. I got\ntwo shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave for the\nfuneral.\n\nHe drew forth a handful of copper coins, nervously.\n\n--Can't you look for some money somewhere? Dilly said.\n\nMr Dedalus thought and nodded.\n\n--I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter in O'Connell\nstreet. I'll try this one now.\n\n--You're very funny, Dilly said, grinning.\n\n--Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of milk\nfor yourself and a bun or a something. I'll be home shortly.\n\nHe put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on.\n\nThe viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out of\nParkgate.\n\n--I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.\n\nThe lacquey banged loudly.\n\nMr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a pursing\nmincing mouth gently:\n\n--The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn't do\nanything! O, sure they wouldn't really! Is it little sister Monica!\n\n* * * * *\n\nFrom the sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan, pleased with the\norder he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street,\npast Shackleton's offices. Got round him all right. How do you do, Mr\nCrimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in your other\nestablishment in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping alive.\nLovely weather we're having. Yes, indeed. Good for the country. Those\nfarmers are always grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best\ngin, Mr Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair that\nGeneral Slocum explosion. Terrible, terrible! A thousand casualties. And\nheartrending scenes. Men trampling down women and children. Most brutal\nthing. What do they say was the cause? Spontaneous combustion. Most\nscandalous revelation. Not a single lifeboat would float and the\nfirehose all burst. What I can't understand is how the inspectors ever\nallowed a boat like that... Now, you're talking straight, Mr Crimmins.\nYou know why? Palm oil. Is that a fact? Without a doubt. Well now, look\nat that. And America they say is the land of the free. I thought we were\nbad here.\n\nI smiled at him. _America,_ I said quietly, just like that. _What is\nit? The sweepings of every country including our own. Isn't that true?_\nThat's a fact.\n\nGraft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there's money going there's\nalways someone to pick it up.\n\nSaw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a dressy\nappearance. Bowls them over.\n\n--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?\n\n--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.\n\nMr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter\nKennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson\nstreet. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Never built\nunder three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some Kildare street\nclub toff had it probably. John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian\nbank, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he\nremembered me.\n\nAham! Must dress the character for those fellows. Knight of the road.\nGentleman. And now, Mr Crimmins, may we have the honour of your custom\nagain, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as the old saying\nhas it.\n\nNorth wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and anchorchains,\nsailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the\nferrywash, Elijah is coming.\n\nMr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image. High colour, of course.\nGrizzled moustache. Returned Indian officer. Bravely he bore his stumpy\nbody forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Is that Ned\nLambert's brother over the way, Sam? What? Yes. He's as like it as damn\nit. No. The windscreen of that motorcar in the sun there. Just a flash\nlike that. Damn like him.\n\nAham! Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath. Good\ndrop of gin, that was. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his\nfat strut.\n\nDown there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Greasy black rope.\nDogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant's wife\ndrove by in her noddy.\n\nBad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with. Great topers too.\nFourbottle men.\n\nLet me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a midnight\nburial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the\nwall. Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well. Better turn\ndown here. Make a detour.\n\nMr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street by\nthe corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Outside the Dublin\nDistillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood,\nthe reins knotted to the wheel. Damn dangerous thing. Some Tipperary\nbosthoon endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway horse.\n\nDenis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John\nHenry Menton's office, led his wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for the\noffice of Messrs Collis and Ward.\n\nMr Kernan approached Island street.\n\nTimes of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those\nreminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on it all\nnow in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Gaming at Daly's. No\ncardsharping then. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table\nby a dagger. Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major\nSirr. Stables behind Moira house.\n\nDamn good gin that was.\n\nFine dashing young nobleman. Good stock, of course. That ruffian, that\nsham squire, with his violet gloves gave him away. Course they were\non the wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. Fine poem that\nis: Ingram. They were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does sing that ballad\ntouchingly. Masterly rendition.\n\n_At the siege of Ross did my father fall._\n\nA cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping,\nleaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Cream sunshades.\n\nMr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.\n\nHis Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that by a hair. Damn it! What a\npity!\n\n* * * * *\n\nStephen Dedalus watched through the webbed window the lapidary's fingers\nprove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Dust\ndarkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust slept\non dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies,\nleprous and winedark stones.\n\nBorn all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights\nshining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of\ntheir brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest\nthem.\n\nShe dances in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. A sailorman,\nrustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. A long and seafed\nsilent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her\nhips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.\n\nOld Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned it\nand held it at the point of his Moses' beard. Grandfather ape gloating\non a stolen hoard.\n\nAnd you who wrest old images from the burial earth? The brainsick words\nof sophists: Antisthenes. A lore of drugs. Orient and immortal wheat\nstanding from everlasting to everlasting.\n\nTwo old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through\nIrishtown along London bridge road, one with a sanded tired umbrella,\none with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.\n\nThe whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the\npowerhouse urged Stephen to be on. Beingless beings. Stop! Throb always\nwithout you and the throb always within. Your heart you sing of. I\nbetween them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I.\nShatter them, one and both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me\nyou who can. Bawd and butcher were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. A\nlook around.\n\nYes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. You say\nright, sir. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed.\n\nStephen went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash clacking against\nhis shoulderblade. In Clohissey's window a faded 1860 print of Heenan\nboxing Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square hats stood\nround the roped prizering. The heavyweights in tight loincloths proposed\ngently each to other his bulbous fists. And they are throbbing: heroes'\nhearts.\n\nHe turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.\n\n--Twopence each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence.\n\nTattered pages. _The Irish Beekeeper. Life and Miracles of the Curé of\nArs. Pocket Guide to Killarney._\n\nI might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. _Stephano Dedalo,\nalumno optimo, palmam ferenti._\n\nFather Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the hamlet\nof Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.\n\nBinding too good probably. What is this? Eighth and ninth book of Moses.\nSecret of all secrets. Seal of King David. Thumbed pages: read and read.\nWho has passed here before me? How to soften chapped hands. Recipe for\nwhite wine vinegar. How to win a woman's love. For me this. Say the\nfollowing talisman three times with hands folded:\n\n--_Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo! Sanktus! Amen._\n\nWho wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot Peter\nSalanka to all true believers divulged. As good as any other abbot's\ncharms, as mumbling Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your\nwool.\n\n--What are you doing here, Stephen?\n\nDilly's high shoulders and shabby dress.\n\nShut the book quick. Don't let see.\n\n--What are you doing? Stephen said.\n\nA Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. It\nglowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. I told her\nof Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a\npinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. _Nebrakada femininum._\n\n--What have you there? Stephen asked.\n\n--I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing\nnervously. Is it any good?\n\nMy eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and daring.\nShadow of my mind.\n\nHe took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal's French primer.\n\n--What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French?\n\nShe nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips.\n\nShow no surprise. Quite natural.\n\n--Here, Stephen said. It's all right. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you.\nI suppose all my books are gone.\n\n--Some, Dilly said. We had to.\n\nShe is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will\ndrown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me,\nmy heart, my soul. Salt green death.\n\nWe.\n\nAgenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite.\n\nMisery! Misery!\n\n* * * * *\n\n--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?\n\n--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.\n\nThey clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. Father Cowley\nbrushed his moustache often downward with a scooping hand.\n\n--What's the best news? Mr Dedalus said.\n\n--Why then not much, Father Cowley said. I'm barricaded up, Simon, with\ntwo men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance.\n\n--Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it?\n\n--O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance.\n\n--With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedalus asked.\n\n--The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of that ilk. I'm just\nwaiting for Ben Dollard. He's going to say a word to long John to get\nhim to take those two men off. All I want is a little time.\n\nHe looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in\nhis neck.\n\n--I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always\ndoing a good turn for someone. Hold hard!\n\nHe put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.\n\n--There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.\n\nBen Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops\ncrossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards\nthem at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.\n\nAs he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:\n\n--Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.\n\n--Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.\n\nMr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben\nDollard's figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered\nsneeringly:\n\n--That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day?\n\n--Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I\nthrew out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.\n\nHe stood beside them beaming, on them first and on his roomy clothes\nfrom points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying:\n\n--They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow.\n\n--Bad luck to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to\nGod he's not paid yet.\n\n--And how is that _basso profondo_, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked.\n\nCashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring,\nglassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club.\n\nBen Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave forth a\ndeep note.\n\n--Aw! he said.\n\n--That's the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone.\n\n--What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty? What?\n\nHe turned to both.\n\n--That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also.\n\nThe reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old chapterhouse of saint\nMary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended by\nGeraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of\nhurdles.\n\nBen Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them forward,\nhis joyful fingers in the air.\n\n--Come along with me to the subsheriff's office, he said. I want to\nshow you the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff. He's a cross between\nLobengula and Lynchehaun. He's well worth seeing, mind you. Come along.\nI saw John Henry Menton casually in the Bodega just now and it will cost\nme a fall if I don't... Wait awhile... We're on the right lay, Bob,\nbelieve you me.\n\n--For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said anxiously.\n\nBen Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling button\nof his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he wiped away the\nheavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.\n\n--What few days? he boomed. Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent?\n\n--He has, Father Cowley said.\n\n--Then our friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed on, Ben\nDollard said. The landlord has the prior claim. I gave him all the\nparticulars. 29 Windsor avenue. Love is the name?\n\n--That's right, Father Cowley said. The reverend Mr Love. He's a\nminister in the country somewhere. But are you sure of that?\n\n--You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollard said, that he can put that\nwrit where Jacko put the nuts.\n\nHe led Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his bulk.\n\n--Filberts I believe they were, Mr Dedalus said, as he dropped his\nglasses on his coatfront, following them.\n\n* * * * *\n\n--The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said, as they\npassed out of the Castleyard gate.\n\nThe policeman touched his forehead.\n\n--God bless you, Martin Cunningham said, cheerily.\n\nHe signed to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the reins and set on\ntowards Lord Edward street.\n\nBronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared above\nthe crossblind of the Ormond hotel.\n\n--Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard. I wrote to Father\nConmee and laid the whole case before him.\n\n--You could try our friend, Mr Power suggested backward.\n\n--Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touch me not.\n\nJohn Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them\nquickly down Cork hill.\n\nOn the steps of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed\nAlderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending.\n\nThe castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street.\n\n--Look here, Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at the _Mail_\noffice. I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings.\n\n--Quite right, Martin Cunningham said, taking the list. And put down the\nfive shillings too.\n\n--Without a second word either, Mr Power said.\n\n--Strange but true, Martin Cunningham added.\n\nJohn Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.\n\n--I'll say there is much kindness in the jew, he quoted, elegantly.\n\nThey went down Parliament street.\n\n--There's Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said, just heading for Kavanagh's.\n\n--Righto, Martin Cunningham said. Here goes.\n\nOutside _la Maison Claire_ Blazes Boylan waylaid Jack Mooney's\nbrother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties.\n\nJohn Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power, while Martin Cunningham took\nthe elbow of a dapper little man in a shower of hail suit, who walked\nuncertainly, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches.\n\n--The assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble, John\nWyse Nolan told Mr Power.\n\nThey followed round the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms. The\nempty castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate. Martin Cunningham,\nspeaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy Henry did not\nglance.\n\n--And long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as large as\nlife.\n\nThe tall form of long John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood.\n\n--Good day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and\ngreeted.\n\nLong John Fanning made no way for them. He removed his large Henry Clay\ndecisively and his large fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all\ntheir faces.\n\n--Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? he\nsaid with rich acrid utterance to the assistant town clerk.\n\nHell open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly,\nabout their damned Irish language. Where was the marshal, he wanted\nto know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old Barlow the\nmacebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order,\nno quorum even, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little\nLorcan Sherlock doing _locum tenens_ for him. Damned Irish language,\nlanguage of our forefathers.\n\nLong John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.\n\nMartin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard, to the\nassistant town clerk and the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan held his\npeace.\n\n--What Dignam was that? long John Fanning asked.\n\nJimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot.\n\n--O, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for goodness' sake\ntill I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!\n\nTestily he made room for himself beside long John Fanning's flank and\npassed in and up the stairs.\n\n--Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don't think\nyou knew him or perhaps you did, though.\n\nWith John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.\n\n--Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stalwart back of long\nJohn Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning in the mirror.\n\n--Rather lowsized. Dignam of Menton's office that was, Martin Cunningham\nsaid.\n\nLong John Fanning could not remember him.\n\nClatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.\n\n--What's that? Martin Cunningham said.\n\nAll turned where they stood. John Wyse Nolan came down again. From the\ncool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street,\nharness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. Gaily they went past\nbefore his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the leaders,\nleaping leaders, rode outriders.\n\n--What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the\nstaircase.\n\n--The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse\nNolan answered from the stairfoot.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAs they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his\nPanama to Haines:\n\n--Parnell's brother. There in the corner.\n\nThey chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man whose\nbeard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.\n\n--Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.\n\n--Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard, his brother, our city marshal.\n\nJohn Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw\nwent up again to his forehead whereat it rested. An instant after, under\nits screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his foe and fell\nonce more upon a working corner.\n\n--I'll take a _mélange,_ Haines said to the waitress.\n\n--Two _mélanges,_ Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and\nbutter and some cakes as well.\n\nWhen she had gone he said, laughing:\n\n--We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you missed\nDedalus on _Hamlet._\n\nHaines opened his newbought book.\n\n--I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all\nminds that have lost their balance.\n\nThe onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street:\n\n--_England expects_...\n\nBuck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.\n\n--You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance.\nWandering Aengus I call him.\n\n--I am sure he has an _idée fixe,_ Haines said, pinching his chin\nthoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating what it\nwould be likely to be. Such persons always have.\n\nBuck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.\n\n--They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will never\ncapture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white\ndeath and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet.\nThe joy of creation...\n\n--Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled him\nthis morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I saw.\nIt's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an\ninteresting point out of that.\n\nBuck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to\nunload her tray.\n\n--He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said, amid\nthe cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny,\nof retribution. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea. Does\nhe write anything for your movement?\n\nHe sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream.\nBuck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its\nsmoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.\n\n--Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write\nsomething in ten years.\n\n--Seems a long way off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon.\nStill, I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.\n\nHe tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.\n\n--This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance. I don't\nwant to be imposed on.\n\nElijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of\nships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping\nstreet past Benson's ferry, and by the threemasted schooner _Rosevean_\nfrom Bridgwater with bricks.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAlmidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, past Sewell's yard.\nBehind him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with\nstickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's\nhouse and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind him a\nblind stripling tapped his way by the wall of College park.\n\nCashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as\nMr Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along\nMerrion square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.\n\nAt the corner of Wilde's house he halted, frowned at Elijah's name\nannounced on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the distant pleasance of\nduke's lawn. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With ratsteeth\nbared he muttered:\n\n--_Coactus volui._\n\nHe strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word.\n\nAs he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his dustcoat\nbrushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards,\nhaving buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling turned his sickly\nface after the striding form.\n\n--God's curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are! You're blinder\nnor I am, you bitch's bastard!\n\n* * * * *\n\nOpposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the\npound and a half of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he had been\nsent for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling. It was too blooming\ndull sitting in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs\nMacDowell and the blind down and they all at their sniffles and sipping\nsups of the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunney's.\nAnd they eating crumbs of the cottage fruitcake, jawing the whole\nblooming time and sighing.\n\nAfter Wicklow lane the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner,\nstopped him. He stood looking in at the two puckers stripped to their\npelts and putting up their props. From the sidemirrors two mourning\nMasters Dignam gaped silently. Myler Keogh, Dublin's pet lamb, will\nmeet sergeantmajor Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty\nsovereigns. Gob, that'd be a good pucking match to see. Myler Keogh,\nthat's the chap sparring out to him with the green sash. Two bar\nentrance, soldiers half price. I could easy do a bunk on ma. Master\nDignam on his left turned as he turned. That's me in mourning. When\nis it? May the twentysecond. Sure, the blooming thing is all over. He\nturned to the right and on his right Master Dignam turned, his cap awry,\nhis collar sticking up. Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he saw the\nimage of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, beside the two puckers. One\nof them mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer smokes that his old\nfellow welted hell out of him for one time he found out.\n\nMaster Dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. The best pucker going\nfor strength was Fitzsimons. One puck in the wind from that fellow would\nknock you into the middle of next week, man. But the best pucker for\nscience was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of\nhim, dodging and all.\n\nIn Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red flower in a toff's mouth and\na swell pair of kicks on him and he listening to what the drunk was\ntelling him and grinning all the time.\n\nNo Sandymount tram.\n\nMaster Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to\nhis other hand. His collar sprang up again and he tugged it down. The\nblooming stud was too small for the buttonhole of the shirt, blooming\nend to it. He met schoolboys with satchels. I'm not going tomorrow\neither, stay away till Monday. He met other schoolboys. Do they notice\nI'm in mourning? Uncle Barney said he'd get it into the paper tonight.\nThen they'll all see it in the paper and read my name printed and pa's\nname.\n\nHis face got all grey instead of being red like it was and there was a\nfly walking over it up to his eye. The scrunch that was when they\nwere screwing the screws into the coffin: and the bumps when they were\nbringing it downstairs.\n\nPa was inside it and ma crying in the parlour and uncle Barney telling\nthe men how to get it round the bend. A big coffin it was, and high and\nheavylooking. How was that? The last night pa was boosed he was standing\non the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to Tunney's for\nto boose more and he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never see him\nagain. Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He told me to be\na good son to ma. I couldn't hear the other things he said but I saw\nhis tongue and his teeth trying to say it better. Poor pa. That was\nMr Dignam, my father. I hope he's in purgatory now because he went to\nconfession to Father Conroy on Saturday night.\n\n* * * * *\n\nWilliam Humble, earl of Dudley, and lady Dudley, accompanied by\nlieutenantcolonel Heseltine, drove out after luncheon from the viceregal\nlodge. In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss de\nCourcy and the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C. in attendance.\n\nThe cavalcade passed out by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by\nobsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern\nquays. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his way through the\nmetropolis. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted\nhim vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's\nviceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B.\nL., M. A., who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M. E. White's, the\npawnbroker's, at the corner of Arran street west stroking his nose with\nhis forefinger, undecided whether he should arrive at Phibsborough\nmore quickly by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot\nthrough Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. In the\nporch of Four Courts Richie Goulding with the costbag of Goulding,\nCollis and Ward saw him with surprise. Past Richmond bridge at the\ndoorstep of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the\nPatriotic Insurance Company, an elderly female about to enter changed\nher plan and retracing her steps by King's windows smiled credulously\non the representative of His Majesty. From its sluice in Wood quay wall\nunder Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue of\nliquid sewage. Above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze,\nMiss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired. On Ormond\nquay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the greenhouse for the\nsubsheriff's office, stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low.\nHis Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus' greeting. From Cahill's\ncorner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., made obeisance unperceived,\nmindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held of yore rich\nadvowsons. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M'Coy, taking leave of each\nother, watched the carriages go by. Passing by Roger Greene's office and\nDollard's big red printinghouse Gerty MacDowell, carrying the Catesby's\ncork lino letters for her father who was laid up, knew by the style\nit was the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her\nExcellency had on because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van\nhad to stop in front of her on account of its being the lord lieutenant.\nBeyond Lundy Foot's from the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms\nJohn Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the lord\nlieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland. The Right Honourable\nWilliam Humble, earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed Micky Anderson's all\ntimes ticking watches and Henry and James's wax smartsuited freshcheeked\nmodels, the gentleman Henry, _dernier cri_ James. Over against Dame gate\nTom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the cavalcade. Tom\nRochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley fixed on him, took his thumbs\nquickly out of the pockets of his claret waistcoat and doffed his cap to\nher. A charming _soubrette,_ great Marie Kendall, with dauby cheeks and\nlifted skirt smiled daubily from her poster upon William Humble, earl\nof Dudley, and upon lieutenantcolonel H. G. Heseltine, and also upon\nthe honourable Gerald Ward A. D. C. From the window of the D. B. C. Buck\nMulligan gaily, and Haines gravely, gazed down on the viceregal equipage\nover the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms darkened the\nchessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently. In Fownes's\nstreet Dilly Dedalus, straining her sight upward from Chardenal's first\nFrench primer, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the\nglare. John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings,\nstared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not\nlooked at in his fat left hand not feeling it. Where the foreleg of King\nBilly's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband\nback from under the hoofs of the outriders. She shouted in his ear the\ntidings. Understanding, he shifted his tomes to his left breast\nand saluted the second carriage. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C.,\nagreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At Ponsonby's corner a jaded\nwhite flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind\nhim, E.L.Y'S, while outriders pranced past and carriages. Opposite\nPigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c,\ngaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved.\nBy the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes\nand socks with skyblue clocks to the refrain of _My girl's a Yorkshire\ngirl._\n\nBlazes Boylan presented to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high\naction a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a\nsuit of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets forgot to salute\nbut he offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and\nthe red flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street His\nExcellency drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme of\nmusic which was being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen highland\nladdies blared and drumthumped after the _cortège_:\n\n     _But though she's a factory lass\n     And wears no fancy clothes.\n     Baraabum.\n     Yet I've a sort of a\n     Yorkshire relish for\n     My little Yorkshire rose.\n     Baraabum._\n\nThither of the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H.\nShrift, T. M. Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson,\nC. Adderly and W. C. Huggard, started in pursuit. Striding past Finn's\nhotel Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a\nfierce eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr M. E. Solomons\nin the window of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster\nstreet by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, Hornblower, touched\nhis tallyho cap. As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master\nPatrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent\nwith the topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased\nby porksteak paper. His collar too sprang up. The viceroy, on his way to\ninaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer's hospital,\ndrove with his following towards Lower Mount street. He passed a blind\nstripling opposite Broadbent's. In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a\nbrown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across\nthe viceroy's path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his hoarding,\nMr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to\nPembroke township. At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted\nthemselves, an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view\nwith wonder the lord mayor and lady mayoress without his golden chain.\nOn Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged\npunctually salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two small\nschoolboys at the garden gate of the house said to have been admired\nby the late queen when visiting the Irish capital with her husband, the\nprince consort, in 1849 and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy\ntrousers swallowed by a closing door.\n\n\n\nBronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn.\n\nChips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips.\n\nHorrid! And gold flushed more.\n\nA husky fifenote blew.\n\nBlew. Blue bloom is on the.\n\nGoldpinnacled hair.\n\nA jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, rose of Castile.\n\nTrilling, trilling: Idolores.\n\nPeep! Who's in the... peepofgold?\n\nTink cried to bronze in pity.\n\nAnd a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying call.\n\nDecoy. Soft word. But look: the bright stars fade. Notes chirruping\nanswer.\n\nO rose! Castile. The morn is breaking.\n\nJingle jingle jaunted jingling.\n\nCoin rang. Clock clacked.\n\nAvowal. _Sonnez._ I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. _La\ncloche!_ Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye!\n\nJingle. Bloo.\n\nBoomed crashing chords. When love absorbs. War! War! The tympanum.\n\nA sail! A veil awave upon the waves.\n\nLost. Throstle fluted. All is lost now.\n\nHorn. Hawhorn.\n\nWhen first he saw. Alas!\n\nFull tup. Full throb.\n\nWarbling. Ah, lure! Alluring.\n\nMartha! Come!\n\nClapclap. Clipclap. Clappyclap.\n\nGoodgod henev erheard inall.\n\nDeaf bald Pat brought pad knife took up.\n\nA moonlit nightcall: far, far.\n\nI feel so sad. P. S. So lonely blooming.\n\nListen!\n\nThe spiked and winding cold seahorn. Have you the? Each, and for other,\nplash and silent roar.\n\nPearls: when she. Liszt's rhapsodies. Hissss.\n\nYou don't?\n\nDid not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd. With a cock with a carra.\n\nBlack. Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.\n\nWait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while you hee.\n\nBut wait!\n\nLow in dark middle earth. Embedded ore.\n\nNaminedamine. Preacher is he:\n\nAll gone. All fallen.\n\nTiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.\n\nAmen! He gnashed in fury.\n\nFro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding.\n\nBronzelydia by Minagold.\n\nBy bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow. Bloom. Old Bloom.\n\nOne rapped, one tapped, with a carra, with a cock.\n\nPray for him! Pray, good people!\n\nHis gouty fingers nakkering.\n\nBig Benaben. Big Benben.\n\nLast rose Castile of summer left bloom I feel so sad alone.\n\nPwee! Little wind piped wee.\n\nTrue men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift your\ntschink with tschunk.\n\nFff! Oo!\n\nWhere bronze from anear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs?\n\nRrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.\n\nThen not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be pfrwritt.\n\nDone.\n\nBegin!\n\nBronze by gold, miss Douce's head by miss Kennedy's head, over the\ncrossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing\nsteel.\n\n--Is that her? asked miss Kennedy.\n\nMiss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl grey and _eau de Nil._\n\n--Exquisite contrast, miss Kennedy said.\n\nWhen all agog miss Douce said eagerly:\n\n--Look at the fellow in the tall silk.\n\n--Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly.\n\n--In the second carriage, miss Douce's wet lips said, laughing in the\nsun.\n\nHe's looking. Mind till I see.\n\nShe darted, bronze, to the backmost corner, flattening her face against\nthe pane in a halo of hurried breath.\n\nHer wet lips tittered:\n\n--He's killed looking back.\n\nShe laughed:\n\n--O wept! Aren't men frightful idiots?\n\nWith sadness.\n\nMiss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair\nbehind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a\nhair.\n\nSadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.\n\n--It's them has the fine times, sadly then she said.\n\nA man.\n\nBloowho went by by Moulang's pipes bearing in his breast the sweets\nof sin, by Wine's antiques, in memory bearing sweet sinful words, by\nCarroll's dusky battered plate, for Raoul.\n\nThe boots to them, them in the bar, them barmaids came. For them\nunheeding him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china. And\n\n--There's your teas, he said.\n\nMiss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to an upturned\nlithia crate, safe from eyes, low.\n\n--What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.\n\n--Find out, miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.\n\n--Your _beau,_ is it?\n\nA haughty bronze replied:\n\n--I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I hear any more of your\nimpertinent insolence.\n\n--Imperthnthn thnthnthn, bootssnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as\nshe threatened as he had come.\n\nBloom.\n\nOn her flower frowning miss Douce said:\n\n--Most aggravating that young brat is. If he doesn't conduct himself\nI'll wring his ear for him a yard long.\n\nLadylike in exquisite contrast.\n\n--Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined.\n\nShe poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered\nunder their reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned,\nwaiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both of black\nsatin, two and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and\nseven.\n\nYes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar, heard steel from anear, hoofs\nring from afar, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel.\n\n--Am I awfully sunburnt?\n\nMiss bronze unbloused her neck.\n\n--No, said miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you try the borax with\nthe cherry laurel water?\n\nMiss Douce halfstood to see her skin askance in the barmirror\ngildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmered and in their\nmidst a shell.\n\n--And leave it to my hands, she said.\n\n--Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy advised.\n\nBidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce\n\n--Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked that\nold fogey in Boyd's for something for my skin.\n\nMiss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced and prayed:\n\n--O, don't remind me of him for mercy' sake!\n\n--But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated.\n\nSweet tea miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears\nwith little fingers.\n\n--No, don't, she cried.\n\n--I won't listen, she cried.\n\nBut Bloom?\n\nMiss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone:\n\n--For your what? says he.\n\nMiss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but said, but prayed\nagain:\n\n--Don't let me think of him or I'll expire. The hideous old wretch! That\nnight in the Antient Concert Rooms.\n\nShe sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped, sweet tea.\n\n--Here he was, miss Douce said, cocking her bronze head three quarters,\nruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa!\n\nShrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. Miss Douce\nhuffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a\nsnout in quest.\n\n--O! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget his goggle eye?\n\nMiss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting:\n\n--And your other eye!\n\nBloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatner's name. Why do I always think\nFigather? Gathering figs, I think. And Prosper Lore's huguenot name.\nBy Bassi's blessed virgins Bloom's dark eyes went by. Bluerobed, white\nunder, come to me. God they believe she is: or goddess. Those today. I\ncould not see. That fellow spoke. A student. After with Dedalus' son.\nHe might be Mulligan. All comely virgins. That brings those rakes of\nfellows in: her white.\n\nBy went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets.\n\nOf sin.\n\nIn a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy\nyour other eye. They threw young heads back, bronze gigglegold, to let\nfreefly their laughter, screaming, your other, signals to each other,\nhigh piercing notes.\n\nAh, panting, sighing, sighing, ah, fordone, their mirth died down.\n\nMiss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised, drank a sip and\ngigglegiggled. Miss Douce, bending over the teatray, ruffled again her\nnose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping,\nher fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed,\nspluttered out of her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter,\ncoughing with choking, crying:\n\n--O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that! she cried.\nWith his bit of beard!\n\nDouce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of full woman,\ndelight, joy, indignation.\n\n--Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.\n\nShrill, with deep laughter, after, gold after bronze, they urged each\neach to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze,\nshrilldeep, to laughter after laughter. And then laughed more. Greasy I\nknows. Exhausted, breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braided and\npinnacled by glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!),\npanting, sweating (O!), all breathless.\n\nMarried to Bloom, to greaseabloom.\n\n--O saints above! miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I\nwished\n\nI hadn't laughed so much. I feel all wet.\n\n--O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!\n\nAnd flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.\n\nBy Cantwell's offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi's virgins, bright of\ntheir oils. Nannetti's father hawked those things about, wheedling at\ndoors as I. Religion pays. Must see him for that par. Eat first. I want.\nNot yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhands turning. On.\nWhere eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I net five\nguineas with those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet. The sweets\nof sin.\n\nFlushed less, still less, goldenly paled.\n\nInto their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off one of his\nrocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled.\n\n--O, welcome back, miss Douce.\n\nHe held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?\n\n--Tiptop.\n\nHe hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.\n\n--Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am. Lying out on the\nstrand all day.\n\nBronze whiteness.\n\n--That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed\nher hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.\n\nMiss Douce of satin douced her arm away.\n\n--O go away! she said. You're very simple, I don't think.\n\nHe was.\n\n--Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they\nchristened me simple Simon.\n\n--You must have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did the\ndoctor order today?\n\n--Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I'll trouble\nyou for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.\n\nJingle.\n\n--With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed.\n\nWith grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's\nshe turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold whisky from\nher crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus brought\npouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky\nfifenotes.\n\n--By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must\nbe a great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes at\nlast, they say. Yes. Yes.\n\nYes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid's, into the\nbowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.\n\nNone nought said nothing. Yes.\n\nGaily miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling:\n\n--_O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas!_\n\n--Was Mr Lidwell in today?\n\nIn came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex\nbridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write.\nBuy paper. Daly's. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloom is on\nthe rye.\n\n--He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said.\n\nLenehan came forward.\n\n--Was Mr Boylan looking for me?\n\nHe asked. She answered:\n\n--Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs?\n\nShe asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, her\ngaze upon a page:\n\n--No. He was not.\n\nMiss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the\nsandwichbell wound his round body round.\n\n--Peep! Who's in the corner?\n\nNo glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind her\nstops. To read only the black ones: round o and crooked ess.\n\nJingle jaunty jingle.\n\nGirlgold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took no notice\nwhile he read by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly:\n\n--Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your\nbill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?\n\nHe droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to her tea aside.\n\nHe sighed aside:\n\n--Ah me! O my!\n\nHe greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.\n\n--Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.\n\n--Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked.\n\nLenehan opened most genial arms. Who?\n\n--Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard.\n\nDry.\n\nMr Dedalus, famous father, laid by his dry filled pipe.\n\n--I see, he said. I didn't recognise him for the moment. I hear he is\nkeeping very select company. Have you seen him lately?\n\nHe had.\n\n--I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this very day, said Lenehan. In\nMooney's _en ville_ and in Mooney's _sur mer._ He had received the rhino\nfor the labour of his muse.\n\nHe smiled at bronze's teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes:\n\n--The _élite_ of Erin hung upon his lips. The ponderous pundit, Hugh\n\nMacHugh, Dublin's most brilliant scribe and editor and that minstrel boy\nof the wild wet west who is known by the euphonious appellation of the\nO'Madden Burke.\n\nAfter an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grog and\n\n--That must have been highly diverting, said he. I see.\n\nHe see. He drank. With faraway mourning mountain eye. Set down his\nglass.\n\nHe looked towards the saloon door.\n\n--I see you have moved the piano.\n\n--The tuner was in today, miss Douce replied, tuning it for the smoking\nconcert and I never heard such an exquisite player.\n\n--Is that a fact?\n\n--Didn't he, miss Kennedy? The real classical, you know. And blind too,\npoor fellow. Not twenty I'm sure he was.\n\n--Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.\n\nHe drank and strayed away.\n\n--So sad to look at his face, miss Douce condoled.\n\nGod's curse on bitch's bastard.\n\nTink to her pity cried a diner's bell. To the door of the bar and\ndiningroom came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of Ormond.\nLager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served.\n\nWith patience Lenehan waited for Boylan with impatience, for\njinglejaunty blazes boy.\n\nUpholding the lid he (who?) gazed in the coffin (coffin?) at the oblique\ntriple (piano!) wires. He pressed (the same who pressed indulgently her\nhand), soft pedalling, a triple of keys to see the thicknesses of felt\nadvancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall in action.\n\nTwo sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I was in\nWisdom Hely's wise Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower bought. Are you not\nhappy in your home? Flower to console me and a pin cuts lo. Means\nsomething, language of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is.\nRespectable girl meet after mass. Thanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom eyed\non the door a poster, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves. Smoke\nmermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming: lovelorn. For some man.\nFor Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a\njaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence.\n\nJingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond quay.\nFollow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now. Out.\n\n--Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.\n\n--Aha... I was forgetting... Excuse...\n\n--And four.\n\nAt four she. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi qui go.\nTernoon. Think you're the only pebble on the beach? Does that to all.\n\nFor men.\n\nIn drowsy silence gold bent on her page.\n\nFrom the saloon a call came, long in dying. That was a tuningfork the\ntuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A call again. That he now\npoised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, softly\nand softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.\n\nPat paid for diner's popcorked bottle: and over tumbler, tray and\npopcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered, with miss\n\nDouce.\n\n--_The bright stars fade_...\n\nA voiceless song sang from within, singing:\n\n--... _the morn is breaking._\n\nA duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive\nhands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording,\ncalled to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's\nleavetaking, life's, love's morn.\n\n--_The dewdrops pearl_...\n\nLenehan's lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.\n\n--But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.\n\nJingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.\n\nShe rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn,\ndreamily rose.\n\n--Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.\n\nShe answered, slighting:\n\n--Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.\n\nLike lady, ladylike.\n\nBlazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where he strode.\nYes, gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehan heard and knew and\nhailed him:\n\n--See the conquering hero comes.\n\nBetween the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom, unconquered\nhero. See me he might. The seat he sat on: warm. Black wary hecat walked\ntowards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting.\n\n--_And I from thee_...\n\n--I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.\n\nHe touched to fair miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She smiled\non him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her richer\nhair, a bosom and a rose.\n\nSmart Boylan bespoke potions.\n\n--What's your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and a\nsloegin for me. Wire in yet?\n\nNot yet. At four she. Who said four?\n\nCowley's red lugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriff's office.\n\nAvoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting.\n\nWait.\n\nHello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was just. In here. What,\nOrmond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom. Sit tight there.\nSee, not be seen. I think I'll join you. Come on. Richie led on. Bloom\nfollowed bag. Dinner fit for a prince.\n\nMiss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, her\nbust, that all but burst, so high.\n\n--O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. O!\n\nBut easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.\n\n--Why don't you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.\n\nShebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his\nlips, looked as it flowed (flower in his coat: who gave him?), and\nsyrupped with her voice:\n\n--Fine goods in small parcels.\n\nThat is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.\n\n--Here's fortune, Blazes said.\n\nHe pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.\n\n--Hold on, said Lenehan, till I...\n\n--Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.\n\n--Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.\n\n--I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking and drinking. Not on my own, you\nknow. Fancy of a friend of mine.\n\nLenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at miss Douce's\nlips that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled.\n\nIdolores. The eastern seas.\n\nClock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder who gave),\nbearing away teatray. Clock clacked.\n\nMiss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. It\nclanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the till\nand hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. For\nme.\n\n--What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?\n\nO'clock.\n\nLenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming, tugged Blazes\nBoylan's elbowsleeve.\n\n--Let's hear the time, he said.\n\nThe bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered tables.\nAimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table near\nthe door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a trick. Not come:\nwhet appetite. I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.\n\nSparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes.\n\n--Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one. He never heard.\n\n--... _to Flora's lips did hie._\n\nHigh, a high note pealed in the treble clear.\n\nBronzedouce communing with her rose that sank and rose sought\n\nBlazes Boylan's flower and eyes.\n\n--Please, please.\n\nHe pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.\n\n--_I could not leave thee_...\n\n--Afterwits, miss Douce promised coyly.\n\n--No, now, urged Lenehan. _Sonnezlacloche!_ O do! There's no-one.\n\nShe looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two kindling\nfaces watched her bend.\n\nQuavering the chords strayed from the air, found it again, lost chord,\nand lost and found it, faltering.\n\n--Go on! Do! _Sonnez!_\n\nBending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted\nthem still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.\n\n_--Sonnez!_\n\nSmack. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter\nsmackwarm against her smackable a woman's warmhosed thigh.\n\n--_La Cloche!_ cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdust\nthere.\n\nShe smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren't men?), but, lightward\ngliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.\n\n--You're the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.\n\nBoylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off his\nchalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. His spellbound\neyes went after, after her gliding head as it went down the bar by\nmirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering,\na spiky shell, where it concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze.\n\nYes, bronze from anearby.\n\n--... _Sweetheart, goodbye!_\n\n--I'm off, said Boylan with impatience.\n\nHe slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.\n\n--Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell you.\n\nTom Rochford...\n\n--Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going.\n\nLenehan gulped to go.\n\n--Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming.\n\nHe followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the\nthreshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.\n\n--How do you do, Mr Dollard?\n\n--Eh? How do? How do? Ben Dollard's vague bass answered, turning an\ninstant from Father Cowley's woe. He won't give you any trouble, Bob.\nAlf Bergan will speak to the long fellow. We'll put a barleystraw in\nthat Judas Iscariot's ear this time.\n\nSighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger soothing an eyelid.\n\n--Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon. Give us a\nditty. We heard the piano.\n\nBald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drink orders. Power for Richie.\nAnd Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice. His corns. Four now. How\nwarm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?) heat. Let me\nsee. Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.\n\n--What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, man.\n\n--Come on, come on, Ben Dollard called. Begone dull care. Come, Bob.\n\nHe ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with the:\nhold him now) into the saloon. He plumped him Dollard on the stool. His\ngouty paws plumped chords. Plumped, stopped abrupt.\n\nBald Pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered, he wanted\nPower and cider. Bronze by the window, watched, bronze from afar.\n\nJingle a tinkle jaunted.\n\nBloom heard a jing, a little sound. He's off. Light sob of breath Bloom\nsighed on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle.\nHear.\n\n--Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times.\n\nMiss Douce's brave eyes, unregarded, turned from the crossblind, smitten\nby sunlight. Gone. Pensive (who knows?), smitten (the smiting light),\nshe lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drew down pensive\n(why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze, over the bar where\nbald stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast inexquisite\nnonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of shadow, _eau de\nNil._\n\n--Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded\nthem. There was a slight difference of opinion between himself and the\nCollard grand.\n\nThere was.\n\n--A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said. The devil wouldn't stop him.\nHe was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink.\n\n--God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the\npunished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment.\n\nThey laughed all three. He had no wed. All trio laughed. No wedding\ngarment.\n\n--Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said. Where's\nmy pipe, by the way?\n\nHe wandered back to the bar to the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried two\ndiners' drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed again.\n\n--I saved the situation, Ben, I think.\n\n--You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too.\nThat was a brilliant idea, Bob.\n\nFather Cowley blushed to his brilliant purply lobes. He saved the situa.\nTight trou. Brilliant ide.\n\n--I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano in\nthe coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration and\nwho was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do you\nremember? We had to search all Holles street to find them till the\nchap in Keogh's gave us the number. Remember? Ben remembered, his broad\nvisage wondering.\n\n--By God, she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there.\n\nMr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.\n\n--Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. He\nwouldn't take any money either. What? Any God's quantity of cocked hats\nand boleros and trunkhose. What?\n\n--Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes of\nall descriptions.\n\nJingle jaunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.\n\nLiver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat.\n\nMrs Marion. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn. Of Paul de Kock. Nice\nname he.\n\n--What's this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion...\n\n--Tweedy.\n\n--Yes. Is she alive?\n\n--And kicking.\n\n--She was a daughter of...\n\n--Daughter of the regiment.\n\n--Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.\n\nMr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after\n\n--Irish? I don't know, faith. Is she, Simon?\n\nPuff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.\n\n--Buccinator muscle is... What?... Bit rusty... O, she is... My\nIrish Molly, O.\n\nHe puffed a pungent plumy blast.\n\n--From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.\n\nThey pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the beerpull, bronze\nby maraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace,\nDrumcondra with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.\n\nPat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he\nate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods' roes while\nRichie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steak then kidney,\nbite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.\n\nBloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes.\n\nBy Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun in\nheat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding tyres:\nsprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn. Have you the?\nHorn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.\n\nOver their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding\nchords:\n\n--_When love absorbs my ardent soul_...\n\nRoll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roofpanes.\n\n--War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior.\n\n--So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love or\nmoney.\n\nHe stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge.\n\n--Sure, you'd burst the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said\nthrough smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.\n\nIn bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would.\n\n--Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time, Ben.\n_Amoroso ma non troppo._ Let me there.\n\nMiss Kennedy served two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. She\npassed a remark. It was indeed, first gentleman said, beautiful weather.\nThey drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord lieutenant was going?\nAnd heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn't say. But it would\nbe in the paper. O, she need not trouble. No trouble. She waved about\nher outspread _Independent,_ searching, the lord lieutenant, her\npinnacles of hair slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too much trouble,\nfirst gentleman said. O, not in the least. Way he looked that. Lord\nlieutenant. Gold by bronze heard iron steel.\n\n     --............ _my ardent soul_\n     _I care not foror the morrow._\n\nIn liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and War someone is.\nBen Dollard's famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suit\nfor that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical porkers.\nMolly did laugh when he went out. Threw herself back across the bed,\nscreaming, kicking. With all his belongings on show. O saints above,\nI'm drenched! O, the women in the front row! O, I never laughed so many!\nWell, of course that's what gives him the base barreltone. For instance\neunuchs. Wonder who's playing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley. Musical.\nKnows whatever note you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.\n\nMiss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, George\nLidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist (a\nlady's) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To the old\ndingdong again.\n\n--Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.\n\nGeorge Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.\n\nBloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap in the\nBurton, gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding and I. Clean tables,\nflowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing to do.\nBest value in Dub.\n\nPiano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one together,\nmutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the\nbowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long snore.\nNight we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus, between\nthe acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Conductor's\nlegs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide them.\n\nJiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.\n\nOnly the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a\nlovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that\nonce or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their\nharps. I. He. Old. Young.\n\n--Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.\n\nStrongly.\n\n--Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits.\n\n--_M'appari,_ Simon, Father Cowley said.\n\nDown stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long\narms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he\nsang to a dusty seascape there: _A Last Farewell._ A headland, a ship, a\nsail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the\nwind upon the headland, wind around her.\n\nCowley sang:\n\n     _--M'appari tutt'amor:\n     Il mio sguardo l'incontr..._\n\nShe waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to one departing, dear one, to\nwind, love, speeding sail, return.\n\n--Go on, Simon.\n\n--Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben... Well...\n\nMr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting,\ntouched the obedient keys.\n\n--No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat.\n\nThe keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.\n\nUp stage strode Father Cowley.\n\n--Here, Simon, I'll accompany you, he said. Get up.\n\nBy Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, by Elvery's elephant jingly jogged.\nSteak, kidney, liver, mashed, at meat fit for princes sat princes Bloom\nand Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank, Power and cider.\n\nMost beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie said: _Sonnambula._ He\nheard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, what M'Guckin! Yes. In his way.\nChoirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if you like.\nNever forget it. Never.\n\nTenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened features strain.\nBackache he. Bright's bright eye. Next item on the programme. Paying the\npiper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Stave it off awhile.\nSings too: _Down among the dead men._ Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to\nthe. Not making much hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic of him.\nPower. Particular about his drink. Flaw in the glass, fresh Vartry\nwater. Fecking matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereign\nin dribs and drabs. And when he's wanted not a farthing. Screwed\nrefusing to pay his fare. Curious types.\n\nNever would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived: never. In the\ngods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note.\n\nSpeech paused on Richie's lips.\n\nComing out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn all.\n\nBelieves his own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good\nmemory.\n\n--Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.\n\n--_All is lost now_.\n\nRichie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee\nmurmured: all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth\nhe's proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two\nnotes in one there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my\nmotives he twined and turned them. All most too new call is lost in all.\nEcho. How sweet the answer. How is that done? All lost now. Mournful he\nwhistled. Fall, surrender, lost.\n\nBloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase.\nOrder. Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep she went to him. Innocence\nin the moon. Brave. Don't know their danger. Still hold her back. Call\nname. Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That's\nwhy. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.\n\n--A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.\n\nNever in all his life had Richie Goulding.\n\nHe knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his daughter. Wise\nchild that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?\n\nBloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking\nRichie once. Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his\neye. Now begging letters he sends his son with. Crosseyed Walter sir I\ndid sir. Wouldn't trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise.\n\nPiano again. Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably.\nStopped again.\n\nDollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it.\n\n--With it, Simon.\n\n--It, Simon.\n\n--Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeply obliged by your kind\nsolicitations.\n\n--It, Simon.\n\n--I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall\nendeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down.\n\nBy the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her bronze and rose, a\nlady's grace, gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous _eau de Nil_ Mina\nto tankards two her pinnacles of gold.\n\nThe harping chords of prelude closed. A chord, longdrawn, expectant,\ndrew a voice away.\n\n--_When first I saw that form endearing_...\n\nRichie turned.\n\n--Si Dedalus' voice, he said.\n\nBraintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that flow\nendearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed to\nPat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door of the\nbar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting\nto hear, for he was hard of hear by the door.\n\n--_Sorrow from me seemed to depart._\n\nThrough the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves\nin murmur, like no voice of strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem\ndulcimers touching their still ears with words, still hearts of their\neach his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them each\nseemed to from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw,\nlost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect\nit in the least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.\n\nLove that is singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the\nelastic band of his packet. Love's old sweet _sonnez la_ gold. Bloom\nwound a skein round four forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, and wound\nit round his troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.\n\n--_Full of hope and all delighted_...\n\nTenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at his\nfeet. When will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. He\ncan't sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him.\nWhat perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Last\nlook at mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How\ndo you? I do well. There? What? Or? Phial of cachous, kissing comfits,\nin her satchel. Yes? Hands felt for the opulent.\n\nAlas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud.\n\n--_But alas, 'twas idle dreaming_...\n\nGlorious tone he has still. Cork air softer also their brogue. Silly\nman! Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out\nhis wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If he\ndoesn't break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet sing\ntoo. Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lind\nsoup: stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.\n\nTenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed. That's the chat.\nHa, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect.\n\nWords? Music? No: it's what's behind.\n\nBloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.\n\nBloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music\nout, in desire, dark to lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her\ntapping her topping her. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy\nthe feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood,\ngush, flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now! Language of love.\n\n--... _ray of hope is_...\n\nBeaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse\nunsqueaked a ray of hopk.\n\n_Martha_ it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song.\nLovely name you have. Can't write. Accept my little pres. Play on her\nheartstrings pursestrings too. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still\nthe name: Martha. How strange! Today.\n\nThe voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again to\nRichie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting to\nwait. How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrow seemed to part,\nhow look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.\n\nWish I could see his face, though. Explain better. Why the barber in\nDrago's always looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass. Still\nhear it better here than in the bar though farther.\n\n--_Each graceful look_...\n\nFirst night when first I saw her at Mat Dillon's in Terenure. Yellow,\nblack lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her.\nFate.\n\nRound and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Down she\nsat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.\n\n--_Charmed my eye_...\n\nSinging. _Waiting_ she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume\nof what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat\nwarbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy\neyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in\nshadow Dolores shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.\n\n--_Martha! Ah, Martha!_\n\nQuitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant\nto love to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony. In\ncry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must martha feel. For\nonly her he waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where.\nSomewhere.\n\n     --_Co-ome, thou lost one!\n     Co-ome, thou dear one!_\n\nAlone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return!\n\n_--Come!_\n\nIt soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb\nit leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don't spin it out too\nlong long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent,\naflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the\netherial bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all\nsoaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness...\n\n--_To me!_\n\nSiopold!\n\nConsumed.\n\nCome. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to him, to her,\nyou too, me, us.\n\n--Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclap\nclap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said,\ncried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell, Pat, Mina\nKennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gent with tank\nand bronze miss Douce and gold MJiss Mina.\n\nBlazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before.\nJingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson,\nreverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before just now.\nAtrot, in heat, heatseated. _Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la._\nSlower the mare went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too\nslow for Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.\n\nAn afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer.\n\nAnd Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank,\nLidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two\nmore tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving,\ncoral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.\n\n--Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd\nsing, Simon, like a garden thrush.\n\nLionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina Kennedy\nserved. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia, admired,\nadmired. But Bloom sang dumb.\n\nAdmiring.\n\nRichie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He remembered\none night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang _'Twas rank and\nfame_: in Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never heard in all his life a\nnote like that he never did _then false one we had better part_ so clear\nso God he never heard _since love lives not_ a clinking voice lives not\nask Lambert he can tell you too.\n\nGoulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the\nnight, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus house, sang _'Twas rank and fame._\n\nHe, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom, of\nthe night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK AND FAME in\nhis, Ned Lambert's, house.\n\nBrothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the\nlute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more.\nThe night Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful,\nmore than all others.\n\nThat voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence after you\nfeel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.\n\nBloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked the\nslender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged. While\nGoulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan,\nharking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to listening\nFather Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While\nbig Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he\nsmoked, who smoked.\n\nThou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his\nstring. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on.\nThen tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head. Outtohelloutofthat.\nHuman life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave.\n_Corpus paradisum._ Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup. Gone.\nThey sing. Forgotten. I too; And one day she with. Leave her: get\ntired. Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Her\nwavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:'d.\n\nYet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not happy in\nyour? Twang. It snapped.\n\nJingle into Dorset street.\n\nMiss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.\n\n--Don't make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.\n\nGeorge Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.\n\nFirst gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so. And\nsecond tankard told her so. That that was so.\n\nMiss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: miss Kennedy, Mina, did not\nbelieve: George Lidwell, no: miss Dou did not: the first, the first:\ngent with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell:\nthe tank.\n\nBetter write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.\n\nBald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went. A\npad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.\n\n--Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curling catgut line. It certainly is.\nFew lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid music is. Who\nis this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper,\nenvelope: unconcerned. It's so characteristic.\n\n--Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding said.\n\n--It is, Bloom said.\n\nNumbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two\ndivided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two\nplus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always\nfind out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall. He doesn't\nsee my mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you\nthink you're listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it like:\nMartha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite\nflat. It's on account of the sounds it is.\n\nInstance he's playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like, till you\nhear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then hear\nchords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, over barrels,\nthrough wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune. Question of mood\nyou're in. Still always nice to hear. Except scales up and down, girls\nlearning. Two together nextdoor neighbours. Ought to invent dummy pianos\nfor that. _Blumenlied_ I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow,\na girl, night I came home, the girl. Door of the stables near Cecilia\nstreet. Milly no taste. Queer because we both, I mean.\n\nBald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite\nflat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.\n\nIt was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a\nboy in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles.\nQueenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in the\nmoonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God, such\nmusic, Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.\n\nSour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed a\nmoonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.\n\nDown the edge of his _Freeman_ baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye,\nscanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick.\nHeigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking...\n\nHope he's not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his _Freeman._\nCan't see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear\nsir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Hell did I\nput? Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline _imposs._ To write\ntoday.\n\nBore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am just reflecting\nfingers on flat pad Pat brought.\n\nOn. Know what I mean. No, change that ee. Accep my poor litt pres\nenclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the\ngulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne's. Is eight about. Say half a\ncrown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Do you\ndespise? Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught?\nYou naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today. Yes,\nyes, will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Other\nworld she wrote. My patience are exhaust. To keep it up. You must\nbelieve. Believe. The tank. It. Is. True.\n\nFolly am I writing? Husbands don't. That's marriage does, their wives.\nBecause I'm away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young. If she\nfound out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless pain. If\nthey don't see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.\n\nA hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James\nof number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a young\ngentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by George\nRobert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay, and wearing\na straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one Great\nBrunswick street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled and\njingled. By Dlugacz' porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a\ngallantbuttocked mare.\n\n--Answering an ad? keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom.\n\n--Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.\n\nBloom mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You\nknow how. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is he\nplaying now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum tum. How will\nyou pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I want\nto. Know. O. Course if I didn't I wouldn't ask. La la la ree. Trails off\nthere sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sad tail at end. P.\nP. S. La la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely. Dee.\n\nHe blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address. Just copy out of paper.\nMurmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. Henry wrote:\n\nMiss Martha Clifford c/o P. O. Dolphin's Barn Lane Dublin\n\nBlot over the other so he can't read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit.\nSomething detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea\nper col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U.\nP: up.\n\nToo poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms.\nShakespeare said. Quotations every day in the year. To be or not to be.\nWisdom while you wait.\n\nIn Gerard's rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyedauburn. One life is\nall. One body. Do. But do.\n\nDone anyhow. Postal order, stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk now.\nEnough. Barney Kiernan's I promised to meet them. Dislike that job.\n\nHouse of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear. Deaf beetle he is.\n\nCar near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn't. Settling those napkins.\nLot of ground he must cover in the day. Paint face behind on him then\nhe'd be two. Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off.\n\nBald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of his\nhearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He\nwaits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He waits\nwhile you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you wait.\nHee hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.\n\nDouce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.\n\nShe had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the lovely shell\nshe brought.\n\nTo the end of the bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and winding\nseahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.\n\n--Listen! she bade him.\n\nUnder Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.\nAuthentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the husband\ntook him by the throat. _Scoundrel,_ said he, _You'll sing no more\nlovesongs._ He did, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom.\nCowley lay back.\n\nAh, now he heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard.\n\nWonderful. She held it to her own. And through the sifted light pale\ngold in contrast glided. To hear.\n\nTap.\n\nBloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. He heard more\nfaintly that that they heard, each for herself alone, then each for\nother, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar.\n\nBronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, they listened.\n\nHer ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside.\nLovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have put on coldcream\nfirst make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn't forget.\nFever near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell with\nseaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks the\nmouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. A cave.\nNo admittance except on business.\n\nThe sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood it is. Souse in\nthe ear sometimes. Well, it's a sea. Corpuscle islands.\n\nWonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur,\nhearing: then laid it by, gently.\n\n--What are the wild waves saying? he asked her, smiled.\n\nCharming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.\n\nTap.\n\nBy Larry O'Rourke's, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and Boylan\nturned.\n\nFrom the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting. No,\nshe was not so lonely archly miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know.\nWalks in the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With whom? She nobly\nanswered: with a gentleman friend.\n\nBob Cowley's twinkling fingers in the treble played again. The landlord\nhas the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben. Lightly he played a\nlight bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and smiling,\nand for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one, one, one:\ntwo, one, three, four.\n\nSea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattlemarket,\ncocks, hens don't crow, snakes hissss. There's music everywhere.\nRuttledge's door: ee creaking. No, that's noise. Minuet of _Don\nGiovanni_ he's playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle\nchambers dancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating\ndockleaves. Nice that is. Look: look, look, look, look, look: you look\nat us.\n\nThat's joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is other\njoy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be. Mere fact of music shows\nyou are. Often thought she was in the dumps till she began to lilt. Then\nknow.\n\nM'Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing cat. Like tearing silk.\nTongue when she talks like the clapper of a bellows. They can't manage\nmen's intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me. I'm warm, dark, open.\nMolly in _quis est homo_: Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear.\nWant a woman who can deliver the goods.\n\nJog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue\nclocks came light to earth.\n\nO, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on that.\nIt is a kind of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is.\nTinkling. Empty vessels make most noise. Because the acoustics, the\nresonance changes according as the weight of the water is equal to\nthe law of falling water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt's, Hungarian,\ngipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle.\nHissss. Now. Maybe now. Before.\n\nOne rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul de Kock\nwith a loud proud knocker with a cock carracarracarra cock. Cockcock.\n\nTap.\n\n--_Qui sdegno,_ Ben, said Father Cowley.\n\n--No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. _The Croppy Boy._ Our native Doric.\n\n--Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true.\n\n--Do, do, they begged in one.\n\nI'll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay. To\nme. How much?\n\n--What key? Six sharps?\n\n--F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.\n\nBob Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords.\n\nMust go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must. Got\nmoney somewhere. He's on for a razzle backache spree. Much? He seehears\nlipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give him twopence\ntip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family waiting, waiting\nPatty come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait.\n\nBut wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of the\ndark middle earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic.\n\nThe voice of dark age, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach\nand painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good men\nand true. The priest he sought. With him would he speak a word.\n\nTap.\n\nBen Dollard's voice. Base barreltone. Doing his level best to say it.\nCroak of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Big\nships' chandler's business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships'\nlanterns. Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh\nhome. Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him.\n\nThe priest's at home. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. Step\nin. The holy father. With bows a traitor servant. Curlycues of chords.\n\nRuin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end their days\nin. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.\n\nThe voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered\na lonely hall, told them how solemn fell his footsteps there, told them\nthe gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive.\n\nDecent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he'll win in _Answers,_ poets'\npicture puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note. Bird sitting hatching\nin a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. See blank tee\nwhat domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. Good voice he\nhas still. No eunuch yet with all his belongings.\n\nListen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door deaf\nPat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened. The chords harped slower.\n\nThe voice of penance and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous.\nBen's contrite beard confessed. _in nomine Domini,_ in God's name he\nknelt. He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: _mea culpa._\n\nLatin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with the communion\ncorpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin or coffey,\n_corpusnomine._ Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape.\n\nTap.\n\nThey listened. Tankards and miss Kennedy. George Lidwell, eyelid well\nexpressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si.\n\nThe sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since Easter he had cursed\nthree times. You bitch's bast. And once at masstime he had gone to play.\nOnce by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother's rest he had\nnot prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.\n\nBronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn't\nhalf know I'm. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.\n\nBronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face?\nThey always know. Knock at the door. Last tip to titivate.\n\nCockcarracarra.\n\nWhat do they think when they hear music? Way to catch rattlesnakes.\nNight Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked\nthat best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain too.\nCustom his country perhaps. That's music too. Not as bad as it sounds.\nTootling. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasses helpless,\ngashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand open crocodile\nmusic hath jaws. Woodwind like Goodwin's name.\n\nShe looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show.\nClove her breath was always in theatre when she bent to ask a question.\nTold her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papa's. Hypnotised,\nlistening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle staring down\ninto her with his operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty of music you\nmust hear twice. Nature woman half a look. God made the country man the\ntune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!\n\nAll gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his\nbrothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last of\nhis name and race.\n\nI too. Last of my race. Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps. No\nson. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still?\n\nHe bore no hate.\n\nHate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old. Big Ben his voice\nunfolded. Great voice Richie Goulding said, a flush struggling in his\npale, to Bloom soon old. But when was young?\n\nIreland comes now. My country above the king. She listens. Who fears to\nspeak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving. Looked enough.\n\n--_Bless me, father,_ Dollard the croppy cried. _Bless me and let me\ngo._\n\nTap.\n\nBloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week.\nFellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Those\ngirls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl's romance. Letters\nread out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy's owny Mumpsypum.\nLaughter in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name you.\n\nLow sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priest\nrustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain. They know it all by\nheart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap.\n\nTap. Tap.\n\nThrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear.\n\nBlank face. Virgin should say: or fingered only. Write something on it:\npage. If not what becomes of them? Decline, despair. Keeps them young.\nEven admire themselves. See. Play on her. Lip blow. Body of white woman,\na flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes, all women. Goddess I\ndidn't see. They want it. Not too much polite. That's why he gets them.\nGold in your pocket, brass in your face. Say something. Make her hear.\nWith look to look. Songs without words. Molly, that hurdygurdy boy.\nShe knew he meant the monkey was sick. Or because so like the Spanish.\nUnderstand animals too that way. Solomon did. Gift of nature.\n\nVentriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom. What?\n\nWill? You? I. Want. You. To.\n\nWith hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplectic bitch's\nbastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour's your time to live,\nyour last.\n\nTap. Tap.\n\nThrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for martyrs that want\nto, dying to, die. For all things dying, for all things born. Poor Mrs\nPurefoy. Hope she's over. Because their wombs.\n\nA liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes, calmly,\nhearing. See real beauty of the eye when she not speaks. On yonder\nriver. At each slow satiny heaving bosom's wave (her heaving embon) red\nrose rose slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats: her breath: breath that is\nlife. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair.\n\nBut look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castile. The morn. Ha. Lidwell.\nFor him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? See her from here though.\nPopped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.\n\nOn the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave\nit to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over\nthe polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and\nfinger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then slid\nso smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding\nthrough their sliding ring.\n\nWith a cock with a carra.\n\nTap. Tap. Tap.\n\nI hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing.\n\nThe chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be. Get out before the\nend. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where's my hat. Pass by her. Can leave\nthat Freeman. Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No. Walk, walk,\nwalk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell.\nWaaaaaaalk.\n\nWell, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O'er ryehigh blue.\nOw. Bloom stood up. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Must have\nsweated: music. That lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade. Card\ninside. Yes.\n\nBy deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed.\n\nAt Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage was his body laid.\nDolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the mournful chanter called to\ndolorous prayer.\n\nBy rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties,\nby popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and\nfaint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so lonely\nBloom.\n\nTap. Tap. Tap.\n\nPray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear in peace. Breathe\na prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppy boy.\n\nScaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallway\nheard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots all\ntreading, boots not the boots the boy. General chorus off for a swill to\nwash it down. Glad I avoided.\n\n--Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried. By God, you're as good as ever you\nwere.\n\n--Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad,\nupon my soul and honour It is.\n\n--Lablache, said Father Cowley.\n\nBen Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the bar, mightily praisefed\nand all big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering\ncastagnettes in the air.\n\nBig Benaben Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.\n\nRrr.\n\nAnd deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose, all\nlaughing they brought him forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer.\n\n--You're looking rubicund, George Lidwell said.\n\nMiss Douce composed her rose to wait.\n\n--Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben's fat back shoulderblade.\nFit as a fiddle only he has a lot of adipose tissue concealed about his\nperson.\n\nRrrrrrrsss.\n\n--Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled.\n\nRichie rift in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly\nhe waited. Unpaid Pat too.\n\nTap. Tap. Tap. Tap.\n\nMiss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankard one.\n\n--Mr Dollard, they murmured low.\n\n--Dollard, murmured tankard.\n\nTank one believed: miss Kenn when she: that doll he was: she doll: the\ntank.\n\nHe murmured that he knew the name. The name was familiar to him, that\nis to say. That was to say he had heard the name of. Dollard, was it?\nDollard, yes.\n\nYes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that song lovely,\nmurmured Mina. Mr Dollard. And _The last rose of summer_ was a lovely\nsong. Mina loved that song. Tankard loved the song that Mina.\n\n'Tis the last rose of summer dollard left bloom felt wind wound round\ninside.\n\nGassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J's\none and eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street.\nWish I hadn't promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on your\nnerves. Beerpull. Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth.\nThat rules the world.\n\nFar. Far. Far. Far.\n\nTap. Tap. Tap. Tap.\n\nUp the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for Mady, with\nsweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses went Poldy\non.\n\nTap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone tapping, tap by tap.\n\nCowley, he stuns himself with it: kind of drunkenness. Better give way\nonly half way the way of a man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts. All\nears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding in time. Dotty.\nYou daren't budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Always talking shop.\nFiddlefaddle about notes.\n\nAll a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because you\nnever know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid a year.\nQueer up there in the cockloft, alone, with stops and locks and keys.\nSeated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself or\nthe other fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriek cursing\n(want to have wadding or something in his no don't she cried), then all\nof a soft sudden wee little wee little pipy wind.\n\nPwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. In Bloom's little wee.\n\n--Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning with fetched pipe. I was with him\nthis morning at poor little Paddy Dignam's...\n\n--Ay, the Lord have mercy on him.\n\n--By the bye there's a tuningfork in there on the...\n\nTap. Tap. Tap. Tap.\n\n--The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What? Lidwell asked.\n\n--O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw,\nforgot it when he was here.\n\nBlind he was she told George Lidwell second I saw. And played so\nexquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid, minagold.\n\n--Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out!\n\n--'lldo! cried Father Cowley.\n\nRrrrrr.\n\nI feel I want...\n\nTap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap\n\n--Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine.\n\nUnder the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely, last\nsardine of summer. Bloom alone.\n\n--Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice.\n\nTap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.\n\nBloom went by Barry's. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if I had.\nTwentyfour solicitors in that one house. Counted them. Litigation. Love\none another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power of\nattorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward.\n\nBut for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation: Mickey\nRooney's band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home after\npig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing his band\npart. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses' skins. Welt them through\nlife, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what you call\nyashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.\n\nTap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tapping cane came taptaptapping by\nDaly's window where a mermaid hair all streaming (but he couldn't see)\nblew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't), mermaid, coolest whiff of\nall.\n\nInstruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even\ncomb and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in her shift in\nLombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade made its\nown, don't you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? _Cloche.\nSonnez la._ Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle.\nLocks and keys! Sweep! Four o'clock's all's well! Sleep! All is lost\nnow. Drum? Pompedy. Wait. I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff. Long John.\nWaken the dead. Pom. Dignam. Poor little _nominedomine._ Pom. It is\nmusic. I mean of course it's all pom pom pom very much what they call\n_da capo._ Still you can hear. As we march, we march along, march along.\nPom.\n\nI must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of\ncustom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same\nhe must have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap.\nMuffled up. Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown macin. O,\nthe whore of the lane!\n\nA frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the day\nalong the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form endearing?\nYes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn. Who had\nthe? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst! Any\nchance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be with\nyou in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke, that. Appointment\nwe made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to home\nsweet home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip.\nDamn her. O, well, she has to live like the rest. Look in here.\n\nIn Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold\ndear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered\ncandlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain: six bob. Might\nlearn to play. Cheap. Let her pass. Course everything is dear if you\ndon't want it. That's what good salesman is. Make you buy what he wants\nto sell. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Wanted to\ncharge me for the edge he gave it. She's passing now. Six bob.\n\nMust be the cider or perhaps the burgund.\n\nNear bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked their clinking\nglasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting last\nrose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth:\nLidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard.\n\nTap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.\n\nBloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert\nEmmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is.\n\n--True men like you men.\n\n--Ay, ay, Ben.\n\n--Will lift your glass with us.\n\nThey lifted.\n\nTschink. Tschunk.\n\nTip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He saw\nnot gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie\nnor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.\n\nSeabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. _When my country takes\nher place among._\n\nPrrprr.\n\nMust be the bur.\n\nFff! Oo. Rrpr.\n\n_Nations of the earth._ No-one behind. She's passed. _Then and not till\nthen._ Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I'm\nsure it's the burgund. Yes. One, two. _Let my epitaph be._ Kraaaaaa.\n_Written. I have._\n\nPprrpffrrppffff.\n\n_Done._\n\n\n\nI was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the D. M. P. at the\ncorner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep came along\nand he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to let him have\nthe weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter\nonly Joe Hynes.\n\n--Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that bloody\nchimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?\n\n--Soot's luck, says Joe. Who's the old ballocks you were talking to?\n\n--Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I'm on two minds not to give that\nfellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and\nladders.\n\n--What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.\n\n--Devil a much, says I. There's a bloody big foxy thief beyond by the\ngarrison church at the corner of Chicken lane--old Troy was just giving\nme a wrinkle about him--lifted any God's quantity of tea and sugar\nto pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off a\nhop-of-my-thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury\nstreet.\n\n--Circumcised? says Joe.\n\n--Ay, says I. A bit off the top. An old plumber named Geraghty. I'm\nhanging on to his taw now for the past fortnight and I can't get a penny\nout of him.\n\n--That the lay you're on now? says Joe.\n\n--Ay, says I. How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and doubtful\ndebts. But that's the most notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a day's\nwalk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain.\n_Tell him,_ says he, _I dare him,_ says he, _and I doubledare him\nto send you round here again or if he does,_ says he, _I'll have\nhim summonsed up before the court, so I will, for trading without a\nlicence._ And he after stuffing himself till he's fit to burst. Jesus,\nI had to laugh at the little jewy getting his shirt out. _He drink me my\nteas. He eat me my sugars. Because he no pay me my moneys?_\n\nFor nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's\nparade in the city of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter\ncalled the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E. Geraghty,\nesquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city of Dublin, Arran quay ward,\ngentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds\navoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence per\npound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed crystal,\nat threepence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the\nsaid vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterling for value\nreceived which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in\nweekly instalments every seven calendar days of three shillings and no\npence sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or\npledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall\nbe and remain and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the\nsaid vendor to be disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the\nsaid amount shall have been duly paid by the said purchaser to the said\nvendor in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed between\nthe said vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the one\npart and the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns\nof the other part.\n\n--Are you a strict t.t.? says Joe.\n\n--Not taking anything between drinks, says I.\n\n--What about paying our respects to our friend? says Joe.\n\n--Who? says I. Sure, he's out in John of God's off his head, poor man.\n\n--Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.\n\n--Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.\n\n--Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe. I want to see the citizen.\n\n--Barney mavourneen's be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe?\n\n--Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.\n\n---What was that, Joe? says I.\n\n--Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to\ngive the citizen the hard word about it.\n\nSo we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the\ncourthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he\nhas it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn't get over\nthat bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a\nlicence, says he.\n\nIn Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There\nrises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in\nlife they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant land\nit is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the\ngurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the\ngrilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed coarse\nfish generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to\nbe enumerated. In the mild breezes of the west and of the east the lofty\ntrees wave in different directions their firstclass foliage, the wafty\nsycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic\neucalyptus and other ornaments of the arboreal world with which\nthat region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovely maidens sit in close\nproximity to the roots of the lovely trees singing the most lovely songs\nwhile they play with all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden\ningots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings,\ncreels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And heroes\nvoyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless\nprinces of unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth\nsleek Leinster and of Cruahan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of\nthe noble district of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings.\n\nAnd there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen\nby mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for\nthat purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruits\nof that land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain\ndescended from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring\nfoison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach,\npineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs,\ndrills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale,\nYork and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of\nmushrooms and custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red\ngreen yellow brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and\nchips of strawberries and sieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious,\nand strawberries fit for princes and raspberries from their canes.\n\nI dare him, says he, and I doubledare him. Come out here, Geraghty, you\nnotorious bloody hill and dale robber!\n\nAnd by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed\newes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers\nand roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep and\nCuffe's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the\nvarious different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus\nheifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime\npremiated milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling,\ncackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting,\nchamping, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from\npasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy\nvales of Thomond, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and\nlordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from the gentle declivities of the\nplace of the race of Kiar, their udders distended with superabundance of\nmilk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer's firkins and\ntargets of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in great hundreds,\nvarious in size, the agate with this dun.\n\nSo we turned into Barney Kiernan's and there, sure enough, was the\ncitizen up in the corner having a great confab with himself and that\nbloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the sky would\ndrop in the way of drink.\n\n--There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his\nload of papers, working for the cause.\n\nThe bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him would give you the creeps. Be\na corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of that bloody\ndog. I'm told for a fact he ate a good part of the breeches off a\nconstabulary man in Santry that came round one time with a blue paper\nabout a licence.\n\n--Stand and deliver, says he.\n\n--That's all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here.\n\n--Pass, friends, says he.\n\nThen he rubs his hand in his eye and says he:\n\n--What's your opinion of the times?\n\nDoing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal to\nthe occasion.\n\n--I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his hand down his\nfork.\n\nSo begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says:\n\n--Foreign wars is the cause of it.\n\nAnd says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:\n\n--It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.\n\n--Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. I've a thirst on me\nI wouldn't sell for half a crown.\n\n--Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.\n\n--Wine of the country, says he.\n\n--What's yours? says Joe.\n\n--Ditto MacAnaspey, says I.\n\n--Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how's the old heart, citizen? says\nhe.\n\n--Never better, _a chara_, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?\n\nAnd with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck\nand, by Jesus, he near throttled him.\n\nThe figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was\nthat of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired\nfreelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed longheaded\ndeepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmed\nhero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and his\nrocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of his\nbody wherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair in\nhue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse (_Ulex Europeus_).\nThe widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hue\nprojected, were of such capaciousness that within their cavernous\nobscurity the fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes\nin which a tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery were of the\ndimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful current of warm breath\nissued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth\nwhile in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his\nformidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of\nthe lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and\ntremble.\n\nHe wore a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching\nto the knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by\na girdle of plaited straw and rushes. Beneath this he wore trews of\ndeerskin, roughly stitched with gut. His nether extremities were encased\nin high Balbriggan buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feet being shod\nwith brogues of salted cowhide laced with the windpipe of the same\nbeast. From his girdle hung a row of seastones which jangled at every\nmovement of his portentous frame and on these were graven with rude\nyet striking art the tribal images of many Irish heroes and heroines of\nantiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niall of nine hostages,\nBrian of Kincora, the ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, Shane O'Neill,\nFather John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red Hugh O'Donnell,\nRed Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan O'Growney, Michael Dwyer, Francy\nHiggins, Henry Joy M'Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas Conneff,\nPeg Woffington, the Village Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain\nBoycott, Dante Alighieri, Christopher Columbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan,\nMarshal MacMahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe Tone, the Mother of the\nMaccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of Castile, the Man for\nGalway, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man in the Gap,\nThe Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L.\nSullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir\nThomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of\nLammermoor, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick\nW. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez,\nCaptain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas\nCook and Son, the Bold Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig\nBeethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly\nMount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve,\nArthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama\nBuddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye,\nthe Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah\nO'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. A couched spear of\nacuminated granite rested by him while at his feet reposed a savage\nanimal of the canine tribe whose stertorous gasps announced that he was\nsunk in uneasy slumber, a supposition confirmed by hoarse growls and\nspasmodic movements which his master repressed from time to time\nby tranquilising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of\npaleolithic stone.\n\nSo anyhow Terry brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob the\nsight nearly left my eyes when I saw him land out a quid O, as true as\nI'm telling you. A goodlooking sovereign.\n\n--And there's more where that came from, says he.\n\n--Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I.\n\n--Sweat of my brow, says Joe. 'Twas the prudent member gave me the\nwheeze.\n\n--I saw him before I met you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and\nGreek street with his cod's eye counting up all the guts of the fish.\n\nWho comes through Michan's land, bedight in sable armour? O'Bloom,\nthe son of Rory: it is he. Impervious to fear is Rory's son: he of the\nprudent soul.\n\n--For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen, the subsidised\norgan. The pledgebound party on the floor of the house. And look at this\nblasted rag, says he. Look at this, says he. _The Irish Independent,_ if\nyou please, founded by Parnell to be the workingman's friend. Listen to\nthe births and deaths in the _Irish all for Ireland Independent,_ and\nI'll thank you and the marriages.\n\nAnd he starts reading them out:\n\n--Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne's\non Sea: the wife of William T Redmayne of a son. How's that, eh? Wright\nand Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the\nlate George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road, Stockwell, Playwood and\nRidsdale at Saint Jude's, Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest,\ndean of Worcester. Eh? Deaths. Bristow, at Whitehall lane, London: Carr,\nStoke Newington, of gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the Moat\nhouse, Chepstow...\n\n--I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience.\n\n--Cockburn. Dimsey, wife of David Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller,\nTottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street,\nLiverpool, Isabella Helen. How's that for a national press, eh, my brown\nson! How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber?\n\n--Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose. Thanks be to God they had\nthe start of us. Drink that, citizen.\n\n--I will, says he, honourable person.\n\n--Health, Joe, says I. And all down the form.\n\nAh! Ow! Don't be talking! I was blue mouldy for the want of that pint.\nDeclare to God I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click.\n\nAnd lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came\nswiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, a comely youth and behind him\nthere passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing the sacred\nscrolls of law and with him his lady wife a dame of peerless lineage,\nfairest of her race.\n\nLittle Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney's\nsnug, squeezed up with the laughing. And who was sitting up there in\nthe corner that I hadn't seen snoring drunk blind to the world only Bob\nDoran. I didn't know what was up and Alf kept making signs out of the\ndoor. And begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen\nin his bathslippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxter and\nthe wife hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman, trotting like a\npoodle. I thought Alf would split.\n\n--Look at him, says he. Breen. He's traipsing all round Dublin with a\npostcard someone sent him with U. p: up on it to take a li...\n\nAnd he doubled up.\n\n--Take a what? says I.\n\n--Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.\n\n--O hell! says I.\n\nThe bloody mongrel began to growl that'd put the fear of God in you\nseeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.\n\n_--Bi i dho husht,_ says he.\n\n--Who? says Joe.\n\n--Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry Menton's and then he went round\nto Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round to\nthe subsheriff's for a lark. O God, I've a pain laughing. U. p: up. The\nlong fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloody old\nlunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man.\n\n--When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.\n\n--Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan?\n\n--Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a\npony. That bloody old fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen\nlong John's eye. U. p...\n\nAnd he started laughing.\n\n--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that Bergan?\n\n--Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.\n\nTerence O'Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup\nfull of the foamy ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and\nBungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as the sons of\ndeathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and\nmass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour\njuices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day\nfrom their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.\n\nThen did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner born,\nthat nectarous beverage and you offered the crystal cup to him that\nthirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals.\n\nBut he, the young chief of the O'Bergan's, could ill brook to be outdone\nin generous deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture a testoon of\ncostliest bronze. Thereon embossed in excellent smithwork was seen\nthe image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house of Brunswick,\nVictoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of God of the\nUnited Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British dominions\nbeyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even\nshe, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the wellbeloved, for\nthey knew and loved her from the rising of the sun to the going down\nthereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.\n\n--What's that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up and\ndown outside?\n\n--What's that? says Joe.\n\n--Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging,\nI'll show you something you never saw. Hangmen's letters. Look at here.\n\nSo he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his pocket.\n\n--Are you codding? says I.\n\n--Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.\n\nSo Joe took up the letters.\n\n--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran.\n\nSo I saw there was going to be a bit of a dust Bob's a queer chap when\nthe porter's up in him so says I just to make talk:\n\n--How's Willy Murray those times, Alf?\n\n--I don't know, says Alf I saw him just now in Capel street with Paddy\nDignam. Only I was running after that...\n\n--You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?\n\n--With Dignam, says Alf.\n\n--Is it Paddy? says Joe.\n\n--Yes, says Alf. Why?\n\n--Don't you know he's dead? says Joe.\n\n--Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf.\n\n--Ay, says Joe.\n\n--Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain as\na pikestaff.\n\n--Who's dead? says Bob Doran.\n\n--You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm.\n\n--What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five... What?... And Willy Murray\nwith him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim's... What? Dignam\ndead?\n\n--What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who's talking about...?\n\n--Dead! says Alf. He's no more dead than you are.\n\n--Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning\nanyhow.\n\n--Paddy? says Alf.\n\n--Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him.\n\n--Good Christ! says Alf.\n\nBegob he was what you might call flabbergasted.\n\nIn the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer by\ntantras had been directed to the proper quarter a faint but increasing\nluminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition of\nthe etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge\nof jivic rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication was\neffected through the pituitary body and also by means of the orangefiery\nand scarlet rays emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus.\nQuestioned by his earthname as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld he\nstated that he was now on the path of pr l ya or return but was still\nsubmitted to trial at the hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the\nlower astral levels. In reply to a question as to his first sensations\nin the great divide beyond he stated that previously he had seen as in a\nglass darkly but that those who had passed over had summit possibilities\nof atmic development opened up to them. Interrogated as to whether life\nthere resembled our experience in the flesh he stated that he had heard\nfrom more favoured beings now in the spirit that their abodes were\nequipped with every modern home comfort such as talafana, alavatar,\nhatakalda, wataklasat and that the highest adepts were steeped in\nwaves of volupcy of the very purest nature. Having requested a quart of\nbuttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief. Asked if he\nhad any message for the living he exhorted all who were still at the\nwrong side of Maya to acknowledge the true path for it was reported\nin devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were out for mischief on the\neastern angle where the ram has power. It was then queried whether there\nwere any special desires on the part of the defunct and the reply was:\n_We greet you, friends of earth, who are still in the body. Mind C. K.\ndoesn't pile it on._ It was ascertained that the reference was to Mr\nCornelius Kelleher, manager of Messrs H. J. O'Neill's popular\nfuneral establishment, a personal friend of the defunct, who had been\nresponsible for the carrying out of the interment arrangements. Before\ndeparting he requested that it should be told to his dear son Patsy that\nthe other boot which he had been looking for was at present under the\ncommode in the return room and that the pair should be sent to Cullen's\nto be soled only as the heels were still good. He stated that this had\ngreatly perturbed his peace of mind in the other region and earnestly\nrequested that his desire should be made known.\n\nAssurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was\nintimated that this had given satisfaction.\n\nHe is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was\nhis foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with\nyour wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.\n\n--There he is again, says the citizen, staring out.\n\n--Who? says I.\n\n--Bloom, says he. He's on point duty up and down there for the last ten\nminutes.\n\nAnd, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.\n\nLittle Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.\n\n--Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.\n\nAnd says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest\nblackguard in Dublin when he's under the influence:\n\n--Who said Christ is good?\n\n--I beg your parsnips, says Alf.\n\n--Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy\nDignam?\n\n--Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He's over all his troubles.\n\nBut Bob Doran shouts out of him.\n\n--He's a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.\n\nTerry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn't\nwant that kind of talk in a respectable licensed premises. And Bob Doran\nstarts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you're there.\n\n--The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character.\n\nThe tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat. Fitter\nfor him go home to the little sleepwalking bitch he married, Mooney, the\nbumbailiff's daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwicke street, that\nused to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told me that was\nstopping there at two in the morning without a stitch on her, exposing\nher person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.\n\n--The noblest, the truest, says he. And he's gone, poor little Willy,\npoor little Paddy Dignam.\n\nAnd mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that\nbeam of heaven.\n\nOld Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round\nthe door.\n\n--Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says the citizen.\n\nSo Bloom slopes in with his cod's eye on the dog and he asks Terry was\nMartin Cunningham there.\n\n--O, Christ M'Keown, says Joe, reading one of the letters. Listen to\nthis, will you?\n\nAnd he starts reading out one.\n\n_7 Hunter Street, Liverpool. To the High Sheriff of Dublin, Dublin._\n\n_Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the abovementioned painful\ncase i hanged Joe Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 of Febuary 1900 and i\nhanged..._\n\n--Show us, Joe, says I.\n\n--_... private Arthur Chace for fowl murder of Jessie Tilsit in\nPentonville prison and i was assistant when..._\n\n--Jesus, says I.\n\n--_... Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith..._\n\nThe citizen made a grab at the letter.\n\n--Hold hard, says Joe, _i have a special nack of putting the noose once\nin he can't get out hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir, my\nterms is five ginnees._\n\n_H. RUMBOLD, MASTER BARBER._\n\n--And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen.\n\n--And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. Here, says he, take them\nto hell out of my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, says he, what will you have?\n\nSo they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and he\ncouldn't and excuse him no offence and all to that and then he said well\nhe'd just take a cigar. Gob, he's a prudent member and no mistake.\n\n--Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.\n\nAnd Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a mourning card with a\nblack border round it.\n\n--They're all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hang\ntheir own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.\n\nAnd he was telling us there's two fellows waiting below to pull his\nheels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then they\nchop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob a skull.\n\nIn the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Their\ndeadly coil they grasp: yea, and therein they lead to Erebus whatsoever\nwight hath done a deed of blood for I will on nowise suffer it even so\nsaith the Lord.\n\nSo they started talking about capital punishment and of course Bloom\ncomes out with the why and the wherefore and all the codology of the\nbusiness and the old dog smelling him all the time I'm told those jewies\ndoes have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs about I don't\nknow what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on.\n\n--There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, says Alf.\n\n--What's that? says Joe.\n\n--The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf.\n\n--That so? says Joe.\n\n--God's truth, says Alf. I heard that from the head warder that was in\n\nKilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. He told me when\nthey cut him down after the drop it was standing up in their faces like\na poker.\n\n--Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe, as someone said.\n\n--That can be explained by science, says Bloom. It's only a natural\nphenomenon, don't you see, because on account of the...\n\nAnd then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and\nthis phenomenon and the other phenomenon.\n\nThe distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered\nmedical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the\ncervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would,\naccording to the best approved tradition of medical science, be\ncalculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent\nganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus,\nthereby causing the elastic pores of the _corpora cavernosa_ to rapidly\ndilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood\nto that part of the human anatomy known as the penis or male organ\nresulting in the phenomenon which has been denominated by the faculty\na morbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitive erection _in articulo\nmortis per diminutionem capitis._\n\nSo of course the citizen was only waiting for the wink of the word and\nhe starts gassing out of him about the invincibles and the old guard and\nthe men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe with\nhim about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported for\nthe cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, that\nand the other. Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a new\ndog so he ought. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing all round\nthe place and scratching his scabs. And round he goes to Bob Doran that\nwas standing Alf a half one sucking up for what he could get. So of\ncourse Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him:\n\n--Give us the paw! Give the paw, doggy! Good old doggy! Give the paw\nhere! Give us the paw!\n\nArrah, bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him from\ntumbling off the bloody stool atop of the bloody old dog and he talking\nall kinds of drivel about training by kindness and thoroughbred dog and\nintelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. Then he starts scraping a few\nbits of old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacobs' tin he told Terry to\nbring. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging\nout of him a yard long for more. Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody\nmongrel.\n\nAnd the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the\nbrothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet\nand die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara Curran and\nshe's far from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedown\ncigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon! The fat heap he\nmarried is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley.\nTime they were stopping up in the _City Arms_ pisser Burke told me there\nwas an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom\ntrying to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playing bézique\nto come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat of a\nFriday because the old one was always thumping her craw and taking the\nlout out for a walk. And one time he led him the rounds of Dublin and,\nby the holy farmer, he never cried crack till he brought him home as\ndrunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils of\nalcohol and by herrings, if the three women didn't near roast him, it's\na queer story, the old one, Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that kept the\nhotel. Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking them off chewing\nthe fat. And Bloom with his _but don't you see?_ and _but on the other\nhand_. And sure, more be token, the lout I'm told was in Power's after,\nthe blender's, round in Cope street going home footless in a cab five\ntimes in the week after drinking his way through all the samples in the\nbloody establishment. Phenomenon!\n\n--The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and\nglaring at Bloom.\n\n--Ay, ay, says Joe.\n\n--You don't grasp my point, says Bloom. What I mean is...\n\n--_Sinn Fein!_ says the citizen. _Sinn Fein amhain!_ The friends we love\nare by our side and the foes we hate before us.\n\nThe last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries far\nand near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around the\ngloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drums\npunctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafening\nclaps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up\nthe ghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its\nsupernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle. A torrential rain\npoured down from the floodgates of the angry heavens upon the\nbared heads of the assembled multitude which numbered at the\nlowest computation five hundred thousand persons. A posse of Dublin\nMetropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person\nmaintained order in the vast throng for whom the York street brass and\nreed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering on\ntheir blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from\nthe cradle by Speranza's plaintive muse. Special quick excursion trains\nand upholstered charabancs had been provided for the comfort of our\ncountry cousins of whom there were large contingents. Considerable\namusement was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and\nM-ll-g-n who sang _The Night before Larry was stretched_ in their usual\nmirth-provoking fashion. Our two inimitable drolls did a roaring trade\nwith their broadsheets among lovers of the comedy element and nobody\nwho has a corner in his heart for real Irish fun without vulgarity\nwill grudge them their hardearned pennies. The children of the Male and\nFemale Foundling Hospital who thronged the windows overlooking the scene\nwere delighted with this unexpected addition to the day's entertainment\nand a word of praise is due to the Little Sisters of the Poor for their\nexcellent idea of affording the poor fatherless and motherless children\na genuinely instructive treat. The viceregal houseparty which included\nmany wellknown ladies was chaperoned by Their Excellencies to the most\nfavourable positions on the grandstand while the picturesque foreign\ndelegation known as the Friends of the Emerald Isle was accommodated\non a tribune directly opposite. The delegation, present in full force,\nconsisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone (the semiparalysed\n_doyen_ of the party who had to be assisted to his seat by the aid of a\npowerful steam crane), Monsieur Pierrepaul Petitépatant, the Grandjoker\nVladinmire Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von\nSchwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Virága Kisászony Putrápesthi,\nHiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh\nRahat Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pecadillo y Palabras\ny Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung\nChang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe\nPaddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchisitch, Borus\nHupinkoff, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli,\nNationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocent\n-generalhistoryspecialprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein. All the\ndelegates without exception expressed themselves in the strongest\npossible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity which\nthey had been called upon to witness. An animated altercation (in which\nall took part) ensued among the F. O. T. E. I. as to whether the eighth\nor the ninth of March was the correct date of the birth of Ireland's\npatron saint. In the course of the argument cannonballs, scimitars,\nboomerangs, blunderbusses, stinkpots, meatchoppers, umbrellas,\ncatapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of pig iron were resorted to\nand blows were freely exchanged. The baby policeman, Constable\nMacFadden, summoned by special courier from Booterstown, quickly\nrestored order and with lightning promptitude proposed the seventeenth\nof the month as a solution equally honourable for both contending\nparties. The readywitted ninefooter's suggestion at once appealed to all\nand was unanimously accepted. Constable MacFadden was heartily\ncongratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding\nprofusely. Commendatore Beninobenone having been extricated from\nunderneath the presidential armchair, it was explained by his legal\nadviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the various articles secreted in his\nthirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by him during the affray from the\npockets of his junior colleagues in the hope of bringing them to their\nsenses. The objects (which included several hundred ladies' and\ngentlemen's gold and silver watches) were promptly restored to their\nrightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.\n\nQuietly, unassumingly Rumbold stepped on to the scaffold in faultless\nmorning dress and wearing his favourite flower, the _Gladiolus\nCruentus_. He announced his presence by that gentle Rumboldian cough\nwhich so many have tried (unsuccessfully) to imitate--short,\npainstaking yet withal so characteristic of the man. The arrival of the\nworldrenowned headsman was greeted by a roar of acclamation from the\nhuge concourse, the viceregal ladies waving their handkerchiefs in\ntheir excitement while the even more excitable foreign delegates\ncheered vociferously in a medley of cries, _hoch, banzai, eljen, zivio,\nchinchin, polla kronia, hiphip, vive, Allah_, amid which the ringing\n_evviva_ of the delegate of the land of song (a high double F recalling\nthose piercingly lovely notes with which the eunuch Catalani beglamoured\nour greatgreatgrandmothers) was easily distinguishable. It was exactly\nseventeen o'clock. The signal for prayer was then promptly given by\nmegaphone and in an instant all heads were bared, the commendatore's\npatriarchal sombrero, which has been in the possession of his family\nsince the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by his medical adviser\nin attendance, Dr Pippi. The learned prelate who administered the last\ncomforts of holy religion to the hero martyr when about to pay the death\npenalty knelt in a most christian spirit in a pool of rainwater, his\ncassock above his hoary head, and offered up to the throne of grace\nfervent prayers of supplication. Hand by the block stood the grim figure\nof the executioner, his visage being concealed in a tengallon pot\nwith two circular perforated apertures through which his eyes glowered\nfuriously. As he awaited the fatal signal he tested the edge of his\nhorrible weapon by honing it upon his brawny forearm or decapitated\nin rapid succession a flock of sheep which had been provided by the\nadmirers of his fell but necessary office. On a handsome mahogany table\nnear him were neatly arranged the quartering knife, the various\nfinely tempered disembowelling appliances (specially supplied by the\nworldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round and Sons, Sheffield),\na terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the duodenum, colon,\nblind intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted and two\ncommodious milkjugs destined to receive the most precious blood of the\nmost precious victim. The housesteward of the amalgamated cats' and\ndogs' home was in attendance to convey these vessels when replenished\nto that beneficent institution. Quite an excellent repast consisting of\nrashers and eggs, fried steak and onions, done to a nicety, delicious\nhot breakfast rolls and invigorating tea had been considerately provided\nby the authorities for the consumption of the central figure of the\ntragedy who was in capital spirits when prepared for death and evinced\nthe keenest interest in the proceedings from beginning to end but he,\nwith an abnegation rare in these our times, rose nobly to the occasion\nand expressed the dying wish (immediately acceded to) that the meal\nshould be divided in aliquot parts among the members of the sick and\nindigent roomkeepers' association as a token of his regard and esteem.\nThe _nec_ and _non plus ultra_ of emotion were reached when the blushing\nbride elect burst her way through the serried ranks of the bystanders\nand flung herself upon the muscular bosom of him who was about to be\nlaunched into eternity for her sake. The hero folded her willowy form in\na loving embrace murmuring fondly _Sheila, my own_. Encouraged by\nthis use of her christian name she kissed passionately all the various\nsuitable areas of his person which the decencies of prison garb\npermitted her ardour to reach. She swore to him as they mingled the salt\nstreams of their tears that she would ever cherish his memory, that she\nwould never forget her hero boy who went to his death with a song on his\nlips as if he were but going to a hurling match in Clonturk park. She\nbrought back to his recollection the happy days of blissful childhood\ntogether on the banks of Anna Liffey when they had indulged in the\ninnocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the dreadful present,\nthey both laughed heartily, all the spectators, including the venerable\npastor, joining in the general merriment. That monster audience simply\nrocked with delight. But anon they were overcome with grief and clasped\ntheir hands for the last time. A fresh torrent of tears burst from their\nlachrymal ducts and the vast concourse of people, touched to the inmost\ncore, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least affected being the\naged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of the peace and\ngenial giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of\ntheir handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was not a dry eye\nin that record assemblage. A most romantic incident occurred when a\nhandsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair\nsex, stepped forward and, presenting his visiting card, bankbook\nand genealogical tree, solicited the hand of the hapless young lady,\nrequesting her to name the day, and was accepted on the spot. Every lady\nin the audience was presented with a tasteful souvenir of the occasion\nin the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a timely and generous\nact which evoked a fresh outburst of emotion: and when the gallant young\nOxonian (the bearer, by the way, of one of the most timehonoured names\nin Albion's history) placed on the finger of his blushing _fiancée_ an\nexpensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a\nfourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. Nay, even the\nster provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan\nTomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had blown a\nconsiderable number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching,\ncould not now restrain his natural emotion. With his mailed gauntlet\nhe brushed away a furtive tear and was overheard, by those privileged\nburghers who happened to be in his immediate _entourage,_ to murmur to\nhimself in a faltering undertone:\n\n--God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Blimey it\nmakes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does, when I sees her cause\nI thinks of my old mashtub what's waiting for me down Limehouse way.\n\nSo then the citizen begins talking about the Irish language and the\ncorporation meeting and all to that and the shoneens that can't speak\ntheir own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for a\nquid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that\nhe cadged off of Joe and talking about the Gaelic league and the\nantitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. Antitreating is\nabout the size of it. Gob, he'd let you pour all manner of drink down\nhis throat till the Lord would call him before you'd ever see the froth\nof his pint. And one night I went in with a fellow into one of their\nmusical evenings, song and dance about she could get up on a truss of\nhay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow with a Ballyhooly\nblue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish and a lot of colleen\nbawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals\nand oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolagh\nentertainment, don't be talking. Ireland sober is Ireland free. And\nthen an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers\nshuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or two\nsky pilots having an eye around that there was no goings on with the\nfemales, hitting below the belt.\n\nSo howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty\nstarts mousing around by Joe and me. I'd train him by kindness, so I\nwould, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again\nwhere it wouldn't blind him.\n\n--Afraid he'll bite you? says the citizen, jeering.\n\n--No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.\n\nSo he calls the old dog over.\n\n--What's on you, Garry? says he.\n\nThen he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and the\nold towser growling, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera.\nSuch growling you never heard as they let off between them. Someone that\nhas nothing better to do ought to write a letter _pro bono publico_ to\nthe papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of that. Growling\nand grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the\nhydrophobia dropping out of his jaws.\n\nAll those who are interested in the spread of human culture among the\nlower animals (and their name is legion) should make a point of not\nmissing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the\nfamous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the _sobriquet_ of\nGarryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and\nacquaintances Owen Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of years\nof training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system,\ncomprises, among other achievements, the recitation of verse. Our\ngreatest living phonetic expert (wild horses shall not drag it from us!)\nhas left no stone unturned in his efforts to delucidate and compare\nthe verse recited and has found it bears a _striking_ resemblance (the\nitalics are ours) to the ranns of ancient Celtic bards. We are not\nspeaking so much of those delightful lovesongs with which the writer who\nconceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym of the Little\nSweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving world but rather (as\na contributor D. O. C. points out in an interesting communication\npublished by an evening contemporary) of the harsher and more personal\nnote which is found in the satirical effusions of the famous Raftery and\nof Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a more modern lyrist at present\nvery much in the public eye. We subjoin a specimen which has been\nrendered into English by an eminent scholar whose name for the moment we\nare not at liberty to disclose though we believe that our readers will\nfind the topical allusion rather more than an indication. The metrical\nsystem of the canine original, which recalls the intricate alliterative\nand isosyllabic rules of the Welsh englyn, is infinitely more\ncomplicated but we believe our readers will agree that the spirit has\nbeen well caught. Perhaps it should be added that the effect is greatly\nincreased if Owen's verse be spoken somewhat slowly and indistinctly in\na tone suggestive of suppressed rancour.\n\n     _The curse of my curses\n     Seven days every day\n     And seven dry Thursdays\n     On you, Barney Kiernan,\n     Has no sup of water\n     To cool my courage,\n     And my guts red roaring\n     After Lowry's lights._\n\nSo he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could\nhear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have\nanother.\n\n--I will, says he, _a chara_, to show there's no ill feeling.\n\nGob, he's not as green as he's cabbagelooking. Arsing around from one\npub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap's dog\nand getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. Entertainment for\nman and beast. And says Joe:\n\n--Could you make a hole in another pint?\n\n--Could a swim duck? says I.\n\n--Same again, Terry, says Joe. Are you sure you won't have anything in\nthe way of liquid refreshment? says he.\n\n--Thank you, no, says Bloom. As a matter of fact I just wanted to meet\nMartin Cunningham, don't you see, about this insurance of poor Dignam's.\nMartin asked me to go to the house. You see, he, Dignam, I mean, didn't\nserve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and\nnominally under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy.\n\n--Holy Wars, says Joe, laughing, that's a good one if old Shylock is\nlanded. So the wife comes out top dog, what?\n\n--Well, that's a point, says Bloom, for the wife's admirers.\n\n--Whose admirers? says Joe.\n\n--The wife's advisers, I mean, says Bloom.\n\nThen he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act\nlike the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and for the benefit\nof the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand that\nDignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow\ncontested the mortgagee's right till he near had the head of me addled\nwith his mortgagor under the act. He was bloody safe he wasn't run in\nhimself under the act that time as a rogue and vagabond only he had a\nfriend in court. Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal\nHungarian privileged lottery. True as you're there. O, commend me to an\nisraelite! Royal and privileged Hungarian robbery.\n\nSo Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to tell Mrs Dignam he\nwas sorry for her trouble and he was very sorry about the funeral and\nto tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there was\nnever a truer, a finer than poor little Willy that's dead to tell her.\nChoking with bloody foolery. And shaking Bloom's hand doing the tragic\nto tell her that. Shake hands, brother. You're a rogue and I'm another.\n\n--Let me, said he, so far presume upon our acquaintance which, however\nslight it may appear if judged by the standard of mere time, is founded,\nas I hope and believe, on a sentiment of mutual esteem as to request of\nyou this favour. But, should I have overstepped the limits of reserve\nlet the sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my boldness.\n\n--No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full the motives which\nactuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office you entrust to\nme consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of sorrow,\nthis proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitterness of\nthe cup.\n\n--Then suffer me to take your hand, said he. The goodness of your heart,\nI feel sure, will dictate to you better than my inadequate words\nthe expressions which are most suitable to convey an emotion whose\npoignancy, were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even of\nspeech.\n\nAnd off with him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at five\no'clock. Night he was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the\nbobby, 14A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street after\nclosing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking\nporter out of teacups. And calling himself a Frenchy for the shawls,\nJoseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and he serving\nmass in Adam and Eve's when he was young with his eyes shut, who wrote\nthe new testament, and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. And\nthe two shawls killed with the laughing, picking his pockets, the bloody\nfool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawls\nscreeching laughing at one another. _How is your testament? Have you got\nan old testament?_ Only Paddy was passing there, I tell you what. Then\nsee him of a Sunday with his little concubine of a wife, and she wagging\nher tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots on her, no\nless, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady. Jack Mooney's\nsister. And the old prostitute of a mother procuring rooms to street\ncouples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told him if he didn't patch up\nthe pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him.\n\nSo Terry brought the three pints.\n\n--Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen.\n\n--_Slan leat_, says he.\n\n--Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.\n\nGob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already. Want a small\nfortune to keep him in drinks.\n\n--Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? says Joe.\n\n--Friend of yours, says Alf.\n\n--Nannan? says Joe. The mimber?\n\n--I won't mention any names, says Alf.\n\n--I thought so, says Joe. I saw him up at that meeting now with William\nField, M. P., the cattle traders.\n\n--Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of\nall countries and the idol of his own.\n\nSo Joe starts telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease\nand the cattle traders and taking action in the matter and the citizen\nsending them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with his\nsheepdip for the scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and the\nguaranteed remedy for timber tongue. Because he was up one time in a\nknacker's yard. Walking about with his book and pencil here's my head\nand my heels are coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the boot\nfor giving lip to a grazier. Mister Knowall. Teach your grandmother how\nto milk ducks. Pisser Burke was telling me in the hotel the wife used\nto be in rivers of tears some times with Mrs O'Dowd crying her eyes out\nwith her eight inches of fat all over her. Couldn't loosen her farting\nstrings but old cod's eye was waltzing around her showing her how to do\nit. What's your programme today? Ay. Humane methods. Because the poor\nanimals suffer and experts say and the best known remedy that doesn't\ncause pain to the animal and on the sore spot administer gently. Gob,\nhe'd have a soft hand under a hen.\n\nGa Ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen. She lays eggs for\nus. When she lays her egg she is so glad. Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Then\ncomes good uncle Leo. He puts his hand under black Liz and takes her\nfresh egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook.\n\n--Anyhow, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over tonight to London\nto ask about it on the floor of the house of commons.\n\n--Are you sure, says Bloom, the councillor is going? I wanted to see\nhim, as it happens.\n\n--Well, he's going off by the mailboat, says Joe, tonight.\n\n--That's too bad, says Bloom. I wanted particularly. Perhaps only Mr\nField is going. I couldn't phone. No. You're sure?\n\n--Nannan's going too, says Joe. The league told him to ask a question\ntomorrow about the commissioner of police forbidding Irish games in the\npark. What do you think of that, citizen? _The Sluagh na h-Eireann_.\n\nMr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arising out of the question of\nmy honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right\nhonourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these\nanimals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming\nas to their pathological condition?\n\nMr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourable members are already in\npossession of the evidence produced before a committee of the whole\nhouse. I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. The answer to the\nhonourable member's question is in the affirmative.\n\nMr Orelli O'Reilly (Montenotte. Nat.): Have similar orders been issued\nfor the slaughter of human animals who dare to play Irish games in the\nPhoenix park?\n\nMr Allfours: The answer is in the negative.\n\nMr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable gentleman's famous\nMitchelstown telegram inspired the policy of gentlemen on the Treasury\nbench? (O! O!)\n\nMr Allfours: I must have notice of that question.\n\nMr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Don't hesitate to shoot.\n\n(Ironical opposition cheers.)\n\nThe speaker: Order! Order!\n\n(The house rises. Cheers.)\n\n--There's the man, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival. There\nhe is sitting there. The man that got away James Stephens. The champion\nof all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot. What was your best\nthrow, citizen?\n\n--_Na bacleis_, says the citizen, letting on to be modest. There was a\ntime I was as good as the next fellow anyhow.\n\n--Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody sight better.\n\n--Is that really a fact? says Alf.\n\n--Yes, says Bloom. That's well known. Did you not know that?\n\nSo off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of\nlawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soil\nand building up a nation once again and all to that. And of course Bloom\nhad to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower's heart violent\nexercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up a straw\nfrom the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: _Look at, Bloom. Do you\nsee that straw? That's a straw_. Declare to my aunt he'd talk about it\nfor an hour so he would and talk steady.\n\nA most interesting discussion took place in the ancient hall of _Brian\nO'ciarnain's_ in _Sraid na Bretaine Bheag_, under the auspices of\n_Sluagh na h-Eireann_, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports and the\nimportance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and\nancient Rome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the race.\nThe venerable president of the noble order was in the chair and the\nattendance was of large dimensions. After an instructive discourse by\nthe chairman, a magnificent oration eloquently and forcibly expressed,\na most interesting and instructive discussion of the usual high standard\nof excellence ensued as to the desirability of the revivability of\nthe ancient games and sports of our ancient Panceltic forefathers. The\nwellknown and highly respected worker in the cause of our old tongue, Mr\nJoseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation of\nthe ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised morning and evening\nby Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the best traditions of manly\nstrength and prowess handed down to us from ancient ages. L. Bloom, who\nmet with a mixed reception of applause and hisses, having espoused the\nnegative the vocalist chairman brought the discussion to a close, in\nresponse to repeated requests and hearty plaudits from all parts of\na bumper house, by a remarkably noteworthy rendering of the immortal\nThomas Osborne Davis' evergreen verses (happily too familiar to need\nrecalling here) _A nation once again_ in the execution of which the\nveteran patriot champion may be said without fear of contradiction\nto have fairly excelled himself. The Irish Caruso-Garibaldi was in\nsuperlative form and his stentorian notes were heard to the greatest\nadvantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as only our citizen can sing\nit. His superb highclass vocalism, which by its superquality greatly\nenhanced his already international reputation, was vociferously\napplauded by the large audience among which were to be noticed many\nprominent members of the clergy as well as representatives of the press\nand the bar and the other learned professions. The proceedings then\nterminated.\n\nAmongst the clergy present were the very rev. William Delany, S. J., L.\nL. D.; the rt rev. Gerald Molloy, D. D.; the rev. P. J. Kavanagh, C. S.\nSp.; the rev. T. Waters, C. C.; the rev. John M. Ivers, P. P.; the rev.\nP. J. Cleary, O. S. F.; the rev. L. J. Hickey, O. P.; the very rev. Fr.\nNicholas, O. S. F. C.; the very rev. B. Gorman, O. D. C.; the rev. T.\nMaher, S. J.; the very rev. James Murphy, S. J.; the rev. John Lavery,\nV. F.; the very rev. William Doherty, D. D.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O.\nM.; the rev. T. Brangan, O. S. A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C. C.; the\nrev. M. A. Hackett, C. C.; the rev. W. Hurley, C. C.; the rt rev. Mgr\nM'Manus, V. G.; the rev. B. R. Slattery, O. M. I.; the very rev. M.\nD. Scally, P. P.; the rev. F. T. Purcell, O. P.; the very rev. Timothy\ncanon Gorman, P. P.; the rev. J. Flanagan, C. C. The laity included P.\nFay, T. Quirke, etc., etc.\n\n--Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, were you at that\nKeogh-Bennett match?\n\n--No, says Joe.\n\n--I heard So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says Alf.\n\n--Who? Blazes? says Joe.\n\nAnd says Bloom:\n\n--What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training\nthe eye.\n\n--Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Myler was on the beer to run up\nthe odds and he swatting all the time.\n\n--We know him, says the citizen. The traitor's son. We know what put\nEnglish gold in his pocket.\n\n---True for you, says Joe.\n\nAnd Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis and the circulation of the\nblood, asking Alf:\n\n--Now, don't you think, Bergan?\n\n--Myler dusted the floor with him, says Alf. Heenan and Sayers was only\na bloody fool to it. Handed him the father and mother of a beating. See\nthe little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. God,\nhe gave him one last puck in the wind, Queensberry rules and all, made\nhim puke what he never ate.\n\nIt was a historic and a hefty battle when Myler and Percy were scheduled\nto don the gloves for the purse of fifty sovereigns. Handicapped as he\nwas by lack of poundage, Dublin's pet lamb made up for it by superlative\nskill in ringcraft. The final bout of fireworks was a gruelling for both\nchampions. The welterweight sergeantmajor had tapped some lively claret\nin the previous mixup during which Keogh had been receivergeneral of\nrights and lefts, the artilleryman putting in some neat work on the\npet's nose, and Myler came on looking groggy. The soldier got to\nbusiness, leading off with a powerful left jab to which the Irish\ngladiator retaliated by shooting out a stiff one flush to the point of\nBennett's jaw. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a\nleft hook, the body punch being a fine one. The men came to handigrips.\nMyler quickly became busy and got his man under, the bout ending with\nthe bulkier man on the ropes, Myler punishing him. The Englishman, whose\nright eye was nearly closed, took his corner where he was liberally\ndrenched with water and when the bell went came on gamey and brimful of\npluck, confident of knocking out the fistic Eblanite in jigtime. It was\na fight to a finish and the best man for it. The two fought like tigers\nand excitement ran fever high. The referee twice cautioned Pucking Percy\nfor holding but the pet was tricky and his footwork a treat to watch.\nAfter a brisk exchange of courtesies during which a smart upper cut of\nthe military man brought blood freely from his opponent's mouth the\nlamb suddenly waded in all over his man and landed a terrific left to\nBattling Bennett's stomach, flooring him flat. It was a knockout clean\nand clever. Amid tense expectation the Portobello bruiser was being\ncounted out when Bennett's second Ole Pfotts Wettstein threw in the\ntowel and the Santry boy was declared victor to the frenzied cheers of\nthe public who broke through the ringropes and fairly mobbed him with\ndelight.\n\n--He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. I hear he's\nrunning a concert tour now up in the north.\n\n--He is, says Joe. Isn't he?\n\n--Who? says Bloom. Ah, yes. That's quite true. Yes, a kind of summer\ntour, you see. Just a holiday.\n\n--Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she? says Joe.\n\n--My wife? says Bloom. She's singing, yes. I think it will be a success\ntoo.\n\nHe's an excellent man to organise. Excellent.\n\nHoho begob says I to myself says I. That explains the milk in the\ncocoanut and absence of hair on the animal's chest. Blazes doing the\ntootle on the flute. Concert tour. Dirty Dan the dodger's son off Island\nbridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to fight\nthe Boers. Old Whatwhat. I called about the poor and water rate, Mr\nBoylan. You what? The water rate, Mr Boylan. You whatwhat? That's the\nbucko that'll organise her, take my tip. 'Twixt me and you Caddareesh.\n\nPride of Calpe's rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy. There\ngrew she to peerless beauty where loquat and almond scent the air. The\ngardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of olives knew and bowed.\nThe chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms.\n\nAnd lo, there entered one of the clan of the O'Molloy's, a comely hero\nof white face yet withal somewhat ruddy, his majesty's counsel learned\nin the law, and with him the prince and heir of the noble line of\nLambert.\n\n--Hello, Ned.\n\n--Hello, Alf.\n\n--Hello, Jack.\n\n--Hello, Joe.\n\n--God save you, says the citizen.\n\n--Save you kindly, says J. J. What'll it be, Ned?\n\n--Half one, says Ned.\n\nSo J. J. ordered the drinks.\n\n--Were you round at the court? says Joe.\n\n--Yes, says J. J. He'll square that, Ned, says he.\n\n--Hope so, says Ned.\n\nNow what were those two at? J. J. getting him off the grand jury list\nand the other give him a leg over the stile. With his name in Stubbs's.\nPlaying cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their\neye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders.\nPawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street where no-one would\nknow him in the private office when I was there with Pisser releasing\nhis boots out of the pop. What's your name, sir? Dunne, says he. Ay, and\ndone says I. Gob, he'll come home by weeping cross one of those days,\nI'm thinking.\n\n--Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? says Alf. U. p: up.\n\n--Yes, says J. J. Looking for a private detective.\n\n--Ay, says Ned. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court only\nCorny Kelleher got round him telling him to get the handwriting examined\nfirst.\n\n--Ten thousand pounds, says Alf, laughing. God, I'd give anything to\nhear him before a judge and jury.\n\n--Was it you did it, Alf? says Joe. The truth, the whole truth and\nnothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.\n\n--Me? says Alf. Don't cast your nasturtiums on my character.\n\n--Whatever statement you make, says Joe, will be taken down in evidence\nagainst you.\n\n--Of course an action would lie, says J. J. It implies that he is not\n_compos mentis_. U. p: up.\n\n_--Compos_ your eye! says Alf, laughing. Do you know that he's balmy?\nLook at his head. Do you know that some mornings he has to get his hat\non with a shoehorn.\n\n--Yes, says J. J., but the truth of a libel is no defence to an\nindictment for publishing it in the eyes of the law.\n\n--Ha ha, Alf, says Joe.\n\n--Still, says Bloom, on account of the poor woman, I mean his wife.\n\n--Pity about her, says the citizen. Or any other woman marries a half\nand half.\n\n--How half and half? says Bloom. Do you mean he...\n\n--Half and half I mean, says the citizen. A fellow that's neither fish\nnor flesh.\n\n--Nor good red herring, says Joe.\n\n--That what's I mean, says the citizen. A pishogue, if you know what\nthat is.\n\nBegob I saw there was trouble coming. And Bloom explaining he meant on\naccount of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the\nold stuttering fool. Cruelty to animals so it is to let that bloody\npovertystricken Breen out on grass with his beard out tripping him,\nbringing down the rain. And she with her nose cockahoop after she\nmarried him because a cousin of his old fellow's was pewopener to the\npope. Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney's moustaches,\nthe signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal Zouave to the\nHoly Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street. And who was\nhe, tell us? A nobody, two pair back and passages, at seven shillings a\nweek, and he covered with all kinds of breastplates bidding defiance to\nthe world.\n\n--And moreover, says J. J., a postcard is publication. It was held to\nbe sufficient evidence of malice in the testcase Sadgrove v. Hole. In my\nopinion an action might lie.\n\nSix and eightpence, please. Who wants your opinion? Let us drink our\npints in peace. Gob, we won't be let even do that much itself.\n\n--Well, good health, Jack, says Ned.\n\n--Good health, Ned, says J. J.\n\n---There he is again, says Joe.\n\n--Where? says Alf.\n\nAnd begob there he was passing the door with his books under his oxter\nand the wife beside him and Corny Kelleher with his wall eye looking in\nas they went past, talking to him like a father, trying to sell him a\nsecondhand coffin.\n\n--How did that Canada swindle case go off? says Joe.\n\n--Remanded, says J. J.\n\nOne of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of James\nWought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers\nsaying he'd give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. What? Do you see\nany green in the white of my eye? Course it was a bloody barney. What?\nSwindled them all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and\nhis own kidney too. J. J. was telling us there was an ancient Hebrew\nZaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on him,\nswearing by the holy Moses he was stuck for two quid.\n\n--Who tried the case? says Joe.\n\n--Recorder, says Ned.\n\n--Poor old sir Frederick, says Alf, you can cod him up to the two eyes.\n\n--Heart as big as a lion, says Ned. Tell him a tale of woe about arrears\nof rent and a sick wife and a squad of kids and, faith, he'll dissolve\nin tears on the bench.\n\n--Ay, says Alf. Reuben J was bloody lucky he didn't clap him in the dock\nthe other day for suing poor little Gumley that's minding stones, for\nthe corporation there near Butt bridge.\n\nAnd he starts taking off the old recorder letting on to cry:\n\n--A most scandalous thing! This poor hardworking man! How many children?\nTen, did you say?\n\n--Yes, your worship. And my wife has the typhoid.\n\n--And the wife with typhoid fever! Scandalous! Leave the court\nimmediately, sir. No, sir, I'll make no order for payment. How dare you,\nsir, come up before me and ask me to make an order! A poor hardworking\nindustrious man! I dismiss the case.\n\nAnd whereas on the sixteenth day of the month of the oxeyed goddess and\nin the third week after the feastday of the Holy and Undivided Trinity,\nthe daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in her first\nquarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them to the\nhalls of law. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave\nhis rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in the\nprobate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the first\nchargeant upon the property in the matter of the will propounded and\nfinal testamentary disposition _in re_ the real and personal estate of\nthe late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased, versus Livingstone,\nan infant, of unsound mind, and another. And to the solemn court of\nGreen street there came sir Frederick the Falconer. And he sat him there\nabout the hour of five o'clock to administer the law of the brehons at\nthe commission for all that and those parts to be holden in and for the\ncounty of the city of Dublin. And there sat with him the high sinhedrim\nof the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the tribe of\nPatrick and of the tribe of Hugh and of the tribe of Owen and of the\ntribe of Conn and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of Fergus and\nof the tribe of Finn and of the tribe of Dermot and of the tribe of\nCormac and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of Caolte and of the\ntribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men and true. And he\nconjured them by Him who died on rood that they should well and\ntruly try and true deliverance make in the issue joined between their\nsovereign lord the king and the prisoner at the bar and true verdict\ngive according to the evidence so help them God and kiss the book. And\nthey rose in their seats, those twelve of Iar, and they swore by\nthe name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do His\nrightwiseness. And straightway the minions of the law led forth from\ntheir donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended\nin consequence of information received. And they shackled him hand and\nfoot and would take of him ne bail ne mainprise but preferred a charge\nagainst him for he was a malefactor.\n\n--Those are nice things, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland\nfilling the country with bugs.\n\nSo Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts talking with Joe,\ntelling him he needn't trouble about that little matter till the first\nbut if he would just say a word to Mr Crawford. And so Joe swore high\nand holy by this and by that he'd do the devil and all.\n\n--Because, you see, says Bloom, for an advertisement you must have\nrepetition. That's the whole secret.\n\n--Rely on me, says Joe.\n\n--Swindling the peasants, says the citizen, and the poor of Ireland. We\nwant no more strangers in our house.\n\n--O, I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom. It's just that\nKeyes, you see.\n\n--Consider that done, says Joe.\n\n--Very kind of you, says Bloom.\n\n--The strangers, says the citizen. Our own fault. We let them come in.\nWe brought them in. The adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxon\nrobbers here.\n\n--Decree _nisi,_ says J. J.\n\nAnd Bloom letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a\nspider's web in the corner behind the barrel, and the citizen scowling\nafter him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite and\nwhen.\n\n--A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that's what's the cause of all\nour misfortunes.\n\n--And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling over the _Police Gazette_\nwith Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint.\n\n--Give us a squint at her, says I.\n\nAnd what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrows off\nof Corny Kelleher. Secrets for enlarging your private parts. Misconduct\nof society belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy Chicago contractor, finds\npretty but faithless wife in lap of officer Taylor. Belle in her\nbloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for her tickles\nand Norman W. Tupper bouncing in with his peashooter just in time to be\nlate after she doing the trick of the loop with officer Taylor.\n\n--O jakers, Jenny, says Joe, how short your shirt is!\n\n--There's hair, Joe, says I. Get a queer old tailend of corned beef off\nof that one, what?\n\nSo anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a face on\nhim as long as a late breakfast.\n\n--Well, says the citizen, what's the latest from the scene of action?\nWhat did those tinkers in the city hall at their caucus meeting decide\nabout the Irish language?\n\nO'Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the\npuissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of\nthat which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most obedient\ncity, second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there, after\ndue prayers to the gods who dwell in ether supernal, had taken solemn\ncounsel whereby they might, if so be it might be, bring once more into\nhonour among mortal men the winged speech of the seadivided Gael.\n\n--It's on the march, says the citizen. To hell with the bloody brutal\nSassenachs and their _patois._\n\nSo J. J. puts in a word, doing the toff about one story was good till\nyou heard another and blinking facts and the Nelson policy, putting your\nblind eye to the telescope and drawing up a bill of attainder to impeach\na nation, and Bloom trying to back him up moderation and botheration and\ntheir colonies and their civilisation.\n\n--Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. To hell with\nthem! The curse of a goodfornothing God light sideways on the bloody\nthicklugged sons of whores' gets! No music and no art and no literature\nworthy of the name. Any civilisation they have they stole from us.\nTonguetied sons of bastards' ghosts.\n\n--The European family, says J. J....\n\n--They're not European, says the citizen. I was in Europe with Kevin\nEgan of Paris. You wouldn't see a trace of them or their language\nanywhere in Europe except in a _cabinet d'aisance._\n\nAnd says John Wyse:\n\n--Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.\n\nAnd says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo:\n\n--_Conspuez les Anglais! Perfide Albion!_\n\nHe said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands the\nmedher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal slogan _Lamh\nDearg Abu_, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mighty\nvalorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster\nsilent as the deathless gods.\n\n--What's up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look like a fellow that had\nlost a bob and found a tanner.\n\n--Gold cup, says he.\n\n--Who won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry.\n\n_--Throwaway,_ says he, at twenty to one. A rank outsider. And the rest\nnowhere.\n\n--And Bass's mare? says Terry.\n\n--Still running, says he. We're all in a cart. Boylan plunged two quid\non my tip _Sceptre_ for himself and a lady friend.\n\n--I had half a crown myself, says Terry, on _Zinfandel_ that Mr Flynn\ngave me. Lord Howard de Walden's.\n\n--Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse. _Throwaway,_\nsays he. Takes the biscuit, and talking about bunions. Frailty, thy name\nis _Sceptre._\n\nSo he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if there was\nanything he could lift on the nod, the old cur after him backing his\nluck with his mangy snout up. Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard.\n\n--Not there, my child, says he.\n\n--Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She'd have won the money only for the\nother dog.\n\nAnd J. J. and the citizen arguing about law and history with Bloom\nsticking in an odd word.\n\n--Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they\ncan't see the beam in their own.\n\n--_Raimeis_, says the citizen. There's no-one as blind as the fellow\nthat won't see, if you know what that means. Where are our missing\ntwenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four, our lost\ntribes? And our potteries and textiles, the finest in the whole world!\nAnd our wool that was sold in Rome in the time of Juvenal and our flax\nand our damask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick lace, our\ntanneries and our white flint glass down there by Ballybough and our\nHuguenot poplin that we have since Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk\nand our Foxford tweeds and ivory raised point from the Carmelite convent\nin New Ross, nothing like it in the whole wide world. Where are the\nGreek merchants that came through the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar\nnow grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and Tyrian purple to\nsell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? Read Tacitus and Ptolemy, even\nGiraldus Cambrensis. Wine, peltries, Connemara marble, silver from\nTipperary, second to none, our farfamed horses even today, the Irish\nhobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering to pay customs duties for\nthe right to fish in our waters. What do the yellowjohns of Anglia owe\nus for our ruined trade and our ruined hearths? And the beds of the\nBarrow and Shannon they won't deepen with millions of acres of marsh and\nbog to make us all die of consumption?\n\n--As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse, or Heligoland\nwith its one tree if something is not done to reafforest the land.\nLarches, firs, all the trees of the conifer family are going fast. I was\nreading a report of lord Castletown's...\n\n--Save them, says the citizen, the giant ash of Galway and the chieftain\nelm of Kildare with a fortyfoot bole and an acre of foliage. Save the\ntrees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of\nEire, O.\n\n--Europe has its eyes on you, says Lenehan.\n\nThe fashionable international world attended EN MASSE this afternoon\nat the wedding of the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief\nranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of Pine\nValley. Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash,\nMrs Holly Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs Clyde\nTwelvetrees, Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss Virginia\nCreeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss Blanche Maple, Mrs\nMaud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla Elderflower, Miss\nBee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa San, Miss Rachel\nCedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity Aspenall,\nMrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs Liana\nForrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis\ngraced the ceremony by their presence. The bride who was given away by\nher father, the M'Conifer of the Glands, looked exquisitely charming in\na creation carried out in green mercerised silk, moulded on an underslip\nof gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke of broad emerald and finished with\na triple flounce of darkerhued fringe, the scheme being relieved by\nbretelles and hip insertions of acorn bronze. The maids of honour, Miss\nLarch Conifer and Miss Spruce Conifer, sisters of the bride, wore very\nbecoming costumes in the same tone, a dainty _motif_ of plume rose being\nworked into the pleats in a pinstripe and repeated capriciously in the\njadegreen toques in the form of heron feathers of paletinted coral.\nSenhor Enrique Flor presided at the organ with his wellknown ability\nand, in addition to the prescribed numbers of the nuptial mass, played\na new and striking arrangement of _Woodman, spare that tree_ at the\nconclusion of the service. On leaving the church of Saint Fiacre _in\nHorto_ after the papal blessing the happy pair were subjected to a\nplayful crossfire of hazelnuts, beechmast, bayleaves, catkins of willow,\nivytod, hollyberries, mistletoe sprigs and quicken shoots. Mr and Mrs\nWyse Conifer Neaulan will spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest.\n\n--And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen. We had our trade with\nSpain and the French and with the Flemings before those mongrels were\npupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedark waterway.\n\n--And will again, says Joe.\n\n--And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says the\ncitizen, clapping his thigh, our harbours that are empty will be full\nagain, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom\nof Kerry, Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with\na fleet of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O'Reillys and the\nO'Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with\nthe emperor Charles the Fifth himself. And will again, says he, when the\nfirst Irish battleship is seen breasting the waves with our own flag to\nthe fore, none of your Henry Tudor's harps, no, the oldest flag afloat,\nthe flag of the province of Desmond and Thomond, three crowns on a blue\nfield, the three sons of Milesius.\n\nAnd he took the last swig out of the pint. Moya. All wind and piss like\na tanyard cat. Cows in Connacht have long horns. As much as his bloody\nlife is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled\nmultitude in Shanagolden where he daren't show his nose with the Molly\nMaguires looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbing the\nholding of an evicted tenant.\n\n--Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. What will you have?\n\n--An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.\n\n--Half one, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up. Terry! Are you\nasleep?\n\n--Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir.\n\nHanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of\nattending to the general public. Picture of a butting match, trying to\ncrack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with his head\ndown like a bull at a gate. And another one: _Black Beast Burned in\nOmaha, Ga_. A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a\nSambo strung up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under\nhim. Gob, they ought to drown him in the sea after and electrocute and\ncrucify him to make sure of their job.\n\n--But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes at\nbay?\n\n--I'll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Hell upon earth it is.\nRead the revelations that's going on in the papers about flogging on\nthe training ships at Portsmouth. A fellow writes that calls himself\n_Disgusted One_.\n\nSo he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew\nof tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats and the\nparson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad\nbrought out, howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the buttend of\na gun.\n\n--A rump and dozen, says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir John\nBeresford called it but the modern God's Englishman calls it caning on\nthe breech.\n\nAnd says John Wyse:\n\n--'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance.\n\nThen he was telling us the master at arms comes along with a long cane\nand he draws out and he flogs the bloody backside off of the poor lad\ntill he yells meila murder.\n\n--That's your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that bosses the\nearth.\n\nThe fellows that never will be slaves, with the only hereditary chamber\non the face of God's earth and their land in the hands of a dozen\ngamehogs and cottonball barons. That's the great empire they boast about\nof drudges and whipped serfs.\n\n--On which the sun never rises, says Joe.\n\n--And the tragedy of it is, says the citizen, they believe it. The\nunfortunate yahoos believe it.\n\nThey believe in rod, the scourger almighty, creator of hell upon earth,\nand in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast,\nborn of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was scarified,\nflayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third day he arose\nagain from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend till\nfurther orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid.\n\n--But, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. I mean wouldn't\nit be the same here if you put force against force?\n\nDidn't I tell you? As true as I'm drinking this porter if he was at his\nlast gasp he'd try to downface you that dying was living.\n\n--We'll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our greater\nIreland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house and home in the\nblack 47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laid\nlow by the batteringram and the _Times_ rubbed its hands and told the\nwhitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as\nredskins in America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But the\nSassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full\nof crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay,\nthey drove out the peasants in hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in\nthe coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free remember\nthe land of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no\ncravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan.\n\n--Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was...\n\n--We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. Since the\npoor old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed at\nKillala.\n\n--Ay, says John Wyse. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us\nagainst the Williamites and they betrayed us. Remember Limerick and the\nbroken treatystone. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the\nwild geese. Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield and O'Donnell, duke of Tetuan\nin Spain, and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria\nTeresa. But what did we ever get for it?\n\n--The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do you know\nwhat it is? They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Aren't they\ntrying to make an _Entente cordiale_ now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with\nperfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were.\n\n--_Conspuez les Français_, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.\n\n--And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven't we\nhad enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George the\nelector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that's dead?\n\nJesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old one\nwith the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal palace every night of\nGod, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman carting\nher up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by the\nwhiskers and singing him old bits of songs about _Ehren on the Rhine_\nand come where the boose is cheaper.\n\n--Well, says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.\n\n--Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. There's a bloody sight more pox\nthan pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin!\n\n--And what do you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests\nand bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic\nMajesty's racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses his\njockeys rode. The earl of Dublin, no less.\n\n--They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says little\nAlf.\n\nAnd says J. J.:\n\n--Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision.\n\n--Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.\n\n--Yes, sir, says he. I will.\n\n--You? says Joe.\n\n--Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your shadow never grow less.\n\n--Repeat that dose, says Joe.\n\nBloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with\nhis dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about.\n\n--Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it.\nPerpetuating national hatred among nations.\n\n--But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.\n\n--Yes, says Bloom.\n\n--What is it? says John Wyse.\n\n--A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same\nplace.\n\n--By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that's so I'm a nation for I'm\nliving in the same place for the past five years.\n\nSo of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to muck\nout of it:\n\n--Or also living in different places.\n\n--That covers my case, says Joe.\n\n--What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen.\n\n--Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.\n\nThe citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and,\ngob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.\n\n--After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his handkerchief to\nswab himself dry.\n\n--Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take that in your right hand and\nrepeat after me the following words.\n\nThe muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish facecloth\nattributed to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh, authors\nof the Book of Ballymote, was then carefully produced and called forth\nprolonged admiration. No need to dwell on the legendary beauty of the\ncornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can distinctly discern each\nof the four evangelists in turn presenting to each of the four masters\nhis evangelical symbol, a bogoak sceptre, a North American puma (a far\nnobler king of beasts than the British article, be it said in passing),\na Kerry calf and a golden eagle from Carrantuohill. The scenes depicted\non the emunctory field, showing our ancient duns and raths and cromlechs\nand grianauns and seats of learning and maledictive stones, are as\nwonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate as when the Sligo\nilluminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy long long ago in\nthe time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovely lakes of Killarney,\nthe ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins,\nIreland's Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh Patrick, the brewery\nof Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company (Limited), Lough Neagh's\nbanks, the vale of Ovoca, Isolde's tower, the Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick\nDun's hospital, Cape Clear, the glen of Aherlow, Lynch's castle, the\nScotch house, Rathdown Union Workhouse at Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail,\nCastleconnel rapids, Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice,\nJury's Hotel, S. Patrick's Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college\nrefectory, Curley's hole, the three birthplaces of the first duke of\nWellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street\nWarehouse, Fingal's Cave--all these moving scenes are still there for us\ntoday rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have\npassed over them and by the rich incrustations of time.\n\n--Show us over the drink, says I. Which is which?\n\n--That's mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.\n\n--And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.\nAlso now. This very moment. This very instant.\n\nGob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.\n\n--Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs\nto us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold\nby auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle.\n\n--Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.\n\n--I'm talking about injustice, says Bloom.\n\n--Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.\n\nThat's an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old\nlardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he'd adorn a\nsweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse's apron on him. And\nthen he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as\nlimp as a wet rag.\n\n--But it's no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That's not\nlife for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it's\nthe very opposite of that that is really life.\n\n--What? says Alf.\n\n--Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says\nhe to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is\nthere. If he comes just say I'll be back in a second. Just a moment.\n\nWho's hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning.\n\n--A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.\n\n--Well, says John Wyse. Isn't that what we're told. Love your neighbour.\n\n--That chap? says the citizen. Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love,\nmoya! He's a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.\n\nLove loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A\nloves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. M.\nB. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo,\nthe elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with the ear\ntrumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in the\nbrown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her\nMajesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love\na certain person. And this person loves that other person because\neverybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.\n\n--Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power,\ncitizen.\n\n--Hurrah, there, says Joe.\n\n--The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen.\n\nAnd he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.\n\n--We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket.\nWhat about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women\nand children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text _God is love_\npasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did you read that skit\nin the _United Irishman_ today about that Zulu chief that's visiting\nEngland?\n\n--What's that? says Joe.\n\nSo the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts\nreading out:\n\n--A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented\nyesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in Waiting,\nLord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty the heartfelt\nthanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in his\ndominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of which\nthe dusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech, freely translated\nby the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod Barebones,\ntendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the cordial\nrelations existing between Abeakuta and the British empire, stating that\nhe treasured as one of his dearest possessions an illuminated bible,\nthe volume of the word of God and the secret of England's greatness,\ngraciously presented to him by the white chief woman, the great squaw\nVictoria, with a personal dedication from the august hand of the Royal\nDonor. The Alaki then drank a lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh to the\ntoast _Black and White_ from the skull of his immediate predecessor in\nthe dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty Warts, after which he visited\nthe chief factory of Cottonopolis and signed his mark in the visitors'\nbook, subsequently executing a charming old Abeakutic wardance, in the\ncourse of which he swallowed several knives and forks, amid hilarious\napplause from the girl hands.\n\n--Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn't doubt her. Wonder did he put that\nbible to the same use as I would.\n\n--Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful land\nthe broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.\n\n--Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse.\n\n--No, says the citizen. It's not signed Shanganagh. It's only\ninitialled: P.\n\n--And a very good initial too, says Joe.\n\n--That's how it's worked, says the citizen. Trade follows the flag.\n\n--Well, says J. J., if they're any worse than those Belgians in the\nCongo Free State they must be bad. Did you read that report by a man\nwhat's this his name is?\n\n--Casement, says the citizen. He's an Irishman.\n\n--Yes, that's the man, says J. J. Raping the women and girls and\nflogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber they can\nout of them.\n\n--I know where he's gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers.\n\n--Who? says I.\n\n--Bloom, says he. The courthouse is a blind. He had a few bob on\n_Throwaway_ and he's gone to gather in the shekels.\n\n--Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed a\nhorse in anger in his life?\n\n--That's where he's gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons going to back\nthat horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the tip.\nBet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He's the\nonly man in Dublin has it. A dark horse.\n\n--He's a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe.\n\n--Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out.\n\n--There you are, says Terry.\n\nGoodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort. So I just went round the back of\nthe yard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings to five) while I was\nletting off my _(Throwaway_ twenty to) letting off my load gob says I\nto myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and one in\nSlattery's off) in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillings\nis five quid) and when they were in the (dark horse) pisser Burke was\ntelling me card party and letting on the child was sick (gob, must have\ndone about a gallon) flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube _she's\nbetter_ or _she's_ (ow!) all a plan so he could vamoose with the pool if\nhe won or (Jesus, full up I was) trading without a licence (ow!) Ireland\nmy nation says he (hoik! phthook!) never be up to those bloody (there's\nthe last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) cuckoos.\n\nSo anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it\nwas Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper\nall kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes off\nof the government and appointing consuls all over the world to walk\nabout selling Irish industries. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Gob, that\nputs the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show.\nGive us a bloody chance. God save Ireland from the likes of that bloody\nmouseabout. Mr Bloom with his argol bargol. And his old fellow before\nhim perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the robbing bagman, that\npoisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country\nwith his baubles and his penny diamonds. Loans by post on easy terms.\nAny amount of money advanced on note of hand. Distance no object. No\nsecurity. Gob, he's like Lanty MacHale's goat that'd go a piece of the\nroad with every one.\n\n--Well, it's a fact, says John Wyse. And there's the man now that'll\ntell you all about it, Martin Cunningham.\n\nSure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power\nwith him and a fellow named Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of\nthe collector general's, an orangeman Blackburn does have on the\nregistration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around the\ncountry at the king's expense.\n\nOur travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their\npalfreys.\n\n--Ho, varlet! cried he, who by his mien seemed the leader of the party.\nSaucy knave! To us!\n\nSo saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice.\n\nMine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard.\n\n--Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow.\n\n--Bestir thyself, sirrah! cried he who had knocked. Look to our steeds.\nAnd for ourselves give us of your best for ifaith we need it.\n\n--Lackaday, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare\nlarder. I know not what to offer your lordships.\n\n--How now, fellow? cried the second of the party, a man of pleasant\ncountenance, So servest thou the king's messengers, master Taptun?\n\nAn instantaneous change overspread the landlord's visage.\n\n--Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly. An you be the king's\nmessengers (God shield His Majesty!) you shall not want for aught. The\nking's friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go afasting in my\nhouse I warrant me.\n\n--Then about! cried the traveller who had not spoken, a lusty\ntrencherman by his aspect. Hast aught to give us?\n\nMine host bowed again as he made answer:\n\n--What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of\nvenison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog's bacon, a boar's head\nwith pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and a flagon\nof old Rhenish?\n\n--Gadzooks! cried the last speaker. That likes me well. Pistachios!\n\n--Aha! cried he of the pleasant countenance. A poor house and a bare\nlarder, quotha! 'Tis a merry rogue.\n\nSo in comes Martin asking where was Bloom.\n\n--Where is he? says Lenehan. Defrauding widows and orphans.\n\n--Isn't that a fact, says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizen\nabout Bloom and the Sinn Fein?\n\n--That's so, says Martin. Or so they allege.\n\n--Who made those allegations? says Alf.\n\n--I, says Joe. I'm the alligator.\n\n--And after all, says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like\nthe next fellow?\n\n--Why not? says J. J., when he's quite sure which country it is.\n\n--Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the\nhell is he? says Ned. Or who is he? No offence, Crofton.\n\n--Who is Junius? says J. J.\n\n--We don't want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.\n\n--He's a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was\nhe drew up all the plans according to the Hungarian system. We know that\nin the castle.\n\n--Isn't he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? says Jack Power.\n\n--Not at all, says Martin. Only namesakes. His name was Virag, the\nfather's name that poisoned himself. He changed it by deedpoll, the\nfather did.\n\n--That's the new Messiah for Ireland! says the citizen. Island of saints\nand sages!\n\n--Well, they're still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. For that\nmatter so are we.\n\n--Yes, says J. J., and every male that's born they think it may be their\nMessiah. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe, till\nhe knows if he's a father or a mother.\n\n--Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan.\n\n--O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his\nthat died was born. I met him one day in the south city markets buying a\ntin of Neave's food six weeks before the wife was delivered.\n\n--_En ventre sa mère_, says J. J.\n\n--Do you call that a man? says the citizen.\n\n--I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe.\n\n--Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power.\n\n--And who does he suspect? says the citizen.\n\nGob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. One of those mixed\nmiddlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once a\nmonth with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what I'm\ntelling you? It'd be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the like\nof that and throw him in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so it\nwould. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of\nstuff like a man. Give us your blessing. Not as much as would blind your\neye.\n\n--Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. But where is he? We can't wait.\n\n--A wolf in sheep's clothing, says the citizen. That's what he is. Virag\nfrom Hungary! Ahasuerus I call him. Cursed by God.\n\n--Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? says Ned.\n\n--Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J. J. and S.\n\n--You, Jack? Crofton? Three half ones, Terry.\n\n--Saint Patrick would want to land again at Ballykinlar and convert us,\nsays the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our\nshores.\n\n--Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God bless all here is my\nprayer.\n\n--Amen, says the citizen.\n\n--And I'm sure He will, says Joe.\n\nAnd at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with\nacolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and\nsubdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors\nand guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto,\nCarthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians\nand Vallombrosans, and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines,\nPremonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the children of Peter\nNolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Elijah prophet\nled by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced and other: and\nfriars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers,\nminimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons of\nDominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of Vincent: and the monks\nof S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of the\nchristian brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice. And\nafter came all saints and martyrs, virgins and confessors: S. Cyr and\nS. Isidore Arator and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S.\nJulian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and\nS. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde\nand S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and\nS. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and\nS. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence\nand S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous\nand S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S.\nSynonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James of Dingle and\nCompostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S.\nColman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S.\nFachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S.\nFiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany\nand S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth\nS. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmans\nand the saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and S. Bride and S.\nKieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuam and S. Finbarr\nand S. Pappin of Ballymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificus and Brother\nLouis Bellicosus and the saints Rose of Lima and of Viterbo and S.\nMartha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid and\nS. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and\nthe Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S.\nScholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. And all came\nwith nimbi and aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swords\nand olive crowns, in robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols of\ntheir efficacies, inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters, axes,\ntrees, bridges, babes in a bathtub, shells, wallets, shears, keys,\ndragons, lilies, buckshot, beards, hogs, lamps, bellows, beehives,\nsoupladles, stars, snakes, anvils, boxes of vaseline, bells, crutches,\nforceps, stags' horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones, eyes on a\ndish, wax candles, aspergills, unicorns. And as they wended their way by\nNelson's Pillar, Henry street, Mary street, Capel street, Little Britain\nstreet chanting the introit in _Epiphania Domini_ which beginneth\n_Surge, illuminare_ and thereafter most sweetly the gradual _Omnes_\nwhich saith _de Saba venient_ they did divers wonders such as casting\nout devils, raising the dead to life, multiplying fishes, healing the\nhalt and the blind, discovering various articles which had been mislaid,\ninterpreting and fulfilling the scriptures, blessing and prophesying.\nAnd last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the reverend Father\nO'Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. And when the good fathers\nhad reached the appointed place, the house of Bernard Kiernan and Co,\nlimited, 8, 9 and 10 little Britain street, wholesale grocers, wine\nand brandy shippers, licensed fo the sale of beer, wine and spirits for\nconsumption on the premises, the celebrant blessed the house and censed\nthe mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and\nthe capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches\nand the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with\nblessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had\nblessed the house of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and make the angels of\nHis light to inhabit therein. And entering he blessed the viands and the\nbeverages and the company of all the blessed answered his prayers.\n\n--_Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini._\n\n--_Qui fecit coelum et terram._\n\n--_Dominus vobiscum._\n\n--_Et cum spiritu tuo._\n\nAnd he laid his hands upon that he blessed and gave thanks and he prayed\nand they all with him prayed:\n\n--_Deus, cuius verbo sanctificantur omnia, benedictionem tuam effunde\nsuper creaturas istas: et praesta ut quisquis eis secundum legem et\nvoluntatem Tuam cum gratiarum actione usus fuerit per invocationem\nsanctissimi nominis Tui corporis sanitatem et animae tutelam Te auctore\npercipiat per Christum Dominum nostrum._\n\n--And so say all of us, says Jack.\n\n--Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or Crawford.\n\n--Right, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. And butter for fish.\n\nI was just looking around to see who the happy thought would strike when\nbe damned but in he comes again letting on to be in a hell of a hurry.\n\n--I was just round at the courthouse, says he, looking for you. I hope\nI'm not...\n\n--No, says Martin, we're ready.\n\nCourthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and silver.\nMean bloody scut. Stand us a drink itself. Devil a sweet fear! There's\na jew for you! All for number one. Cute as a shithouse rat. Hundred to\nfive.\n\n--Don't tell anyone, says the citizen,\n\n--Beg your pardon, says he.\n\n--Come on boys, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. Come along now.\n\n--Don't tell anyone, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him. It's a\nsecret.\n\nAnd the bloody dog woke up and let a growl.\n\n--Bye bye all, says Martin.\n\nAnd he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or\nwhatever you call him and him in the middle of them letting on to be all\nat sea and up with them on the bloody jaunting car.\n\n---Off with you, says\n\nMartin to the jarvey.\n\nThe milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and, rising in the golden poop the\nhelmsman spread the bellying sail upon the wind and stood off forward\nwith all sail set, the spinnaker to larboard. A many comely nymphs drew\nnigh to starboard and to larboard and, clinging to the sides of\nthe noble bark, they linked their shining forms as doth the cunning\nwheelwright when he fashions about the heart of his wheel the\nequidistant rays whereof each one is sister to another and he binds them\nall with an outer ring and giveth speed to the feet of men whenas they\nride to a hosting or contend for the smile of ladies fair. Even so did\nthey come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters. And\nthey laughed, sporting in a circle of their foam: and the bark clave the\nwaves.\n\nBut begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint when I saw the\ncitizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing and blowing with the\ndropsy, and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book and\ncandle in Irish, spitting and spatting out of him and Joe and little Alf\nround him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.\n\n--Let me alone, says he.\n\nAnd begob he got as far as the door and they holding him and he bawls\nout of him:\n\n--Three cheers for Israel!\n\nArrah, sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ' sake\nand don't be making a public exhibition of yourself. Jesus, there's\nalways some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murder about\nbloody nothing. Gob, it'd turn the porter sour in your guts, so it\nwould.\n\nAnd all the ragamuffins and sluts of the nation round the door and\nMartin telling the jarvey to drive ahead and the citizen bawling and Alf\nand Joe at him to whisht and he on his high horse about the jews and\nthe loafers calling for a speech and Jack Power trying to get him to sit\ndown on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch over\nhis eye starts singing _If the man in the moon was a jew, jew, jew_ and\na slut shouts out of her:\n\n--Eh, mister! Your fly is open, mister!\n\nAnd says he:\n\n--Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. And\nthe Saviour was a jew and his father was a jew. Your God.\n\n--He had no father, says Martin. That'll do now. Drive ahead.\n\n--Whose God? says the citizen.\n\n--Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a jew. Christ was a\njew like me.\n\nGob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.\n\n--By Jesus, says he, I'll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy\nname.\n\nBy Jesus, I'll crucify him so I will. Give us that biscuitbox here.\n\n--Stop! Stop! says Joe.\n\nA large and appreciative gathering of friends and acquaintances from\nthe metropolis and greater Dublin assembled in their thousands to bid\nfarewell to Nagyasagos uram Lipoti Virag, late of Messrs Alexander\nThom's, printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure\nfor the distant clime of Szazharminczbrojugulyas-Dugulas (Meadow of\nMurmuring Waters). The ceremony which went off with great _éclat_ was\ncharacterised by the most affecting cordiality. An illuminated scroll\nof ancient Irish vellum, the work of Irish artists, was presented to\nthe distinguished phenomenologist on behalf of a large section of the\ncommunity and was accompanied by the gift of a silver casket, tastefully\nexecuted in the style of ancient Celtic ornament, a work which reflects\nevery credit on the makers, Messrs Jacob _agus_ Jacob. The departing\nguest was the recipient of a hearty ovation, many of those who were\npresent being visibly moved when the select orchestra of Irish pipes\nstruck up the wellknown strains of _Come back to Erin_, followed\nimmediately by _Rakoczsy's March_. Tarbarrels and bonfires were lighted\nalong the coastline of the four seas on the summits of the Hill of\nHowth, Three Rock Mountain, Sugarloaf, Bray Head, the mountains of\nMourne, the Galtees, the Ox and Donegal and Sperrin peaks, the Nagles\nand the Bograghs, the Connemara hills, the reeks of M Gillicuddy, Slieve\nAughty, Slieve Bernagh and Slieve Bloom. Amid cheers that rent the\nwelkin, responded to by answering cheers from a big muster of\nhenchmen on the distant Cambrian and Caledonian hills, the mastodontic\npleasureship slowly moved away saluted by a final floral tribute from\nthe representatives of the fair sex who were present in large numbers\nwhile, as it proceeded down the river, escorted by a flotilla of barges,\nthe flags of the Ballast office and Custom House were dipped in salute\nas were also those of the electrical power station at the\nPigeonhouse and the Poolbeg Light. _Visszontlátásra, kedves baráton!\nVisszontlátásra!_ Gone but not forgotten.\n\nGob, the devil wouldn't stop him till he got hold of the bloody tin\nanyhow and out with him and little Alf hanging on to his elbow and he\nshouting like a stuck pig, as good as any bloody play in the Queen's\nroyal theatre:\n\n--Where is he till I murder him?\n\nAnd Ned and J. J. paralysed with the laughing.\n\n--Bloody wars, says I, I'll be in for the last gospel.\n\nBut as luck would have it the jarvey got the nag's head round the other\nway and off with him.\n\n--Hold on, citizen, says Joe. Stop!\n\nBegob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly. Mercy of God the\nsun was in his eyes or he'd have left him for dead. Gob, he near sent it\ninto the county Longford. The bloody nag took fright and the old\nmongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the populace shouting and\nlaughing and the old tinbox clattering along the street.\n\nThe catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect. The\nobservatory of Dunsink registered in all eleven shocks, all of the fifth\ngrade of Mercalli's scale, and there is no record extant of a similar\nseismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of 1534, the year\nof the rebellion of Silken Thomas. The epicentre appears to have been\nthat part of the metropolis which constitutes the Inn's Quay ward and\nparish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods\nand one square pole or perch. All the lordly residences in the vicinity\nof the palace of justice were demolished and that noble edifice itself,\nin which at the time of the catastrophe important legal debates were in\nprogress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which it is to be\nfeared all the occupants have been buried alive. From the reports of\neyewitnesses it transpires that the seismic waves were accompanied by\na violent atmospheric perturbation of cyclonic character. An article of\nheadgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk of the\ncrown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle\nwith the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of\nthe erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick\nFalkiner, recorder of Dublin, have been discovered by search parties\nin remote parts of the island respectively, the former on the third\nbasaltic ridge of the giant's causeway, the latter embedded to the\nextent of one foot three inches in the sandy beach of Holeopen bay near\nthe old head of Kinsale. Other eyewitnesses depose that they observed\nan incandescent object of enormous proportions hurtling through the\natmosphere at a terrifying velocity in a trajectory directed southwest\nby west. Messages of condolence and sympathy are being hourly received\nfrom all parts of the different continents and the sovereign pontiff has\nbeen graciously pleased to decree that a special _missa pro defunctis_\nshall be celebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of each and every\ncathedral church of all the episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual\nauthority of the Holy See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful\ndeparted who have been so unexpectedly called away from our midst.\nThe work of salvage, removal of _débris,_ human remains etc has been\nentrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street,\nand Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77, 78, 79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by\nthe men and officers of the Duke of Cornwall's light infantry under the\ngeneral supervision of H. R. H., rear admiral, the right honourable sir\nHercules Hannibal Habeas Corpus Anderson, K. G., K. P., K. T., P. C., K.\nC. B., M. P, J. P., M. B., D. S. O., S. O. D., M. F. H., M. R. I. A., B.\nL., Mus. Doc., P. L. G., F. T. C. D., F. R. U. I., F. R. C. P. I. and F.\nR. C. S. I.\n\nYou never saw the like of it in all your born puff. Gob, if he got that\nlottery ticket on the side of his poll he'd remember the gold cup, he\nwould so, but begob the citizen would have been lagged for assault and\nbattery and Joe for aiding and abetting. The jarvey saved his life by\nfurious driving as sure as God made Moses. What? O, Jesus, he did. And\nhe let a volley of oaths after him.\n\n--Did I kill him, says he, or what?\n\nAnd he shouting to the bloody dog:\n\n--After him, Garry! After him, boy!\n\nAnd the last we saw was the bloody car rounding the corner and old\nsheepsface on it gesticulating and the bloody mongrel after it with his\nlugs back for all he was bloody well worth to tear him limb from limb.\nHundred to five! Jesus, he took the value of it out of him, I promise\nyou.\n\nWhen, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld\nthe chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. And they beheld Him in\nthe chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, having raiment\nas of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not\nlook upon Him. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: _Elijah!\nElijah!_ And He answered with a main cry: _Abba! Adonai!_ And they\nbeheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend\nto the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over\nDonohoe's in Little Green street like a shot off a shovel.\n\n\n\nThe summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious\nembrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of\nall too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud\npromontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on\nthe weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, on\nthe quiet church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness\nthe voice of prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to\nthe stormtossed heart of man, Mary, star of the sea.\n\nThe three girl friends were seated on the rocks, enjoying the evening\nscene and the air which was fresh but not too chilly. Many a time and\noft were they wont to come there to that favourite nook to have a cosy\nchat beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters feminine, Cissy\nCaffrey and Edy Boardman with the baby in the pushcar and Tommy and\nJacky Caffrey, two little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits with\ncaps to match and the name H.M.S. Belleisle printed on both. For Tommy\nand Jacky Caffrey were twins, scarce four years old and very noisy and\nspoiled twins sometimes but for all that darling little fellows with\nbright merry faces and endearing ways about them. They were dabbling in\nthe sand with their spades and buckets, building castles as children do,\nor playing with their big coloured ball, happy as the day was long. And\nEdy Boardman was rocking the chubby baby to and fro in the pushcar while\nthat young gentleman fairly chuckled with delight. He was but eleven\nmonths and nine days old and, though still a tiny toddler, was just\nbeginning to lisp his first babyish words. Cissy Caffrey bent over to\nhim to tease his fat little plucks and the dainty dimple in his chin.\n\n--Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out big, big. I want a drink of\nwater.\n\nAnd baby prattled after her:\n\n--A jink a jink a jawbo.\n\nCissy Caffrey cuddled the wee chap for she was awfully fond of children,\nso patient with little sufferers and Tommy Caffrey could never be got to\ntake his castor oil unless it was Cissy Caffrey that held his nose and\npromised him the scatty heel of the loaf or brown bread with golden\nsyrup on. What a persuasive power that girl had! But to be sure baby\nBoardman was as good as gold, a perfect little dote in his new fancy\nbib. None of your spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort, was Cissy\nCaffrey. A truerhearted lass never drew the breath of life, always with\na laugh in her gipsylike eyes and a frolicsome word on her cherryripe\nred lips, a girl lovable in the extreme. And Edy Boardman laughed too at\nthe quaint language of little brother.\n\nBut just then there was a slight altercation between Master Tommy and\nMaster Jacky. Boys will be boys and our two twins were no exception\nto this golden rule. The apple of discord was a certain castle of sand\nwhich Master Jacky had built and Master Tommy would have it right go\nwrong that it was to be architecturally improved by a frontdoor like the\nMartello tower had. But if Master Tommy was headstrong Master Jacky was\nselfwilled too and, true to the maxim that every little Irishman's house\nis his castle, he fell upon his hated rival and to such purpose that the\nwouldbe assailant came to grief and (alas to relate!) the coveted castle\ntoo. Needless to say the cries of discomfited Master Tommy drew the\nattention of the girl friends.\n\n--Come here, Tommy, his sister called imperatively. At once! And you,\nJacky, for shame to throw poor Tommy in the dirty sand. Wait till I\ncatch you for that.\n\nHis eyes misty with unshed tears Master Tommy came at her call for their\nbig sister's word was law with the twins. And in a sad plight he was\ntoo after his misadventure. His little man-o'-war top and unmentionables\nwere full of sand but Cissy was a past mistress in the art of smoothing\nover life's tiny troubles and very quickly not one speck of sand was to\nbe seen on his smart little suit. Still the blue eyes were glistening\nwith hot tears that would well up so she kissed away the hurtness and\nshook her hand at Master Jacky the culprit and said if she was near him\nshe wouldn't be far from him, her eyes dancing in admonition.\n\n--Nasty bold Jacky! she cried.\n\nShe put an arm round the little mariner and coaxed winningly:\n\n--What's your name? Butter and cream?\n\n--Tell us who is your sweetheart, spoke Edy Boardman. Is Cissy your\nsweetheart?\n\n--Nao, tearful Tommy said.\n\n--Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissy queried.\n\n--Nao, Tommy said.\n\n--I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an arch glance from\nher shortsighted eyes. I know who is Tommy's sweetheart. Gerty is\nTommy's sweetheart.\n\n--Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears.\n\nCissy's quick motherwit guessed what was amiss and she whispered to\nEdy Boardman to take him there behind the pushcar where the gentleman\ncouldn't see and to mind he didn't wet his new tan shoes.\n\nBut who was Gerty?\n\nGerty MacDowell who was seated near her companions, lost in thought,\ngazing far away into the distance was, in very truth, as fair a specimen\nof winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see. She was pronounced\nbeautiful by all who knew her though, as folks often said, she was\nmore a Giltrap than a MacDowell. Her figure was slight and graceful,\ninclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had been taking\nof late had done her a world of good much better than the Widow Welch's\nfemale pills and she was much better of those discharges she used to\nget and that tired feeling. The waxen pallor of her face was almost\nspiritual in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine\nCupid's bow, Greekly perfect. Her hands were of finely veined alabaster\nwith tapering fingers and as white as lemonjuice and queen of ointments\ncould make them though it was not true that she used to wear kid gloves\nin bed or take a milk footbath either. Bertha Supple told that once to\nEdy Boardman, a deliberate lie, when she was black out at daggers drawn\nwith Gerty (the girl chums had of course their little tiffs from time to\ntime like the rest of mortals) and she told her not to let on whatever\nshe did that it was her that told her or she'd never speak to her\nagain. No. Honour where honour is due. There was an innate refinement,\na languid queenly _hauteur_ about Gerty which was unmistakably evidenced\nin her delicate hands and higharched instep. Had kind fate but willed\nher to be born a gentlewoman of high degree in her own right and had\nshe only received the benefit of a good education Gerty MacDowell might\neasily have held her own beside any lady in the land and have seen\nherself exquisitely gowned with jewels on her brow and patrician suitors\nat her feet vying with one another to pay their devoirs to her.\nMayhap it was this, the love that might have been, that lent to her\nsoftlyfeatured face at whiles a look, tense with suppressed meaning,\nthat imparted a strange yearning tendency to the beautiful eyes, a charm\nfew could resist. Why have women such eyes of witchery? Gerty's were of\nthe bluest Irish blue, set off by lustrous lashes and dark expressive\nbrows. Time was when those brows were not so silkily seductive. It\nwas Madame Vera Verity, directress of the Woman Beautiful page of the\nPrincess Novelette, who had first advised her to try eyebrowleine which\ngave that haunting expression to the eyes, so becoming in leaders\nof fashion, and she had never regretted it. Then there was blushing\nscientifically cured and how to be tall increase your height and you\nhave a beautiful face but your nose? That would suit Mrs Dignam because\nshe had a button one. But Gerty's crowning glory was her wealth of\nwonderful hair. It was dark brown with a natural wave in it. She had cut\nit that very morning on account of the new moon and it nestled about\nher pretty head in a profusion of luxuriant clusters and pared her nails\ntoo, Thursday for wealth. And just now at Edy's words as a telltale\nflush, delicate as the faintest rosebloom, crept into her cheeks she\nlooked so lovely in her sweet girlish shyness that of a surety God's\nfair land of Ireland did not hold her equal.\n\nFor an instant she was silent with rather sad downcast eyes. She\nwas about to retort but something checked the words on her tongue.\nInclination prompted her to speak out: dignity told her to be silent.\nThe pretty lips pouted awhile but then she glanced up and broke out into\na joyous little laugh which had in it all the freshness of a young May\nmorning. She knew right well, no-one better, what made squinty Edy\nsay that because of him cooling in his attentions when it was simply a\nlovers' quarrel. As per usual somebody's nose was out of joint about the\nboy that had the bicycle off the London bridge road always riding up\nand down in front of her window. Only now his father kept him in in the\nevenings studying hard to get an exhibition in the intermediate that was\non and he was going to go to Trinity college to study for a doctor when\nhe left the high school like his brother W. E. Wylie who was racing\nin the bicycle races in Trinity college university. Little recked he\nperhaps for what she felt, that dull aching void in her heart sometimes,\npiercing to the core. Yet he was young and perchance he might learn\nto love her in time. They were protestants in his family and of course\nGerty knew Who came first and after Him the Blessed Virgin and then\nSaint Joseph. But he was undeniably handsome with an exquisite nose and\nhe was what he looked, every inch a gentleman, the shape of his head too\nat the back without his cap on that she would know anywhere something\noff the common and the way he turned the bicycle at the lamp with his\nhands off the bars and also the nice perfume of those good cigarettes\nand besides they were both of a size too he and she and that was why Edy\nBoardman thought she was so frightfully clever because he didn't go and\nride up and down in front of her bit of a garden.\n\nGerty was dressed simply but with the instinctive taste of a votary of\nDame Fashion for she felt that there was just a might that he might be\nout. A neat blouse of electric blue selftinted by dolly dyes (because it\nwas expected in the _Lady's Pictorial_ that electric blue would be worn)\nwith a smart vee opening down to the division and kerchief pocket (in\nwhich she always kept a piece of cottonwool scented with her\nfavourite perfume because the handkerchief spoiled the sit) and a navy\nthreequarter skirt cut to the stride showed off her slim graceful figure\nto perfection. She wore a coquettish little love of a hat of wideleaved\nnigger straw contrast trimmed with an underbrim of eggblue chenille and\nat the side a butterfly bow of silk to tone. All Tuesday week afternoon\nshe was hunting to match that chenille but at last she found what she\nwanted at Clery's summer sales, the very it, slightly shopsoiled but you\nwould never notice, seven fingers two and a penny. She did it up all by\nherself and what joy was hers when she tried it on then, smiling at the\nlovely reflection which the mirror gave back to her! And when she put\nit on the waterjug to keep the shape she knew that that would take the\nshine out of some people she knew. Her shoes were the newest thing in\nfootwear (Edy Boardman prided herself that she was very _petite_ but she\nnever had a foot like Gerty MacDowell, a five, and never would ash,\noak or elm) with patent toecaps and just one smart buckle over\nher higharched instep. Her wellturned ankle displayed its perfect\nproportions beneath her skirt and just the proper amount and no more of\nher shapely limbs encased in finespun hose with highspliced heels and\nwide garter tops. As for undies they were Gerty's chief care and who\nthat knows the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet seventeen (though\nGerty would never see seventeen again) can find it in his heart to\nblame her? She had four dinky sets with awfully pretty stitchery,\nthree garments and nighties extra, and each set slotted with different\ncoloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue, mauve and peagreen, and she aired\nthem herself and blued them when they came home from the wash and ironed\nthem and she had a brickbat to keep the iron on because she wouldn't\ntrust those washerwomen as far as she'd see them scorching the things.\nShe was wearing the blue for luck, hoping against hope, her own colour\nand lucky too for a bride to have a bit of blue somewhere on her because\nthe green she wore that day week brought grief because his father\nbrought him in to study for the intermediate exhibition and because\nshe thought perhaps he might be out because when she was dressing that\nmorning she nearly slipped up the old pair on her inside out and that\nwas for luck and lovers' meeting if you put those things on inside\nout or if they got untied that he was thinking about you so long as it\nwasn't of a Friday.\n\nAnd yet and yet! That strained look on her face! A gnawing sorrow is\nthere all the time. Her very soul is in her eyes and she would give\nworlds to be in the privacy of her own familiar chamber where,\ngiving way to tears, she could have a good cry and relieve her pentup\nfeelingsthough not too much because she knew how to cry nicely before\nthe mirror. You are lovely, Gerty, it said. The paly light of evening\nfalls upon a face infinitely sad and wistful. Gerty MacDowell yearns\nin vain. Yes, she had known from the very first that her daydream of a\nmarriage has been arranged and the weddingbells ringing for Mrs Reggy\nWylie T. C. D. (because the one who married the elder brother would be\nMrs Wylie) and in the fashionable intelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie was\nwearing a sumptuous confection of grey trimmed with expensive blue fox\nwas not to be. He was too young to understand. He would not believe in\nlove, a woman's birthright. The night of the party long ago in Stoer's\n(he was still in short trousers) when they were alone and he stole\nan arm round her waist she went white to the very lips. He called her\nlittle one in a strangely husky voice and snatched a half kiss (the\nfirst!) but it was only the end of her nose and then he hastened from\nthe room with a remark about refreshments. Impetuous fellow! Strength of\ncharacter had never been Reggy Wylie's strong point and he who would\nwoo and win Gerty MacDowell must be a man among men. But waiting, always\nwaiting to be asked and it was leap year too and would soon be over. No\nprince charming is her beau ideal to lay a rare and wondrous love at her\nfeet but rather a manly man with a strong quiet face who had not found\nhis ideal, perhaps his hair slightly flecked with grey, and who would\nunderstand, take her in his sheltering arms, strain her to him in all\nthe strength of his deep passionate nature and comfort her with a long\nlong kiss. It would be like heaven. For such a one she yearns this balmy\nsummer eve. With all the heart of her she longs to be his only, his\naffianced bride for riches for poor, in sickness in health, till death\nus two part, from this to this day forward.\n\nAnd while Edy Boardman was with little Tommy behind the pushcar she was\njust thinking would the day ever come when she could call herself his\nlittle wife to be. Then they could talk about her till they went blue in\nthe face, Bertha Supple too, and Edy, little spitfire, because she would\nbe twentytwo in November. She would care for him with creature comforts\ntoo for Gerty was womanly wise and knew that a mere man liked that\nfeeling of hominess. Her griddlecakes done to a goldenbrown hue and\nqueen Ann's pudding of delightful creaminess had won golden opinions\nfrom all because she had a lucky hand also for lighting a fire, dredge\nin the fine selfraising flour and always stir in the same direction,\nthen cream the milk and sugar and whisk well the white of eggs though\nshe didn't like the eating part when there were any people that made her\nshy and often she wondered why you couldn't eat something poetical like\nviolets or roses and they would have a beautifully appointed drawingroom\nwith pictures and engravings and the photograph of grandpapa Giltrap's\nlovely dog Garryowen that almost talked it was so human and chintz\ncovers for the chairs and that silver toastrack in Clery's summer\njumble sales like they have in rich houses. He would be tall with\nbroad shoulders (she had always admired tall men for a husband) with\nglistening white teeth under his carefully trimmed sweeping moustache\nand they would go on the continent for their honeymoon (three wonderful\nweeks!) and then, when they settled down in a nice snug and cosy little\nhomely house, every morning they would both have brekky, simple but\nperfectly served, for their own two selves and before he went out to\nbusiness he would give his dear little wifey a good hearty hug and gaze\nfor a moment deep down into her eyes.\n\nEdy Boardman asked Tommy Caffrey was he done and he said yes so then she\nbuttoned up his little knickerbockers for him and told him to run off\nand play with Jacky and to be good now and not to fight. But Tommy said\nhe wanted the ball and Edy told him no that baby was playing with the\nball and if he took it there'd be wigs on the green but Tommy said it\nwas his ball and he wanted his ball and he pranced on the ground, if\nyou please. The temper of him! O, he was a man already was little Tommy\nCaffrey since he was out of pinnies. Edy told him no, no and to be off\nnow with him and she told Cissy Caffrey not to give in to him.\n\n--You're not my sister, naughty Tommy said. It's my ball.\n\nBut Cissy Caffrey told baby Boardman to look up, look up high at her\nfinger and she snatched the ball quickly and threw it along the sand and\nTommy after it in full career, having won the day.\n\n--Anything for a quiet life, laughed Ciss.\n\nAnd she tickled tiny tot's two cheeks to make him forget and played\nhere's the lord mayor, here's his two horses, here's his gingerbread\ncarriage and here he walks in, chinchopper, chinchopper, chinchopper\nchin. But Edy got as cross as two sticks about him getting his own way\nlike that from everyone always petting him.\n\n--I'd like to give him something, she said, so I would, where I won't\nsay.\n\n--On the beeoteetom, laughed Cissy merrily.\n\nGerty MacDowell bent down her head and crimsoned at the idea of Cissy\nsaying an unladylike thing like that out loud she'd be ashamed of her\nlife to say, flushing a deep rosy red, and Edy Boardman said she was\nsure the gentleman opposite heard what she said. But not a pin cared\nCiss.\n\n--Let him! she said with a pert toss of her head and a piquant tilt of\nher nose. Give it to him too on the same place as quick as I'd look at\nhim.\n\nMadcap Ciss with her golliwog curls. You had to laugh at her sometimes.\nFor instance when she asked you would you have some more Chinese tea and\njaspberry ram and when she drew the jugs too and the men's faces on her\nnails with red ink make you split your sides or when she wanted to go\nwhere you know she said she wanted to run and pay a visit to the Miss\nWhite. That was just like Cissycums. O, and will you ever forget her the\nevening she dressed up in her father's suit and hat and the burned cork\nmoustache and walked down Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette. There\nwas none to come up to her for fun. But she was sincerity itself, one of\nthe bravest and truest hearts heaven ever made, not one of your twofaced\nthings, too sweet to be wholesome.\n\nAnd then there came out upon the air the sound of voices and the pealing\nanthem of the organ. It was the men's temperance retreat conducted\nby the missioner, the reverend John Hughes S. J., rosary, sermon and\nbenediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament. They were there gathered\ntogether without distinction of social class (and a most edifying\nspectacle it was to see) in that simple fane beside the waves, after the\nstorms of this weary world, kneeling before the feet of the immaculate,\nreciting the litany of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her to intercede\nfor them, the old familiar words, holy Mary, holy virgin of virgins. How\nsad to poor Gerty's ears! Had her father only avoided the clutches of\nthe demon drink, by taking the pledge or those powders the drink habit\ncured in Pearson's Weekly, she might now be rolling in her carriage,\nsecond to none. Over and over had she told herself that as she mused by\nthe dying embers in a brown study without the lamp because she hated two\nlights or oftentimes gazing out of the window dreamily by the hour at\nthe rain falling on the rusty bucket, thinking. But that vile decoction\nwhich has ruined so many hearths and homes had cist its shadow over her\nchildhood days. Nay, she had even witnessed in the home circle deeds of\nviolence caused by intemperance and had seen her own father, a prey to\nthe fumes of intoxication, forget himself completely for if there was\none thing of all things that Gerty knew it was that the man who lifts\nhis hand to a woman save in the way of kindness, deserves to be branded\nas the lowest of the low.\n\nAnd still the voices sang in supplication to the Virgin most powerful,\nVirgin most merciful. And Gerty, rapt in thought, scarce saw or heard\nher companions or the twins at their boyish gambols or the gentleman\noff Sandymount green that Cissy Caffrey called the man that was so like\nhimself passing along the strand taking a short walk. You never saw him\nany way screwed but still and for all that she would not like him for a\nfather because he was too old or something or on account of his face\n(it was a palpable case of Doctor Fell) or his carbuncly nose with the\npimples on it and his sandy moustache a bit white under his nose. Poor\nfather! With all his faults she loved him still when he sang _Tell me,\nMary, how to woo thee_ or _My love and cottage near Rochelle_ and they\nhad stewed cockles and lettuce with Lazenby's salad dressing for\nsupper and when he sang _The moon hath raised_ with Mr Dignam that\ndied suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him, from a stroke. Her\nmother's birthday that was and Charley was home on his holidays and Tom\nand Mr Dignam and Mrs and Patsy and Freddy Dignam and they were to have\nhad a group taken. No-one would have thought the end was so near. Now he\nwas laid to rest. And her mother said to him to let that be a warning to\nhim for the rest of his days and he couldn't even go to the funeral on\naccount of the gout and she had to go into town to bring him the\nletters and samples from his office about Catesby's cork lino, artistic,\nstandard designs, fit for a palace, gives tiptop wear and always bright\nand cheery in the home.\n\nA sterling good daughter was Gerty just like a second mother in the\nhouse, a ministering angel too with a little heart worth its weight in\ngold. And when her mother had those raging splitting headaches who was\nit rubbed the menthol cone on her forehead but Gerty though she didn't\nlike her mother's taking pinches of snuff and that was the only single\nthing they ever had words about, taking snuff. Everyone thought the\nworld of her for her gentle ways. It was Gerty who turned off the gas at\nthe main every night and it was Gerty who tacked up on the wall of that\nplace where she never forgot every fortnight the chlorate of lime Mr\nTunney the grocer's christmas almanac, the picture of halcyon days\nwhere a young gentleman in the costume they used to wear then with a\nthreecornered hat was offering a bunch of flowers to his ladylove with\noldtime chivalry through her lattice window. You could see there was a\nstory behind it. The colours were done something lovely. She was in\na soft clinging white in a studied attitude and the gentleman was in\nchocolate and he looked a thorough aristocrat. She often looked at them\ndreamily when she went there for a certain purpose and felt her own\narms that were white and soft just like hers with the sleeves back\nand thought about those times because she had found out in Walker's\npronouncing dictionary that belonged to grandpapa Giltrap about the\nhalcyon days what they meant.\n\nThe twins were now playing in the most approved brotherly fashion\ntill at last Master Jacky who was really as bold as brass there was\nno getting behind that deliberately kicked the ball as hard as ever he\ncould down towards the seaweedy rocks. Needless to say poor Tommy was\nnot slow to voice his dismay but luckily the gentleman in black who was\nsitting there by himself came gallantly to the rescue and intercepted\nthe ball. Our two champions claimed their plaything with lusty cries and\nto avoid trouble Cissy Caffrey called to the gentleman to throw it to\nher please. The gentleman aimed the ball once or twice and then threw\nit up the strand towards Cissy Caffrey but it rolled down the slope and\nstopped right under Gerty's skirt near the little pool by the rock. The\ntwins clamoured again for it and Cissy told her to kick it away and\nlet them fight for it so Gerty drew back her foot but she wished their\nstupid ball hadn't come rolling down to her and she gave a kick but she\nmissed and Edy and Cissy laughed.\n\n--If you fail try again, Edy Boardman said.\n\nGerty smiled assent and bit her lip. A delicate pink crept into her\npretty cheek but she was determined to let them see so she just lifted\nher skirt a little but just enough and took good aim and gave the ball a\njolly good kick and it went ever so far and the two twins after it down\ntowards the shingle. Pure jealousy of course it was nothing else to draw\nattention on account of the gentleman opposite looking. She felt the\nwarm flush, a danger signal always with Gerty MacDowell, surging and\nflaming into her cheeks. Till then they had only exchanged glances of\nthe most casual but now under the brim of her new hat she ventured a\nlook at him and the face that met her gaze there in the twilight, wan\nand strangely drawn, seemed to her the saddest she had ever seen.\n\nThrough the open window of the church the fragrant incense was wafted\nand with it the fragrant names of her who was conceived without stain of\noriginal sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us, honourable vessel, pray\nfor us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us, mystical rose. And\ncareworn hearts were there and toilers for their daily bread and many\nwho had erred and wandered, their eyes wet with contrition but for all\nthat bright with hope for the reverend father Father Hughes had told\nthem what the great saint Bernard said in his famous prayer of Mary, the\nmost pious Virgin's intercessory power that it was not recorded in any\nage that those who implored her powerful protection were ever abandoned\nby her.\n\nThe twins were now playing again right merrily for the troubles of\nchildhood are but as fleeting summer showers. Cissy Caffrey played with\nbaby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby hands in air. Peep\nshe cried behind the hood of the pushcar and Edy asked where was Cissy\ngone and then Cissy popped up her head and cried ah! and, my word,\ndidn't the little chap enjoy that! And then she told him to say papa.\n\n--Say papa, baby. Say pa pa pa pa pa pa pa.\n\nAnd baby did his level best to say it for he was very intelligent for\neleven months everyone said and big for his age and the picture of\nhealth, a perfect little bunch of love, and he would certainly turn out\nto be something great, they said.\n\n--Haja ja ja haja.\n\nCissy wiped his little mouth with the dribbling bib and wanted him to\nsit up properly and say pa pa pa but when she undid the strap she cried\nout, holy saint Denis, that he was possing wet and to double the half\nblanket the other way under him. Of course his infant majesty was most\nobstreperous at such toilet formalities and he let everyone know it:\n\n--Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa.\n\nAnd two great big lovely big tears coursing down his cheeks. It was all\nno use soothering him with no, nono, baby, no and telling him about the\ngeegee and where was the puffpuff but Ciss, always readywitted, gave\nhim in his mouth the teat of the suckingbottle and the young heathen was\nquickly appeased.\n\nGerty wished to goodness they would take their squalling baby home out\nof that and not get on her nerves, no hour to be out, and the little\nbrats of twins. She gazed out towards the distant sea. It was like the\npaintings that man used to do on the pavement with all the coloured\nchalks and such a pity too leaving them there to be all blotted out, the\nevening and the clouds coming out and the Bailey light on Howth and to\nhear the music like that and the perfume of those incense they burned\nin the church like a kind of waft. And while she gazed her heart went\npitapat. Yes, it was her he was looking at, and there was meaning in his\nlook. His eyes burned into her as though they would search her through\nand through, read her very soul. Wonderful eyes they were, superbly\nexpressive, but could you trust them? People were so queer. She could\nsee at once by his dark eyes and his pale intellectual face that he\nwas a foreigner, the image of the photo she had of Martin Harvey, the\nmatinee idol, only for the moustache which she preferred because she\nwasn't stagestruck like Winny Rippingham that wanted they two to always\ndress the same on account of a play but she could not see whether he had\nan aquiline nose or a slightly _retroussé_ from where he was sitting.\nHe was in deep mourning, she could see that, and the story of a haunting\nsorrow was written on his face. She would have given worlds to know what\nit was. He was looking up so intently, so still, and he saw her kick the\nball and perhaps he could see the bright steel buckles of her shoes if\nshe swung them like that thoughtfully with the toes down. She was glad\nthat something told her to put on the transparent stockings thinking\nReggy Wylie might be out but that was far away. Here was that of which\nshe had so often dreamed. It was he who mattered and there was joy on\nher face because she wanted him because she felt instinctively that he\nwas like no-one else. The very heart of the girlwoman went out to him,\nher dreamhusband, because she knew on the instant it was him. If he had\nsuffered, more sinned against than sinning, or even, even, if he had\nbeen himself a sinner, a wicked man, she cared not. Even if he was a\nprotestant or methodist she could convert him easily if he truly loved\nher. There were wounds that wanted healing with heartbalm. She was a\nwomanly woman not like other flighty girls unfeminine he had known,\nthose cyclists showing off what they hadn't got and she just yearned to\nknow all, to forgive all if she could make him fall in love with her,\nmake him forget the memory of the past. Then mayhap he would embrace her\ngently, like a real man, crushing her soft body to him, and love her,\nhis ownest girlie, for herself alone.\n\nRefuge of sinners. Comfortress of the afflicted. _Ora pro nobis_. Well\nhas it been said that whosoever prays to her with faith and constancy\ncan never be lost or cast away: and fitly is she too a haven of refuge\nfor the afflicted because of the seven dolours which transpierced\nher own heart. Gerty could picture the whole scene in the church, the\nstained glass windows lighted up, the candles, the flowers and the blue\nbanners of the blessed Virgin's sodality and Father Conroy was helping\nCanon O'Hanlon at the altar, carrying things in and out with his eyes\ncast down. He looked almost a saint and his confessionbox was so quiet\nand clean and dark and his hands were just like white wax and if ever\nshe became a Dominican nun in their white habit perhaps he might come to\nthe convent for the novena of Saint Dominic. He told her that time when\nshe told him about that in confession, crimsoning up to the roots of her\nhair for fear he could see, not to be troubled because that was only the\nvoice of nature and we were all subject to nature's laws, he said, in\nthis life and that that was no sin because that came from the nature of\nwoman instituted by God, he said, and that Our Blessed Lady herself said\nto the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me according to Thy Word. He\nwas so kind and holy and often and often she thought and thought could\nshe work a ruched teacosy with embroidered floral design for him as a\npresent or a clock but they had a clock she noticed on the mantelpiece\nwhite and gold with a canarybird that came out of a little house to tell\nthe time the day she went there about the flowers for the forty hours'\nadoration because it was hard to know what sort of a present to give or\nperhaps an album of illuminated views of Dublin or some place.\n\nThe exasperating little brats of twins began to quarrel again and Jacky\nthrew the ball out towards the sea and they both ran after it. Little\nmonkeys common as ditchwater. Someone ought to take them and give them\na good hiding for themselves to keep them in their places, the both of\nthem. And Cissy and Edy shouted after them to come back because they\nwere afraid the tide might come in on them and be drowned.\n\n--Jacky! Tommy!\n\nNot they! What a great notion they had! So Cissy said it was the very\nlast time she'd ever bring them out. She jumped up and called them and\nshe ran down the slope past him, tossing her hair behind her which had\na good enough colour if there had been more of it but with all the\nthingamerry she was always rubbing into it she couldn't get it to grow\nlong because it wasn't natural so she could just go and throw her hat at\nit. She ran with long gandery strides it was a wonder she didn't rip up\nher skirt at the side that was too tight on her because there was a lot\nof the tomboy about Cissy Caffrey and she was a forward piece whenever\nshe thought she had a good opportunity to show and just because she was\na good runner she ran like that so that he could see all the end of her\npetticoat running and her skinny shanks up as far as possible. It\nwould have served her just right if she had tripped up over something\naccidentally on purpose with her high crooked French heels on her to\nmake her look tall and got a fine tumble. _Tableau!_ That would have\nbeen a very charming expose for a gentleman like that to witness.\n\nQueen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queen of prophets, of all saints,\nthey prayed, queen of the most holy rosary and then Father Conroy handed\nthe thurible to Canon O'Hanlon and he put in the incense and censed the\nBlessed Sacrament and Cissy Caffrey caught the two twins and she was\nitching to give them a ringing good clip on the ear but she didn't\nbecause she thought he might be watching but she never made a bigger\nmistake in all her life because Gerty could see without looking that\nhe never took his eyes off of her and then Canon O'Hanlon handed the\nthurible back to Father Conroy and knelt down looking up at the Blessed\nSacrament and the choir began to sing the _Tantum ergo_ and she just\nswung her foot in and out in time as the music rose and fell to\nthe _Tantumer gosa cramen tum_. Three and eleven she paid for those\nstockings in Sparrow's of George's street on the Tuesday, no the Monday\nbefore Easter and there wasn't a brack on them and that was what he\nwas looking at, transparent, and not at her insignificant ones that had\nneither shape nor form (the cheek of her!) because he had eyes in his\nhead to see the difference for himself.\n\nCissy came up along the strand with the two twins and their ball with\nher hat anyhow on her to one side after her run and she did look a\nstreel tugging the two kids along with the flimsy blouse she bought only\na fortnight before like a rag on her back and a bit of her petticoat\nhanging like a caricature. Gerty just took off her hat for a moment to\nsettle her hair and a prettier, a daintier head of nutbrown tresses was\nnever seen on a girl's shoulders--a radiant little vision, in sooth,\nalmost maddening in its sweetness. You would have to travel many a long\nmile before you found a head of hair the like of that. She could almost\nsee the swift answering flash of admiration in his eyes that set her\ntingling in every nerve. She put on her hat so that she could see from\nunderneath the brim and swung her buckled shoe faster for her breath\ncaught as she caught the expression in his eyes. He was eying her as a\nsnake eyes its prey. Her woman's instinct told her that she had raised\nthe devil in him and at the thought a burning scarlet swept from throat\nto brow till the lovely colour of her face became a glorious rose.\n\nEdy Boardman was noticing it too because she was squinting at Gerty,\nhalf smiling, with her specs like an old maid, pretending to nurse the\nbaby. Irritable little gnat she was and always would be and that was why\nno-one could get on with her poking her nose into what was no concern of\nhers. And she said to Gerty:\n\n--A penny for your thoughts.\n\n--What? replied Gerty with a smile reinforced by the whitest of teeth. I\nwas only wondering was it late.\n\nBecause she wished to goodness they'd take the snottynosed twins and\ntheir babby home to the mischief out of that so that was why she just\ngave a gentle hint about its being late. And when Cissy came up Edy\nasked her the time and Miss Cissy, as glib as you like, said it was half\npast kissing time, time to kiss again. But Edy wanted to know because\nthey were told to be in early.\n\n--Wait, said Cissy, I'll run ask my uncle Peter over there what's the\ntime by his conundrum.\n\nSo over she went and when he saw her coming she could see him take his\nhand out of his pocket, getting nervous, and beginning to play with his\nwatchchain, looking up at the church. Passionate nature though he was\nGerty could see that he had enormous control over himself. One moment he\nhad been there, fascinated by a loveliness that made him gaze, and the\nnext moment it was the quiet gravefaced gentleman, selfcontrol expressed\nin every line of his distinguishedlooking figure.\n\nCissy said to excuse her would he mind please telling her what was the\nright time and Gerty could see him taking out his watch, listening to it\nand looking up and clearing his throat and he said he was very sorry his\nwatch was stopped but he thought it must be after eight because the\nsun was set. His voice had a cultured ring in it and though he spoke in\nmeasured accents there was a suspicion of a quiver in the mellow tones.\nCissy said thanks and came back with her tongue out and said uncle said\nhis waterworks were out of order.\n\nThen they sang the second verse of the _Tantum ergo_ and Canon O'Hanlon\ngot up again and censed the Blessed Sacrament and knelt down and he told\nFather Conroy that one of the candles was just going to set fire to the\nflowers and Father Conroy got up and settled it all right and she could\nsee the gentleman winding his watch and listening to the works and she\nswung her leg more in and out in time. It was getting darker but he\ncould see and he was looking all the time that he was winding the watch\nor whatever he was doing to it and then he put it back and put his hands\nback into his pockets. She felt a kind of a sensation rushing all over\nher and she knew by the feel of her scalp and that irritation against\nher stays that that thing must be coming on because the last time too\nwas when she clipped her hair on account of the moon. His dark eyes\nfixed themselves on her again drinking in her every contour, literally\nworshipping at her shrine. If ever there was undisguised admiration in a\nman's passionate gaze it was there plain to be seen on that man's face.\nIt is for you, Gertrude MacDowell, and you know it.\n\nEdy began to get ready to go and it was high time for her and Gerty\nnoticed that that little hint she gave had had the desired effect\nbecause it was a long way along the strand to where there was the place\nto push up the pushcar and Cissy took off the twins' caps and tidied\ntheir hair to make herself attractive of course and Canon O'Hanlon stood\nup with his cope poking up at his neck and Father Conroy handed him the\ncard to read off and he read out _Panem de coelo praestitisti eis_ and\nEdy and Cissy were talking about the time all the time and asking her\nbut Gerty could pay them back in their own coin and she just answered\nwith scathing politeness when Edy asked her was she heartbroken about\nher best boy throwing her over. Gerty winced sharply. A brief cold blaze\nshone from her eyes that spoke volumes of scorn immeasurable. It hurt--O\nyes, it cut deep because Edy had her own quiet way of saying things\nlike that she knew would wound like the confounded little cat she was.\nGerty's lips parted swiftly to frame the word but she fought back\nthe sob that rose to her throat, so slim, so flawless, so beautifully\nmoulded it seemed one an artist might have dreamed of. She had loved him\nbetter than he knew. Lighthearted deceiver and fickle like all his sex\nhe would never understand what he had meant to her and for an instant\nthere was in the blue eyes a quick stinging of tears. Their eyes were\nprobing her mercilessly but with a brave effort she sparkled back in\nsympathy as she glanced at her new conquest for them to see.\n\n--O, responded Gerty, quick as lightning, laughing, and the proud head\nflashed up. I can throw my cap at who I like because it's leap year.\n\nHer words rang out crystalclear, more musical than the cooing of the\nringdove, but they cut the silence icily. There was that in her young\nvoice that told that she was not a one to be lightly trifled with. As\nfor Mr Reggy with his swank and his bit of money she could just chuck\nhim aside as if he was so much filth and never again would she cast as\nmuch as a second thought on him and tear his silly postcard into a dozen\npieces. And if ever after he dared to presume she could give him one\nlook of measured scorn that would make him shrivel up on the spot. Miss\npuny little Edy's countenance fell to no slight extent and Gerty could\nsee by her looking as black as thunder that she was simply in a towering\nrage though she hid it, the little kinnatt, because that shaft had\nstruck home for her petty jealousy and they both knew that she was\nsomething aloof, apart, in another sphere, that she was not of them and\nnever would be and there was somebody else too that knew it and saw it\nso they could put that in their pipe and smoke it.\n\nEdy straightened up baby Boardman to get ready to go and Cissy tucked in\nthe ball and the spades and buckets and it was high time too because the\nsandman was on his way for Master Boardman junior. And Cissy told him\ntoo that billy winks was coming and that baby was to go deedaw and baby\nlooked just too ducky, laughing up out of his gleeful eyes, and Cissy\npoked him like that out of fun in his wee fat tummy and baby, without as\nmuch as by your leave, sent up his compliments to all and sundry on to\nhis brandnew dribbling bib.\n\n--O my! Puddeny pie! protested Ciss. He has his bib destroyed.\n\nThe slight _contretemps_ claimed her attention but in two twos she set\nthat little matter to rights.\n\nGerty stifled a smothered exclamation and gave a nervous cough and Edy\nasked what and she was just going to tell her to catch it while it was\nflying but she was ever ladylike in her deportment so she simply passed\nit off with consummate tact by saying that that was the benediction\nbecause just then the bell rang out from the steeple over the quiet\nseashore because Canon O'Hanlon was up on the altar with the veil that\nFather Conroy put round his shoulders giving the benediction with the\nBlessed Sacrament in his hands.\n\nHow moving the scene there in the gathering twilight, the last glimpse\nof Erin, the touching chime of those evening bells and at the same\ntime a bat flew forth from the ivied belfry through the dusk, hither,\nthither, with a tiny lost cry. And she could see far away the lights of\nthe lighthouses so picturesque she would have loved to do with a box of\npaints because it was easier than to make a man and soon the lamplighter\nwould be going his rounds past the presbyterian church grounds and along\nby shady Tritonville avenue where the couples walked and lighting the\nlamp near her window where Reggy Wylie used to turn his freewheel like\nshe read in that book _The Lamplighter_ by Miss Cummins, author of\n_Mabel Vaughan_ and other tales. For Gerty had her dreams that no-one\nknew of. She loved to read poetry and when she got a keepsake from\nBertha Supple of that lovely confession album with the coralpink cover\nto write her thoughts in she laid it in the drawer of her toilettable\nwhich, though it did not err on the side of luxury, was scrupulously\nneat and clean. It was there she kept her girlish treasure trove, the\ntortoiseshell combs, her child of Mary badge, the whiterose scent, the\neyebrowleine, her alabaster pouncetbox and the ribbons to change\nwhen her things came home from the wash and there were some beautiful\nthoughts written in it in violet ink that she bought in Hely's of Dame\nStreet for she felt that she too could write poetry if she could only\nexpress herself like that poem that appealed to her so deeply that\nshe had copied out of the newspaper she found one evening round the\npotherbs. _Art thou real, my ideal?_ it was called by Louis J Walsh,\nMagherafelt, and after there was something about _twilight, wilt thou\never?_ and ofttimes the beauty of poetry, so sad in its transient\nloveliness, had misted her eyes with silent tears for she felt that\nthe years were slipping by for her, one by one, and but for that one\nshortcoming she knew she need fear no competition and that was an\naccident coming down Dalkey hill and she always tried to conceal it.\nBut it must end, she felt. If she saw that magic lure in his eyes there\nwould be no holding back for her. Love laughs at locksmiths. She\nwould make the great sacrifice. Her every effort would be to share his\nthoughts. Dearer than the whole world would she be to him and gild his\ndays with happiness. There was the allimportant question and she was\ndying to know was he a married man or a widower who had lost his wife\nor some tragedy like the nobleman with the foreign name from the land\nof song had to have her put into a madhouse, cruel only to be kind.\nBut even if--what then? Would it make a very great difference? From\neverything in the least indelicate her finebred nature instinctively\nrecoiled. She loathed that sort of person, the fallen women off the\naccommodation walk beside the Dodder that went with the soldiers and\ncoarse men with no respect for a girl's honour, degrading the sex and\nbeing taken up to the police station. No, no: not that. They would be\njust good friends like a big brother and sister without all that other\nin spite of the conventions of Society with a big ess. Perhaps it was\nan old flame he was in mourning for from the days beyond recall. She\nthought she understood. She would try to understand him because men were\nso different. The old love was waiting, waiting with little white\nhands stretched out, with blue appealing eyes. Heart of mine! She would\nfollow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he\nwas her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was\nthe master guide. Nothing else mattered. Come what might she would be\nwild, untrammelled, free.\n\nCanon O'Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament back into the tabernacle and\ngenuflected and the choir sang _Laudate Dominum omnes gentes_ and then\nhe locked the tabernacle door because the benediction was over and\nFather Conroy handed him his hat to put on and crosscat Edy asked wasn't\nshe coming but Jacky Caffrey called out:\n\n--O, look, Cissy!\n\nAnd they all looked was it sheet lightning but Tommy saw it too over the\ntrees beside the church, blue and then green and purple.\n\n--It's fireworks, Cissy Caffrey said.\n\nAnd they all ran down the strand to see over the houses and the church,\nhelterskelter, Edy with the pushcar with baby Boardman in it and Cissy\nholding Tommy and Jacky by the hand so they wouldn't fall running.\n\n--Come on, Gerty, Cissy called. It's the bazaar fireworks.\n\nBut Gerty was adamant. She had no intention of being at their beck and\ncall. If they could run like rossies she could sit so she said she could\nsee from where she was. The eyes that were fastened upon her set her\npulses tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting his glance, and\na light broke in upon her. Whitehot passion was in that face, passion\nsilent as the grave, and it had made her his. At last they were left\nalone without the others to pry and pass remarks and she knew he could\nbe trusted to the death, steadfast, a sterling man, a man of inflexible\nhonour to his fingertips. His hands and face were working and a tremour\nwent over her. She leaned back far to look up where the fireworks were\nand she caught her knee in her hands so as not to fall back looking up\nand there was no-one to see only him and her when she revealed all her\ngraceful beautifully shaped legs like that, supply soft and delicately\nrounded, and she seemed to hear the panting of his heart, his hoarse\nbreathing, because she knew too about the passion of men like that,\nhotblooded, because Bertha Supple told her once in dead secret and made\nher swear she'd never about the gentleman lodger that was staying with\nthem out of the Congested Districts Board that had pictures cut out of\npapers of those skirtdancers and highkickers and she said he used to do\nsomething not very nice that you could imagine sometimes in the bed. But\nthis was altogether different from a thing like that because there was\nall the difference because she could almost feel him draw her face to\nhis and the first quick hot touch of his handsome lips. Besides there\nwas absolution so long as you didn't do the other thing before being\nmarried and there ought to be women priests that would understand\nwithout your telling out and Cissy Caffrey too sometimes had that dreamy\nkind of dreamy look in her eyes so that she too, my dear, and Winny\nRippingham so mad about actors' photographs and besides it was on\naccount of that other thing coming on the way it did.\n\nAnd Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned back\nand the garters were blue to match on account of the transparent and\nthey all saw it and they all shouted to look, look, there it was and\nshe leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks and something queer was\nflying through the air, a soft thing, to and fro, dark. And she saw a\nlong Roman candle going up over the trees, up, up, and, in the tense\nhush, they were all breathless with excitement as it went higher and\nhigher and she had to lean back more and more to look up after it, high,\nhigh, almost out of sight, and her face was suffused with a divine, an\nentrancing blush from straining back and he could see her other things\ntoo, nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than\nthose other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven, on account of being\nwhite and she let him and she saw that he saw and then it went so high\nit went out of sight a moment and she was trembling in every limb from\nbeing bent so far back that he had a full view high up above her knee\nwhere no-one ever not even on the swing or wading and she wasn't ashamed\nand he wasn't either to look in that immodest way like that because he\ncouldn't resist the sight of the wondrous revealment half offered like\nthose skirtdancers behaving so immodest before gentlemen looking and he\nkept on looking, looking. She would fain have cried to him chokingly,\nheld out her snowy slender arms to him to come, to feel his lips laid on\nher white brow, the cry of a young girl's love, a little strangled cry,\nwrung from her, that cry that has rung through the ages. And then a\nrocket sprang and bang shot blind blank and O! then the Roman candle\nburst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures\nand it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they\nshed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so\nlovely, O, soft, sweet, soft!\n\nThen all melted away dewily in the grey air: all was silent. Ah! She\nglanced at him as she bent forward quickly, a pathetic little glance of\npiteous protest, of shy reproach under which he coloured like a girl He\nwas leaning back against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for it is he)\nstands silent, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes. What a\nbrute he had been! At it again? A fair unsullied soul had called to him\nand, wretch that he was, how had he answered? An utter cad he had been!\nHe of all men! But there was an infinite store of mercy in those eyes,\nfor him too a word of pardon even though he had erred and sinned and\nwandered. Should a girl tell? No, a thousand times no. That was their\nsecret, only theirs, alone in the hiding twilight and there was none to\nknow or tell save the little bat that flew so softly through the evening\nto and fro and little bats don't tell.\n\nCissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys in the football field to show\nwhat a great person she was: and then she cried:\n\n--Gerty! Gerty! We're going. Come on. We can see from farther up.\n\nGerty had an idea, one of love's little ruses. She slipped a hand into\nher kerchief pocket and took out the wadding and waved in reply of\ncourse without letting him and then slipped it back. Wonder if he's too\nfar to. She rose. Was it goodbye? No. She had to go but they would meet\nagain, there, and she would dream of that till then, tomorrow, of her\ndream of yester eve. She drew herself up to her full height. Their souls\nmet in a last lingering glance and the eyes that reached her heart, full\nof a strange shining, hung enraptured on her sweet flowerlike face. She\nhalf smiled at him wanly, a sweet forgiving smile, a smile that verged\non tears, and then they parted.\n\nSlowly, without looking back she went down the uneven strand to Cissy,\nto Edy to Jacky and Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Boardman. It was\ndarker now and there were stones and bits of wood on the strand and\nslippy seaweed. She walked with a certain quiet dignity characteristic\nof her but with care and very slowly because--because Gerty MacDowell\nwas...\n\nTight boots? No. She's lame! O!\n\nMr Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That's why she's\nleft on the shelf and the others did a sprint. Thought something was\nwrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. A defect is ten times worse\nin a woman. But makes them polite. Glad I didn't know it when she was on\nshow. Hot little devil all the same. I wouldn't mind. Curiosity like a\nnun or a negress or a girl with glasses. That squinty one is delicate.\nNear her monthlies, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. I have such\na bad headache today. Where did I put the letter? Yes, all right. All\nkinds of crazy longings. Licking pennies. Girl in Tranquilla convent\nthat nun told me liked to smell rock oil. Virgins go mad in the end I\nsuppose. Sister? How many women in Dublin have it today? Martha, she.\nSomething in the air. That's the moon. But then why don't all women\nmenstruate at the same time with the same moon, I mean? Depends on the\ntime they were born I suppose. Or all start scratch then get out of\nstep. Sometimes Molly and Milly together. Anyhow I got the best of that.\nDamned glad I didn't do it in the bath this morning over her silly I\nwill punish you letter. Made up for that tramdriver this morning. That\ngouger M'Coy stopping me to say nothing. And his wife engagement in the\ncountry valise, voice like a pickaxe. Thankful for small mercies.\nCheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they want it themselves. Their\nnatural craving. Shoals of them every evening poured out of offices.\nReserve better. Don't want it they throw it at you. Catch em alive, O.\nPity they can't see themselves. A dream of wellfilled hose. Where was\nthat? Ah, yes. Mutoscope pictures in Capel street: for men only. Peeping\nTom. Willy's hat and what the girls did with it. Do they snapshot those\ngirls or is it all a fake? _Lingerie_ does it. Felt for the curves\ninside her _deshabillé._ Excites them also when they're. I'm all clean\ncome and dirty me. And they like dressing one another for the sacrifice.\nMilly delighted with Molly's new blouse. At first. Put them all on to\ntake them all off. Molly. Why I bought her the violet garters. Us too:\nthe tie he wore, his lovely socks and turnedup trousers. He wore a pair\nof gaiters the night that first we met. His lovely shirt was shining\nbeneath his what? of jet. Say a woman loses a charm with every pin she\ntakes out. Pinned together. O, Mairy lost the pin of her. Dressed up to\nthe nines for somebody. Fashion part of their charm. Just changes when\nyou're on the track of the secret. Except the east: Mary, Martha: now as\nthen. No reasonable offer refused. She wasn't in a hurry either. Always\noff to a fellow when they are. They never forget an appointment. Out on\nspec probably. They believe in chance because like themselves. And the\nothers inclined to give her an odd dig. Girl friends at school, arms\nround each other's necks or with ten fingers locked, kissing and\nwhispering secrets about nothing in the convent garden. Nuns with\nwhitewashed faces, cool coifs and their rosaries going up and down,\nvindictive too for what they can't get. Barbed wire. Be sure now and\nwrite to me. And I'll write to you. Now won't you? Molly and Josie\nPowell. Till Mr Right comes along, then meet once in a blue moon.\n_Tableau!_ O, look who it is for the love of God! How are you at all?\nWhat have you been doing with yourself? Kiss and delighted to, kiss,\nto see you. Picking holes in each other's appearance. You're looking\nsplendid. Sister souls. Showing their teeth at one another. How many\nhave you left? Wouldn't lend each other a pinch of salt.\n\nAh!\n\nDevils they are when that's coming on them. Dark devilish appearance.\nMolly often told me feel things a ton weight. Scratch the sole of my\nfoot. O that way! O, that's exquisite! Feel it myself too. Good to rest\nonce in a way. Wonder if it's bad to go with them then. Safe in one way.\nTurns milk, makes fiddlestrings snap. Something about withering plants I\nread in a garden. Besides they say if the flower withers she wears she's\na flirt. All are. Daresay she felt 1. When you feel like that you often\nmeet what you feel. Liked me or what? Dress they look at. Always know a\nfellow courting: collars and cuffs. Well cocks and lions do the same\nand stags. Same time might prefer a tie undone or something. Trousers?\nSuppose I when I was? No. Gently does it. Dislike rough and tumble. Kiss\nin the dark and never tell. Saw something in me. Wonder what. Sooner\nhave me as I am than some poet chap with bearsgrease plastery hair,\nlovelock over his dexter optic. To aid gentleman in literary. Ought to\nattend to my appearance my age. Didn't let her see me in profile. Still,\nyou never know. Pretty girls and ugly men marrying. Beauty and the\nbeast. Besides I can't be so if Molly. Took off her hat to show her\nhair. Wide brim. Bought to hide her face, meeting someone might know\nher, bend down or carry a bunch of flowers to smell. Hair strong in rut.\nTen bob I got for Molly's combings when we were on the rocks in Holles\nstreet. Why not? Suppose he gave her money. Why not? All a prejudice.\nShe's worth ten, fifteen, more, a pound. What? I think so. All that for\nnothing. Bold hand: Mrs Marion. Did I forget to write address on\nthat letter like the postcard I sent to Flynn? And the day I went to\nDrimmie's without a necktie. Wrangle with Molly it was put me off. No,\nI remember. Richie Goulding: he's another. Weighs on his mind. Funny\nmy watch stopped at half past four. Dust. Shark liver oil they use to\nclean. Could do it myself. Save. Was that just when he, she?\n\nO, he did. Into her. She did. Done.\n\nAh!\n\nMr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet shirt. O Lord, that little\nlimping devil. Begins to feel cold and clammy. Aftereffect not pleasant.\nStill you have to get rid of it someway. They don't care. Complimented\nperhaps. Go home to nicey bread and milky and say night prayers with the\nkiddies. Well, aren't they? See her as she is spoil all. Must have\nthe stage setting, the rouge, costume, position, music. The name too.\n_Amours_ of actresses. Nell Gwynn, Mrs Bracegirdle, Maud Branscombe.\nCurtain up. Moonlight silver effulgence. Maiden discovered with pensive\nbosom. Little sweetheart come and kiss me. Still, I feel. The strength\nit gives a man. That's the secret of it. Good job I let off there behind\nthe wall coming out of Dignam's. Cider that was. Otherwise I couldn't\nhave. Makes you want to sing after. _Lacaus esant taratara_. Suppose I\nspoke to her. What about? Bad plan however if you don't know how to end\nthe conversation. Ask them a question they ask you another. Good idea if\nyou're stuck. Gain time. But then you're in a cart. Wonderful of course\nif you say: good evening, and you see she's on for it: good evening. O\nbut the dark evening in the Appian way I nearly spoke to Mrs Clinch O\nthinking she was. Whew! Girl in Meath street that night. All the dirty\nthings I made her say. All wrong of course. My arks she called it. It's\nso hard to find one who. Aho! If you don't answer when they solicit must\nbe horrible for them till they harden. And kissed my hand when I gave\nher the extra two shillings. Parrots. Press the button and the bird will\nsqueak. Wish she hadn't called me sir. O, her mouth in the dark! And you\na married man with a single girl! That's what they enjoy. Taking a man\nfrom another woman. Or even hear of it. Different with me. Glad to get\naway from other chap's wife. Eating off his cold plate. Chap in the\nBurton today spitting back gumchewed gristle. French letter still in\nmy pocketbook. Cause of half the trouble. But might happen sometime,\nI don't think. Come in, all is prepared. I dreamt. What? Worst is\nbeginning. How they change the venue when it's not what they like. Ask\nyou do you like mushrooms because she once knew a gentleman who. Or ask\nyou what someone was going to say when he changed his mind and stopped.\nYet if I went the whole hog, say: I want to, something like that.\nBecause I did. She too. Offend her. Then make it up. Pretend to want\nsomething awfully, then cry off for her sake. Flatters them. She must\nhave been thinking of someone else all the time. What harm? Must since\nshe came to the use of reason, he, he and he. First kiss does the trick.\nThe propitious moment. Something inside them goes pop. Mushy like, tell\nby their eye, on the sly. First thoughts are best. Remember that till\ntheir dying day. Molly, lieutenant Mulvey that kissed her under the\nMoorish wall beside the gardens. Fifteen she told me. But her breasts\nwere developed. Fell asleep then. After Glencree dinner that was when we\ndrove home. Featherbed mountain. Gnashing her teeth in sleep. Lord mayor\nhad his eye on her too. Val Dillon. Apoplectic.\n\nThere she is with them down there for the fireworks. My fireworks. Up\nlike a rocket, down like a stick. And the children, twins they must\nbe, waiting for something to happen. Want to be grownups. Dressing in\nmother's clothes. Time enough, understand all the ways of the world. And\nthe dark one with the mop head and the nigger mouth. I knew she could\nwhistle. Mouth made for that. Like Molly. Why that highclass whore in\nJammet's wore her veil only to her nose. Would you mind, please, telling\nme the right time? I'll tell you the right time up a dark lane.\nSay prunes and prisms forty times every morning, cure for fat lips.\nCaressing the little boy too. Onlookers see most of the game. Of course\nthey understand birds, animals, babies. In their line.\n\nDidn't look back when she was going down the strand. Wouldn't give that\nsatisfaction. Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Fine\neyes she had, clear. It's the white of the eye brings that out not so\nmuch the pupil. Did she know what I? Course. Like a cat sitting beyond\na dog's jump. Women never meet one like that Wilkins in the high school\ndrawing a picture of Venus with all his belongings on show. Call that\ninnocence? Poor idiot! His wife has her work cut out for her. Never see\nthem sit on a bench marked _Wet Paint_. Eyes all over them. Look under\nthe bed for what's not there. Longing to get the fright of their lives.\nSharp as needles they are. When I said to Molly the man at the corner of\nCuffe street was goodlooking, thought she might like, twigged at once he\nhad a false arm. Had, too. Where do they get that? Typist going up Roger\nGreene's stairs two at a time to show her understandings. Handed down\nfrom father to, mother to daughter, I mean. Bred in the bone. Milly for\nexample drying her handkerchief on the mirror to save the ironing. Best\nplace for an ad to catch a woman's eye on a mirror. And when I sent\nher for Molly's Paisley shawl to Prescott's by the way that ad I must,\ncarrying home the change in her stocking! Clever little minx. I never\ntold her. Neat way she carries parcels too. Attract men, small thing\nlike that. Holding up her hand, shaking it, to let the blood flow back\nwhen it was red. Who did you learn that from? Nobody. Something the\nnurse taught me. O, don't they know! Three years old she was in front of\nMolly's dressingtable, just before we left Lombard street west. Me have\na nice pace. Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of the world. Young student.\nStraight on her pins anyway not like the other. Still she was game.\nLord, I am wet. Devil you are. Swell of her calf. Transparent stockings,\nstretched to breaking point. Not like that frump today. A. E. Rumpled\nstockings. Or the one in Grafton street. White. Wow! Beef to the heel.\n\nA monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Zrads and\nzrads, zrads, zrads. And Cissy and Tommy and Jacky ran out to see and\nEdy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond the curve of the rocks.\nWill she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She smelt an onion. Darling,\nI saw, your. I saw all.\n\nLord!\n\nDid me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan's, Dignam's. For\nthis relief much thanks. In _Hamlet,_ that is. Lord! It was all things\ncombined. Excitement. When she leaned back, felt an ache at the butt\nof my tongue. Your head it simply swirls. He's right. Might have made a\nworse fool of myself however. Instead of talking about nothing. Then\nI will tell you all. Still it was a kind of language between us. It\ncouldn't be? No, Gerty they called her. Might be false name however like\nmy name and the address Dolphin's barn a blind.\n\n_Her maiden name was Jemina Brown And she lived with her mother in\nIrishtown._\n\nPlace made me think of that I suppose. All tarred with the same brush\nWiping pens in their stockings. But the ball rolled down to her as if\nit understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never could throw\nanything straight at school. Crooked as a ram's horn. Sad however\nbecause it lasts only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping\nand papa's pants will soon fit Willy and fuller's earth for the baby\nwhen they hold him out to do ah ah. No soft job. Saves them. Keeps\nthem out of harm's way. Nature. Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam.\nChildren's hands always round them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even\nclosed at first, sour milk in their swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't\nto have given that child an empty teat to suck. Fill it up with wind.\nMrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must call to the hospital. Wonder is nurse Callan\nthere still. She used to look over some nights when Molly was in the\nCoffee Palace. That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat.\nAnd Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriageable. Worst\nof all at night Mrs Duggan told me in the City Arms. Husband rolling in\ndrunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have that in your nose in\nthe dark, whiff of stale boose. Then ask in the morning: was I drunk\nlast night? Bad policy however to fault the husband. Chickens come home\nto roost. They stick by one another like glue. Maybe the women's fault\nalso. That's where Molly can knock spots off them. It's the blood of the\nsouth. Moorish. Also the form, the figure. Hands felt for the opulent.\nJust compare for instance those others. Wife locked up at home, skeleton\nin the cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out some\nkind of a nondescript, wouldn't know what to call her. Always see a\nfellow's weak point in his wife. Still there's destiny in it, falling\nin love. Have their own secrets between them. Chaps that would go to the\ndogs if some woman didn't take them in hand. Then little chits of girls,\nheight of a shilling in coppers, with little hubbies. As God made them\nhe matched them. Sometimes children turn out well enough. Twice nought\nmakes one. Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing bride. Marry in May\nand repent in December. This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the\nforeskin is not back. Better detach.\n\nOw!\n\nOther hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and\nthe short of it. Big he and little she. Very strange about my watch.\nWristwatches are always going wrong. Wonder is there any magnetic\ninfluence between the person because that was about the time he. Yes, I\nsuppose, at once. Cat's away, the mice will play. I remember looking\nin Pill lane. Also that now is magnetism. Back of everything magnetism.\nEarth for instance pulling this and being pulled. That causes movement.\nAnd time, well that's the time the movement takes. Then if one thing\nstopped the whole ghesabo would stop bit by bit. Because it's all\narranged. Magnetic needle tells you what's going on in the sun, the\nstars. Little piece of steel iron. When you hold out the fork. Come.\nCome. Tip. Woman and man that is. Fork and steel. Molly, he. Dress up\nand look and suggest and let you see and see more and defy you if you're\na man to see that and, like a sneeze coming, legs, look, look and if you\nhave any guts in you. Tip. Have to let fly.\n\nWonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before third\nperson. More put out about a hole in her stocking. Molly, her underjaw\nstuck out, head back, about the farmer in the ridingboots and spurs at\nthe horse show. And when the painters were in Lombard street west.\nFine voice that fellow had. How Giuglini began. Smell that I did. Like\nflowers. It was too. Violets. Came from the turpentine probably in the\npaint. Make their own use of everything. Same time doing it scraped her\nslipper on the floor so they wouldn't hear. But lots of them can't kick\nthe beam, I think. Keep that thing up for hours. Kind of a general all\nround over me and half down my back.\n\nWait. Hm. Hm. Yes. That's her perfume. Why she waved her hand. I leave\nyou this to think of me when I'm far away on the pillow. What is it?\nHeliotrope? No. Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I think. She'd like scent of that\nkind. Sweet and cheap: soon sour. Why Molly likes opoponax. Suits her,\nwith a little jessamine mixed. Her high notes and her low notes. At the\ndance night she met him, dance of the hours. Heat brought it out. She\nwas wearing her black and it had the perfume of the time before. Good\nconductor, is it? Or bad? Light too. Suppose there's some connection.\nFor instance if you go into a cellar where it's dark. Mysterious thing\ntoo. Why did I smell it only now? Took its time in coming like herself,\nslow but sure. Suppose it's ever so many millions of tiny grains\nblown across. Yes, it is. Because those spice islands, Cinghalese this\nmorning, smell them leagues off. Tell you what it is. It's like a fine\nfine veil or web they have all over the skin, fine like what do you\ncall it gossamer, and they're always spinning it out of them, fine as\nanything, like rainbow colours without knowing it. Clings to everything\nshe takes off. Vamp of her stockings. Warm shoe. Stays. Drawers: little\nkick, taking them off. Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to sniff\nin her shift on the bed. Know her smell in a thousand. Bathwater too.\nReminds me of strawberries and cream. Wonder where it is really. There\nor the armpits or under the neck. Because you get it out of all holes\nand corners. Hyacinth perfume made of oil of ether or something.\nMuskrat. Bag under their tails. One grain pour off odour for years. Dogs\nat each other behind. Good evening. Evening. How do you sniff? Hm. Hm.\nVery well, thank you. Animals go by that. Yes now, look at it that way.\nWe're the same. Some women, instance, warn you off when they have their\nperiod. Come near. Then get a hogo you could hang your hat on. Like\nwhat? Potted herrings gone stale or. Boof! Please keep off the grass.\n\nPerhaps they get a man smell off us. What though? Cigary gloves long\nJohn had on his desk the other day. Breath? What you eat and drink gives\nthat. No. Mansmell, I mean. Must be connected with that because priests\nthat are supposed to be are different. Women buzz round it like flies\nround treacle. Railed off the altar get on to it at any cost. The tree\nof forbidden priest. O, father, will you? Let me be the first to. That\ndiffuses itself all through the body, permeates. Source of life. And\nit's extremely curious the smell. Celery sauce. Let me.\n\nMr Bloom inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm. Opening of his waistcoat.\nAlmonds or. No. Lemons it is. Ah no, that's the soap.\n\nO by the by that lotion. I knew there was something on my mind. Never\nwent back and the soap not paid. Dislike carrying bottles like that hag\nthis morning. Hynes might have paid me that three shillings. I could\nmention Meagher's just to remind him. Still if he works that paragraph.\nTwo and nine. Bad opinion of me he'll have. Call tomorrow. How much do\nI owe you? Three and nine? Two and nine, sir. Ah. Might stop him giving\ncredit another time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do. Fellows run\nup a bill on the slate and then slinking around the back streets into\nsomewhere else.\n\nHere's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just went as\nfar as turn back. Always at home at dinnertime. Looks mangled out: had a\ngood tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after meals. After supper walk\na mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government sit. Walk\nafter him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still you\nlearn something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as women don't\nmock what matter? That's the way to find out. Ask yourself who is he\nnow. _The Mystery Man on the Beach_, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold\nBloom. Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. And that fellow\ntoday at the graveside in the brown macintosh. Corns on his kismet\nhowever. Healthy perhaps absorb all the. Whistle brings rain they say.\nMust be some somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp. The body feels the\natmosphere. Old Betty's joints are on the rack. Mother Shipton's\nprophecy that is about ships around they fly in the twinkling. No. Signs\nof rain it is. The royal reader. And distant hills seem coming nigh.\n\nHowth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or\nthey might think it a house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid of\nthe dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. Jewels diamonds\nflash better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt\nyou. Better now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run you through\nthe small guts for nothing. Still two types there are you bob against.\nScowl or smile. Pardon! Not at all. Best time to spray plants too in\nthe shade after the sun. Some light still. Red rays are longest. Roygbiv\nVance taught us: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. A\nstar I see. Venus? Can't tell yet. Two. When three it's night. Were\nthose nightclouds there all the time? Looks like a phantom ship. No.\nWait. Trees are they? An optical illusion. Mirage. Land of the setting\nsun this. Homerule sun setting in the southeast. My native land,\ngoodnight.\n\nDew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on white\nfluxions. Never have little baby then less he was big strong fight his\nway up through. Might get piles myself. Sticks too like a summer cold,\nsore on the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction of the\nposition. Like to be that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you don't\nknow how nice you looked. I begin to like them at that age. Green\napples. Grab at all that offer. Suppose it's the only time we cross\nlegs, seated. Also the library today: those girl graduates. Happy chairs\nunder them. But it's the evening influence. They feel all that. Open\nlike flowers, know their hours, sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes, in\nballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the lamps. Nightstock in Mat\nDillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder. Wish I had a full length\noilpainting of her then. June that was too I wooed. The year returns.\nHistory repeats itself. Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again.\nLife, love, voyage round your own little world. And now? Sad about her\nlame of course but must be on your guard not to feel too much pity. They\ntake advantage.\n\nAll quiet on Howth now. The distant hills seem. Where we. The\nrhododendrons. I am a fool perhaps. He gets the plums, and I the\nplumstones. Where I come in. All that old hill has seen. Names change:\nthat's all. Lovers: yum yum.\n\nTired I feel now. Will I get up? O wait. Drained all the manhood out of\nme, little wretch. She kissed me. Never again. My youth. Only once it\ncomes. Or hers. Take the train there tomorrow. No. Returning not the\nsame. Like kids your second visit to a house. The new I want. Nothing\nnew under the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphin's Barn. Are you not happy in\nyour? Naughty darling. At Dolphin's barn charades in Luke Doyle's house.\nMat Dillon and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy,\nHetty. Molly too. Eightyseven that was. Year before we. And the old\nmajor, partial to his drop of spirits. Curious she an only child, I an\nonly child. So it returns. Think you're escaping and run into yourself.\nLongest way round is the shortest way home. And just when he and she.\nCircus horse walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip: tear in\nHenny Doyle's overcoat. Van: breadvan delivering. Winkle: cockles and\nperiwinkles. Then I did Rip van Winkle coming back. She leaned on the\nsideboard watching. Moorish eyes. Twenty years asleep in Sleepy Hollow.\nAll changed. Forgotten. The young are old. His gun rusty from the dew.\n\nBa. What is that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Thinks I'm a tree,\nso blind. Have birds no smell? Metempsychosis. They believed you could\nbe changed into a tree from grief. Weeping willow. Ba. There he goes.\nFunny little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up there. Very\nlikely. Hanging by his heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell scared him\nout, I suppose. Mass seems to be over. Could hear them all at it. Pray\nfor us. And pray for us. And pray for us. Good idea the repetition. Same\nthing with ads. Buy from us. And buy from us. Yes, there's the light in\nthe priest's house. Their frugal meal. Remember about the mistake in the\nvaluation when I was in Thom's. Twentyeight it is. Two houses they have.\nGabriel Conroy's brother is curate. Ba. Again. Wonder why they come out\nat night like mice. They're a mixed breed. Birds are like hopping mice.\nWhat frightens them, light or noise? Better sit still. All instinct\nlike the bird in drouth got water out of the end of a jar by throwing\nin pebbles. Like a little man in a cloak he is with tiny hands. Weeny\nbones. Almost see them shimmering, kind of a bluey white. Colours depend\non the light you see. Stare the sun for example like the eagle then look\nat a shoe see a blotch blob yellowish. Wants to stamp his trademark on\neverything. Instance, that cat this morning on the staircase. Colour of\nbrown turf. Say you never see them with three colours. Not true. That\nhalf tabbywhite tortoiseshell in the _City Arms_ with the letter em on\nher forehead. Body fifty different colours. Howth a while ago amethyst.\nGlass flashing. That's how that wise man what's his name with the\nburning glass. Then the heather goes on fire. It can't be tourists'\nmatches. What? Perhaps the sticks dry rub together in the wind and\nlight. Or broken bottles in the furze act as a burning glass in the sun.\nArchimedes. I have it! My memory's not so bad.\n\nBa. Who knows what they're always flying for. Insects? That bee last\nweek got into the room playing with his shadow on the ceiling. Might\nbe the one bit me, come back to see. Birds too. Never find out. Or what\nthey say. Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve they have\nto fly over the ocean and back. Lots must be killed in storms, telegraph\nwires. Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of oceangoing steamers\nfloundering along in the dark, lowing out like seacows. _Faugh a\nBallagh!_ Out of that, bloody curse to you! Others in vessels, bit of\na handkerchief sail, pitched about like snuff at a wake when the stormy\nwinds do blow. Married too. Sometimes away for years at the ends of the\nearth somewhere. No ends really because it's round. Wife in every port\nthey say. She has a good job if she minds it till Johnny comes marching\nhome again. If ever he does. Smelling the tail end of ports. How can\nthey like the sea? Yet they do. The anchor's weighed. Off he sails with\na scapular or a medal on him for luck. Well. And the tephilim no what's\nthis they call it poor papa's father had on his door to touch. That\nbrought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage.\nSomething in all those superstitions because when you go out never know\nwhat dangers. Hanging on to a plank or astride of a beam for grim life,\nlifebelt round him, gulping salt water, and that's the last of his nibs\ntill the sharks catch hold of him. Do fish ever get seasick?\n\nThen you have a beautiful calm without a cloud, smooth sea, placid,\ncrew and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones' locker, moon looking down so\npeaceful. Not my fault, old cockalorum.\n\nA last lonely candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of\nfunds for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and shed a cluster\nof violet but one white stars. They floated, fell: they faded. The\nshepherd's hour: the hour of folding: hour of tryst. From house to\nhouse, giving his everwelcome double knock, went the nine o'clock\npostman, the glowworm's lamp at his belt gleaming here and there through\nthe laurel hedges. And among the five young trees a hoisted lintstock\nlit the lamp at Leahy's terrace. By screens of lighted windows, by equal\ngardens a shrill voice went crying, wailing: _Evening Telegraph, stop\npress edition! Result of the Gold Cup race!_ and from the door of\nDignam's house a boy ran out and called. Twittering the bat flew here,\nflew there. Far out over the sands the coming surf crept, grey. Howth\nsettled for slumber, tired of long days, of yumyum rhododendrons (he was\nold) and felt gladly the night breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns.\nHe lay but opened a red eye unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing,\nslumberous but awake. And far on Kish bank the anchored lightship\ntwinkled, winked at Mr Bloom.\n\nLife those chaps out there must have, stuck in the same spot. Irish\nLights board. Penance for their sins. Coastguards too. Rocket and\nbreeches buoy and lifeboat. Day we went out for the pleasure cruise in\nthe Erin's King, throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears in the zoo.\nFilthy trip. Drunkards out to shake up their livers. Puking overboard\nto feed the herrings. Nausea. And the women, fear of God in their faces.\nMilly, no sign of funk. Her blue scarf loose, laughing. Don't know what\ndeath is at that age. And then their stomachs clean. But being lost they\nfear. When we hid behind the tree at Crumlin. I didn't want to. Mamma!\nMamma! Babes in the wood. Frightening them with masks too. Throwing them\nup in the air to catch them. I'll murder you. Is it only half fun? Or\nchildren playing battle. Whole earnest. How can people aim guns at each\nother. Sometimes they go off. Poor kids! Only troubles wildfire and\nnettlerash. Calomel purge I got her for that. After getting better\nasleep with Molly. Very same teeth she has. What do they love? Another\nthemselves? But the morning she chased her with the umbrella. Perhaps so\nas not to hurt. I felt her pulse. Ticking. Little hand it was: now big.\nDearest Papli. All that the hand says when you touch. Loved to count\nmy waistcoat buttons. Her first stays I remember. Made me laugh to see.\nLittle paps to begin with. Left one is more sensitive, I think. Mine\ntoo. Nearer the heart? Padding themselves out if fat is in fashion. Her\ngrowing pains at night, calling, wakening me. Frightened she was when\nher nature came on her first. Poor child! Strange moment for the mother\ntoo. Brings back her girlhood. Gibraltar. Looking from Buena Vista.\nO'Hara's tower. The seabirds screaming. Old Barbary ape that gobbled all\nhis family. Sundown, gunfire for the men to cross the lines. Looking\nout over the sea she told me. Evening like this, but clear, no clouds.\nI always thought I'd marry a lord or a rich gentleman coming with a\nprivate yacht. _Buenas noches, señorita. El hombre ama la muchacha\nhermosa_. Why me? Because you were so foreign from the others.\n\nBetter not stick here all night like a limpet. This weather makes you\ndull. Must be getting on for nine by the light. Go home. Too late for\n_Leah, Lily of Killarney._ No. Might be still up. Call to the hospital\nto see. Hope she's over. Long day I've had. Martha, the bath, funeral,\nhouse of Keyes, museum with those goddesses, Dedalus' song. Then that\nbawler in Barney Kiernan's. Got my own back there. Drunken ranters what\nI said about his God made him wince. Mistake to hit back. Or? No.\nOught to go home and laugh at themselves. Always want to be swilling in\ncompany. Afraid to be alone like a child of two. Suppose he hit me. Look\nat it other way round. Not so bad then. Perhaps not to hurt he meant.\nThree cheers for Israel. Three cheers for the sister-in-law he hawked\nabout, three fangs in her mouth. Same style of beauty. Particularly nice\nold party for a cup of tea. The sister of the wife of the wild man of\nBorneo has just come to town. Imagine that in the early morning at close\nrange. Everyone to his taste as Morris said when he kissed the cow. But\nDignam's put the boots on it. Houses of mourning so depressing because\nyou never know. Anyhow she wants the money. Must call to those Scottish\nWidows as I promised. Strange name. Takes it for granted we're going to\npop off first. That widow on Monday was it outside Cramer's that\nlooked at me. Buried the poor husband but progressing favourably on\nthe premium. Her widow's mite. Well? What do you expect her to do? Must\nwheedle her way along. Widower I hate to see. Looks so forlorn. Poor man\nO'Connor wife and five children poisoned by mussels here. The sewage.\nHopeless. Some good matronly woman in a porkpie hat to mother him. Take\nhim in tow, platter face and a large apron. Ladies' grey flannelette\nbloomers, three shillings a pair, astonishing bargain. Plain and loved,\nloved for ever, they say. Ugly: no woman thinks she is. Love, lie and be\nhandsome for tomorrow we die. See him sometimes walking about trying to\nfind out who played the trick. U. p: up. Fate that is. He, not me. Also\na shop often noticed. Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt last night? Wait.\nSomething confused. She had red slippers on. Turkish. Wore the breeches.\nSuppose she does? Would I like her in pyjamas? Damned hard to answer.\nNannetti's gone. Mailboat. Near Holyhead by now. Must nail that ad\nof Keyes's. Work Hynes and Crawford. Petticoats for Molly. She has\nsomething to put in them. What's that? Might be money.\n\nMr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of paper on the strand. He\nbrought it near his eyes and peered. Letter? No. Can't read. Better go.\nBetter. I'm tired to move. Page of an old copybook. All those holes and\npebbles. Who could count them? Never know what you find. Bottle with\nstory of a treasure in it, thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children\nalways want to throw things in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on the waters.\nWhat's this? Bit of stick.\n\nO! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she come here\ntomorrow? Wait for her somewhere for ever. Must come back. Murderers do.\nWill I?\n\nMr Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write a\nmessage for her. Might remain. What?\n\nI.\n\nSome flatfoot tramp on it in the morning. Useless. Washed away. Tide\ncomes here. Saw a pool near her foot. Bend, see my face there, dark\nmirror, breathe on it, stirs. All these rocks with lines and scars and\nletters. O, those transparent! Besides they don't know. What is the\nmeaning of that other world. I called you naughty boy because I do not\nlike.\n\nAM. A.\n\nNo room. Let it go.\n\nMr Bloom effaced the letters with his slow boot. Hopeless thing sand.\nNothing grows in it. All fades. No fear of big vessels coming up here.\nExcept Guinness's barges. Round the Kish in eighty days. Done half by\ndesign.\n\nHe flung his wooden pen away. The stick fell in silted sand, stuck. Now\nif you were trying to do that for a week on end you couldn't. Chance.\nWe'll never meet again. But it was lovely. Goodbye, dear. Thanks. Made\nme feel so young.\n\nShort snooze now if I had. Must be near nine. Liverpool boat long gone..\nNot even the smoke. And she can do the other. Did too. And Belfast. I\nwon't go. Race there, race back to Ennis. Let him. Just close my eyes\na moment. Won't sleep, though. Half dream. It never comes the same. Bat\nagain. No harm in him. Just a few.\n\nO sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle made me do\nlove sticky we two naughty Grace darling she him half past the bed met\nhim pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wife black hair heave\nunder embon _señorita_ young eyes Mulvey plump bubs me breadvan Winkle\nred slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tail end\nAgendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return next in\nher next her next.\n\nA bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far in the grey a bell chimed. Mr Bloom\nwith open mouth, his left boot sanded sideways, leaned, breathed. Just\nfor a few\n\n     _Cuckoo\n     Cuckoo\n     Cuckoo._\n\nThe clock on the mantelpiece in the priest's house cooed where Canon\nO'Hanlon and Father Conroy and the reverend John Hughes S. J. were\ntaking tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton chops with catsup\nand talking about\n\n     _Cuckoo\n     Cuckoo\n     Cuckoo._\n\nBecause it was a little canarybird that came out of its little house\nto tell the time that Gerty MacDowell noticed the time she was there\nbecause she was as quick as anything about a thing like that, was Gerty\nMacDowell, and she noticed at once that that foreign gentleman that was\nsitting on the rocks looking was\n\n     _Cuckoo\n     Cuckoo\n     Cuckoo._\n\n\nDeshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus.\n\nSend us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit. Send\nus bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit. Send us\nbright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit.\n\nHoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa!\n\nUniversally that person's acumen is esteemed very little perceptive\nconcerning whatsoever matters are being held as most profitably by\nmortals with sapience endowed to be studied who is ignorant of that\nwhich the most in doctrine erudite and certainly by reason of that in\nthem high mind's ornament deserving of veneration constantly maintain\nwhen by general consent they affirm that other circumstances being\nequal by no exterior splendour is the prosperity of a nation more\nefficaciously asserted than by the measure of how far forward may\nhave progressed the tribute of its solicitude for that proliferent\ncontinuance which of evils the original if it be absent when fortunately\npresent constitutes the certain sign of omnipotent nature's incorrupted\nbenefaction. For who is there who anything of some significance has\napprehended but is conscious that that exterior splendour may be the\nsurface of a downwardtending lutulent reality or on the contrary anyone\nso is there unilluminated as not to perceive that as no nature's boon\ncan contend against the bounty of increase so it behoves every most just\ncitizen to become the exhortator and admonisher of his semblables and\nto tremble lest what had in the past been by the nation excellently\ncommenced might be in the future not with similar excellence\naccomplished if an inverecund habit shall have gradually traduced\nthe honourable by ancestors transmitted customs to that thither of\nprofundity that that one was audacious excessively who would have the\nhardihood to rise affirming that no more odious offence can for anyone\nbe than to oblivious neglect to consign that evangel simultaneously\ncommand and promise which on all mortals with prophecy of abundance\nor with diminution's menace that exalted of reiteratedly procreating\nfunction ever irrevocably enjoined?\n\nIt is not why therefore we shall wonder if, as the best historians\nrelate, among the Celts, who nothing that was not in its nature\nadmirable admired, the art of medicine shall have been highly honoured.\nNot to speak of hostels, leperyards, sweating chambers, plaguegraves,\ntheir greatest doctors, the O'Shiels, the O'Hickeys, the O'Lees,\nhave sedulously set down the divers methods by which the sick and the\nrelapsed found again health whether the malady had been the trembling\nwithering or loose boyconnell flux. Certainly in every public work which\nin it anything of gravity contains preparation should be with importance\ncommensurate and therefore a plan was by them adopted (whether by having\npreconsidered or as the maturation of experience it is difficult in\nbeing said which the discrepant opinions of subsequent inquirers are not\nup to the present congrued to render manifest) whereby maternity was so\nfar from all accident possibility removed that whatever care the patient\nin that all hardest of woman hour chiefly required and not solely\nfor the copiously opulent but also for her who not being sufficiently\nmoneyed scarcely and often not even scarcely could subsist valiantly and\nfor an inconsiderable emolument was provided.\n\nTo her nothing already then and thenceforward was anyway able to be\nmolestful for this chiefly felt all citizens except with proliferent\nmothers prosperity at all not to can be and as they had received\neternity gods mortals generation to befit them her beholding, when the\ncase was so hoving itself, parturient in vehicle thereward carrying\ndesire immense among all one another was impelling on of her to be\nreceived into that domicile. O thing of prudent nation not merely in\nbeing seen but also even in being related worthy of being praised that\nthey her by anticipation went seeing mother, that she by them suddenly\nto be about to be cherished had been begun she felt!\n\nBefore born bliss babe had. Within womb won he worship. Whatever in that\none case done commodiously done was. A couch by midwives attended with\nwholesome food reposeful, cleanest swaddles as though forthbringing were\nnow done and by wise foresight set: but to this no less of what drugs\nthere is need and surgical implements which are pertaining to her\ncase not omitting aspect of all very distracting spectacles in various\nlatitudes by our terrestrial orb offered together with images, divine\nand human, the cogitation of which by sejunct females is to tumescence\nconducive or eases issue in the high sunbright wellbuilt fair home of\nmothers when, ostensibly far gone and reproductitive, it is come by her\nthereto to lie in, her term up.\n\nSome man that wayfaring was stood by housedoor at night's oncoming. Of\nIsrael's folk was that man that on earth wandering far had fared. Stark\nruth of man his errand that him lone led till that house.\n\nOf that house A. Horne is lord. Seventy beds keeps he there teeming\nmothers are wont that they lie for to thole and bring forth bairns hale\nso God's angel to Mary quoth. Watchers tway there walk, white sisters\nin ward sleepless. Smarts they still, sickness soothing: in twelve moons\nthrice an hundred. Truest bedthanes they twain are, for Horne holding\nwariest ward.\n\nIn ward wary the watcher hearing come that man mildhearted eft rising\nwith swire ywimpled to him her gate wide undid. Lo, levin leaping\nlightens in eyeblink Ireland's westward welkin. Full she drad that\nGod the Wreaker all mankind would fordo with water for his evil sins.\nChrist's rood made she on breastbone and him drew that he would rathe\ninfare under her thatch. That man her will wotting worthful went in\nHorne's house.\n\nLoth to irk in Horne's hall hat holding the seeker stood. On her stow he\nere was living with dear wife and lovesome daughter that then over land\nand seafloor nine years had long outwandered. Once her in townhithe\nmeeting he to her bow had not doffed. Her to forgive now he craved with\ngood ground of her allowed that that of him swiftseen face, hers, so\nyoung then had looked. Light swift her eyes kindled, bloom of blushes\nhis word winning.\n\nAs her eyes then ongot his weeds swart therefor sorrow she feared. Glad\nafter she was that ere adread was. Her he asked if O'Hare Doctor tidings\nsent from far coast and she with grameful sigh him answered that O'Hare\nDoctor in heaven was. Sad was the man that word to hear that him so\nheavied in bowels ruthful. All she there told him, ruing death for\nfriend so young, algate sore unwilling God's rightwiseness to withsay.\nShe said that he had a fair sweet death through God His goodness with\nmasspriest to be shriven, holy housel and sick men's oil to his limbs.\nThe man then right earnest asked the nun of which death the dead man was\ndied and the nun answered him and said that he was died in Mona Island\nthrough bellycrab three year agone come Childermas and she prayed to God\nthe Allruthful to have his dear soul in his undeathliness. He heard her\nsad words, in held hat sad staring. So stood they there both awhile in\nwanhope sorrowing one with other.\n\nTherefore, everyman, look to that last end that is thy death and the\ndust that gripeth on every man that is born of woman for as he came\nnaked forth from his mother's womb so naked shall he wend him at the\nlast for to go as he came.\n\nThe man that was come in to the house then spoke to the nursingwoman and\nhe asked her how it fared with the woman that lay there in childbed.\nThe nursingwoman answered him and said that that woman was in throes\nnow full three days and that it would be a hard birth unneth to bear\nbut that now in a little it would be. She said thereto that she had\nseen many births of women but never was none so hard as was that woman's\nbirth. Then she set it all forth to him for because she knew the man\nthat time was had lived nigh that house. The man hearkened to her words\nfor he felt with wonder women's woe in the travail that they have of\nmotherhood and he wondered to look on her face that was a fair face for\nany man to see but yet was she left after long years a handmaid. Nine\ntwelve bloodflows chiding her childless.\n\nAnd whiles they spake the door of the castle was opened and there nighed\nthem a mickle noise as of many that sat there at meat. And there came\nagainst the place as they stood a young learningknight yclept Dixon. And\nthe traveller Leopold was couth to him sithen it had happed that they\nhad had ado each with other in the house of misericord where this\nlearningknight lay by cause the traveller Leopold came there to be\nhealed for he was sore wounded in his breast by a spear wherewith a\nhorrible and dreadful dragon was smitten him for which he did do make\na salve of volatile salt and chrism as much as he might suffice. And he\nsaid now that he should go in to that castle for to make merry with\nthem that were there. And the traveller Leopold said that he should go\notherwhither for he was a man of cautels and a subtile. Also the lady\nwas of his avis and repreved the learningknight though she trowed well\nthat the traveller had said thing that was false for his subtility. But\nthe learningknight would not hear say nay nor do her mandement ne have\nhim in aught contrarious to his list and he said how it was a marvellous\ncastle. And the traveller Leopold went into the castle for to rest him\nfor a space being sore of limb after many marches environing in divers\nlands and sometime venery.\n\nAnd in the castle was set a board that was of the birchwood of Finlandy\nand it was upheld by four dwarfmen of that country but they durst not\nmove more for enchantment. And on this board were frightful swords and\nknives that are made in a great cavern by swinking demons out of white\nflames that they fix then in the horns of buffalos and stags that there\nabound marvellously. And there were vessels that are wrought by magic of\nMahound out of seasand and the air by a warlock with his breath that he\nblases in to them like to bubbles. And full fair cheer and rich was on\nthe board that no wight could devise a fuller ne richer. And there was\na vat of silver that was moved by craft to open in the which lay strange\nfishes withouten heads though misbelieving men nie that this be possible\nthing without they see it natheless they are so. And these fishes lie\nin an oily water brought there from Portugal land because of the fatness\nthat therein is like to the juices of the olivepress. And also it was\na marvel to see in that castle how by magic they make a compost out of\nfecund wheatkidneys out of Chaldee that by aid of certain angry spirits\nthat they do in to it swells up wondrously like to a vast mountain. And\nthey teach the serpents there to entwine themselves up on long sticks\nout of the ground and of the scales of these serpents they brew out a\nbrewage like to mead.\n\nAnd the learning knight let pour for childe Leopold a draught and halp\nthereto the while all they that were there drank every each. And childe\nLeopold did up his beaver for to pleasure him and took apertly somewhat\nin amity for he never drank no manner of mead which he then put by and\nanon full privily he voided the more part in his neighbour glass and\nhis neighbour nist not of this wile. And he sat down in that castle with\nthem for to rest him there awhile. Thanked be Almighty God.\n\nThis meanwhile this good sister stood by the door and begged them at the\nreverence of Jesu our alther liege Lord to leave their wassailing for\nthere was above one quick with child, a gentle dame, whose time hied\nfast. Sir Leopold heard on the upfloor cry on high and he wondered what\ncry that it was whether of child or woman and I marvel, said he, that it\nbe not come or now. Meseems it dureth overlong. And he was ware and saw\na franklin that hight Lenehan on that side the table that was older than\nany of the tother and for that they both were knights virtuous in the\none emprise and eke by cause that he was elder he spoke to him full\ngently. But, said he, or it be long too she will bring forth by God His\nbounty and have joy of her childing for she hath waited marvellous long.\nAnd the franklin that had drunken said, Expecting each moment to be her\nnext. Also he took the cup that stood tofore him for him needed never\nnone asking nor desiring of him to drink and, Now drink, said he, fully\ndelectably, and he quaffed as far as he might to their both's health for\nhe was a passing good man of his lustiness. And sir Leopold that was the\ngoodliest guest that ever sat in scholars' hall and that was the meekest\nman and the kindest that ever laid husbandly hand under hen and that was\nthe very truest knight of the world one that ever did minion service\nto lady gentle pledged him courtly in the cup. Woman's woe with wonder\npondering.\n\nNow let us speak of that fellowship that was there to the intent to be\ndrunken an they might. There was a sort of scholars along either side\nthe board, that is to wit, Dixon yclept junior of saint Mary Merciable's\nwith other his fellows Lynch and Madden, scholars of medicine, and the\nfranklin that hight Lenehan and one from Alba Longa, one Crotthers, and\nyoung Stephen that had mien of a frere that was at head of the board\nand Costello that men clepen Punch Costello all long of a mastery of\nhim erewhile gested (and of all them, reserved young Stephen, he was the\nmost drunken that demanded still of more mead) and beside the meek sir\nLeopold. But on young Malachi they waited for that he promised to have\ncome and such as intended to no goodness said how he had broke his avow.\nAnd sir Leopold sat with them for he bore fast friendship to sir Simon\nand to this his son young Stephen and for that his languor becalmed him\nthere after longest wanderings insomuch as they feasted him for that\ntime in the honourablest manner. Ruth red him, love led on with will to\nwander, loth to leave.\n\nFor they were right witty scholars. And he heard their aresouns each gen\nother as touching birth and righteousness, young Madden maintaining that\nput such case it were hard the wife to die (for so it had fallen out a\nmatter of some year agone with a woman of Eblana in Horne's house that\nnow was trespassed out of this world and the self night next before her\ndeath all leeches and pothecaries had taken counsel of her case). And\nthey said farther she should live because in the beginning, they said,\nthe woman should bring forth in pain and wherefore they that were of\nthis imagination affirmed how young Madden had said truth for he had\nconscience to let her die. And not few and of these was young Lynch\nwere in doubt that the world was now right evil governed as it was never\nother howbeit the mean people believed it otherwise but the law nor his\njudges did provide no remedy. A redress God grant. This was scant said\nbut all cried with one acclaim nay, by our Virgin Mother, the wife\nshould live and the babe to die. In colour whereof they waxed hot\nupon that head what with argument and what for their drinking but the\nfranklin Lenehan was prompt each when to pour them ale so that at the\nleast way mirth might not lack. Then young Madden showed all the whole\naffair and said how that she was dead and how for holy religion sake by\nrede of palmer and bedesman and for a vow he had made to Saint Ultan of\nArbraccan her goodman husband would not let her death whereby they were\nall wondrous grieved. To whom young Stephen had these words following:\nMurmur, sirs, is eke oft among lay folk. Both babe and parent now\nglorify their Maker, the one in limbo gloom, the other in purgefire.\nBut, gramercy, what of those Godpossibled souls that we nightly\nimpossibilise, which is the sin against the Holy Ghost, Very God, Lord\nand Giver of Life? For, sirs, he said, our lust is brief. We are means\nto those small creatures within us and nature has other ends than we.\nThen said Dixon junior to Punch Costello wist he what ends. But he had\novermuch drunken and the best word he could have of him was that he\nwould ever dishonest a woman whoso she were or wife or maid or leman if\nit so fortuned him to be delivered of his spleen of lustihead. Whereat\nCrotthers of Alba Longa sang young Malachi's praise of that beast the\nunicorn how once in the millennium he cometh by his horn, the other all\nthis while, pricked forward with their jibes wherewith they did malice\nhim, witnessing all and several by saint Foutinus his engines that\nhe was able to do any manner of thing that lay in man to do. Thereat\nlaughed they all right jocundly only young Stephen and sir Leopold which\nnever durst laugh too open by reason of a strange humour which he would\nnot bewray and also for that he rued for her that bare whoso she might\nbe or wheresoever. Then spake young Stephen orgulous of mother Church\nthat would cast him out of her bosom, of law of canons, of Lilith,\npatron of abortions, of bigness wrought by wind of seeds of brightness\nor by potency of vampires mouth to mouth or, as Virgilius saith, by the\ninfluence of the occident or by the reek of moonflower or an she lie\nwith a woman which her man has but lain with, _effectu secuto_, or\nperadventure in her bath according to the opinions of Averroes and Moses\nMaimonides. He said also how at the end of the second month a human soul\nwas infused and how in all our holy mother foldeth ever souls for God's\ngreater glory whereas that earthly mother which was but a dam to bear\nbeastly should die by canon for so saith he that holdeth the fisherman's\nseal, even that blessed Peter on which rock was holy church for all ages\nfounded. All they bachelors then asked of sir Leopold would he in like\ncase so jeopard her person as risk life to save life. A wariness of\nmind he would answer as fitted all and, laying hand to jaw, he said\ndissembling, as his wont was, that as it was informed him, who had ever\nloved the art of physic as might a layman, and agreeing also with his\nexperience of so seldomseen an accident it was good for that mother\nChurch belike at one blow had birth and death pence and in such sort\ndeliverly he scaped their questions. That is truth, pardy, said Dixon,\nand, or I err, a pregnant word. Which hearing young Stephen was a\nmarvellous glad man and he averred that he who stealeth from the poor\nlendeth to the Lord for he was of a wild manner when he was drunken and\nthat he was now in that taking it appeared eftsoons.\n\nBut sir Leopold was passing grave maugre his word by cause he still had\npity of the terrorcausing shrieking of shrill women in their labour\nand as he was minded of his good lady Marion that had borne him an only\nmanchild which on his eleventh day on live had died and no man of art\ncould save so dark is destiny. And she was wondrous stricken of heart\nfor that evil hap and for his burial did him on a fair corselet of\nlamb's wool, the flower of the flock, lest he might perish utterly and\nlie akeled (for it was then about the midst of the winter) and now Sir\nLeopold that had of his body no manchild for an heir looked upon him his\nfriend's son and was shut up in sorrow for his forepassed happiness and\nas sad as he was that him failed a son of such gentle courage (for all\naccounted him of real parts) so grieved he also in no less measure\nfor young Stephen for that he lived riotously with those wastrels and\nmurdered his goods with whores.\n\nAbout that present time young Stephen filled all cups that stood empty\nso as there remained but little mo if the prudenter had not shadowed\ntheir approach from him that still plied it very busily who, praying for\nthe intentions of the sovereign pontiff, he gave them for a pledge the\nvicar of Christ which also as he said is vicar of Bray. Now drink we,\nquod he, of this mazer and quaff ye this mead which is not indeed parcel\nof my body but my soul's bodiment. Leave ye fraction of bread to them\nthat live by bread alone. Be not afeard neither for any want for this\nwill comfort more than the other will dismay. See ye here. And he showed\nthem glistering coins of the tribute and goldsmith notes the worth of\ntwo pound nineteen shilling that he had, he said, for a song which he\nwrit. They all admired to see the foresaid riches in such dearth of\nmoney as was herebefore. His words were then these as followeth: Know\nall men, he said, time's ruins build eternity's mansions. What means\nthis? Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a\nbramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time. Mark me now. In woman's\nwomb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh\nthat passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the\npostcreation. _Omnis caro ad te veniet_. No question but her name is\npuissant who aventried the dear corse of our Agenbuyer, Healer and Herd,\nour mighty mother and mother most venerable and Bernardus saith aptly\nthat She hath an _omnipotentiam deiparae supplicem_, that is to wit, an\nalmightiness of petition because she is the second Eve and she won\nus, saith Augustine too, whereas that other, our grandam, which we are\nlinked up with by successive anastomosis of navelcords sold us all,\nseed, breed and generation, for a penny pippin. But here is the matter\nnow. Or she knew him, that second I say, and was but creature of her\ncreature, _vergine madre, figlia di tuo figlio_, or she knew him not and\nthen stands she in the one denial or ignorancy with Peter Piscator who\nlives in the house that Jack built and with Joseph the joiner patron of\nthe happy demise of all unhappy marriages, _parceque M. Léo Taxil nous\na dit que qui l'avait mise dans cette fichue position c'était le\nsacre pigeon, ventre de Dieu! Entweder_ transubstantiality ODER\nconsubstantiality but in no case subsubstantiality. And all cried out\nupon it for a very scurvy word. A pregnancy without joy, he said, a\nbirth without pangs, a body without blemish, a belly without bigness.\nLet the lewd with faith and fervour worship. With will will we\nwithstand, withsay.\n\nHereupon Punch Costello dinged with his fist upon the board and would\nsing a bawdy catch _Staboo Stabella_ about a wench that was put in pod\nof a jolly swashbuckler in Almany which he did straightways now attack:\n_The first three months she was not well, Staboo,_ when here nurse\nQuigley from the door angerly bid them hist ye should shame you nor\nwas it not meet as she remembered them being her mind was to have all\norderly against lord Andrew came for because she was jealous that\nno gasteful turmoil might shorten the honour of her guard. It was an\nancient and a sad matron of a sedate look and christian walking,\nin habit dun beseeming her megrims and wrinkled visage, nor did her\nhortative want of it effect for incontinently Punch Costello was of them\nall embraided and they reclaimed the churl with civil rudeness some and\nshaked him with menace of blandishments others whiles they all chode\nwith him, a murrain seize the dolt, what a devil he would be at, thou\nchuff, thou puny, thou got in peasestraw, thou losel, thou chitterling,\nthou spawn of a rebel, thou dykedropt, thou abortion thou, to shut up\nhis drunken drool out of that like a curse of God ape, the good sir\nLeopold that had for his cognisance the flower of quiet, margerain\ngentle, advising also the time's occasion as most sacred and most worthy\nto be most sacred. In Horne's house rest should reign.\n\nTo be short this passage was scarce by when Master Dixon of Mary in\nEccles, goodly grinning, asked young Stephen what was the reason why he\nhad not cided to take friar's vows and he answered him obedience in the\nwomb, chastity in the tomb but involuntary poverty all his days. Master\nLenehan at this made return that he had heard of those nefarious deeds\nand how, as he heard hereof counted, he had besmirched the lily virtue\nof a confiding female which was corruption of minors and they all\nintershowed it too, waxing merry and toasting to his fathership. But he\nsaid very entirely it was clean contrary to their suppose for he was\nthe eternal son and ever virgin. Thereat mirth grew in them the more and\nthey rehearsed to him his curious rite of wedlock for the disrobing and\ndeflowering of spouses, as the priests use in Madagascar island, she\nto be in guise of white and saffron, her groom in white and grain, with\nburning of nard and tapers, on a bridebed while clerks sung kyries and\nthe anthem _Ut novetur sexus omnis corporis mysterium_ till she was\nthere unmaided. He gave them then a much admirable hymen minim by those\ndelicate poets Master John Fletcher and Master Francis Beaumont that is\nin their _Maid's Tragedy_ that was writ for a like twining of lovers:\n_To bed, to bed_ was the burden of it to be played with accompanable\nconcent upon the virginals. An exquisite dulcet epithalame of most\nmollificative suadency for juveniles amatory whom the odoriferous\nflambeaus of the paranymphs have escorted to the quadrupedal proscenium\nof connubial communion. Well met they were, said Master Dixon, joyed,\nbut, harkee, young sir, better were they named Beau Mount and Lecher\nfor, by my troth, of such a mingling much might come. Young Stephen said\nindeed to his best remembrance they had but the one doxy between them\nand she of the stews to make shift with in delights amorous for life ran\nvery high in those days and the custom of the country approved with it.\nGreater love than this, he said, no man hath that a man lay down his\nwife for his friend. Go thou and do likewise. Thus, or words to that\neffect, saith Zarathustra, sometime regius professor of French letters\nto the university of Oxtail nor breathed there ever that man to whom\nmankind was more beholden. Bring a stranger within thy tower it will\ngo hard but thou wilt have the secondbest bed. _Orate, fratres, pro\nmemetipso_. And all the people shall say, Amen. Remember, Erin, thy\ngenerations and thy days of old, how thou settedst little by me and by\nmy word and broughtedst in a stranger to my gates to commit fornication\nin my sight and to wax fat and kick like Jeshurum. Therefore hast thou\nsinned against my light and hast made me, thy lord, to be the slave of\nservants. Return, return, Clan Milly: forget me not, O Milesian. Why\nhast thou done this abomination before me that thou didst spurn me for\na merchant of jalaps and didst deny me to the Roman and to the Indian of\ndark speech with whom thy daughters did lie luxuriously? Look forth now,\nmy people, upon the land of behest, even from Horeb and from Nebo and\nfrom Pisgah and from the Horns of Hatten unto a land flowing with milk\nand money. But thou hast suckled me with a bitter milk: my moon and my\nsun thou hast quenched for ever. And thou hast left me alone for ever\nin the dark ways of my bitterness: and with a kiss of ashes hast thou\nkissed my mouth. This tenebrosity of the interior, he proceeded to say,\nhath not been illumined by the wit of the septuagint nor so much as\nmentioned for the Orient from on high Which brake hell's gates visited a\ndarkness that was foraneous. Assuefaction minorates atrocities (as Tully\nsaith of his darling Stoics) and Hamlet his father showeth the prince no\nblister of combustion. The adiaphane in the noon of life is an Egypt's\nplague which in the nights of prenativity and postmortemity is their\nmost proper _ubi_ and _quomodo_. And as the ends and ultimates of\nall things accord in some mean and measure with their inceptions and\noriginals, that same multiplicit concordance which leads forth growth\nfrom birth accomplishing by a retrogressive metamorphosis that minishing\nand ablation towards the final which is agreeable unto nature so is it\nwith our subsolar being. The aged sisters draw us into life: we wail,\nbatten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder, dwindle, die: over us dead they\nbend. First, saved from waters of old Nile, among bulrushes, a bed\nof fasciated wattles: at last the cavity of a mountain, an occulted\nsepulchre amid the conclamation of the hillcat and the ossifrage. And as\nno man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shall\nthereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or to Edenville in the like way\nis all hidden when we would backward see from what region of remoteness\nthe whatness of our whoness hath fetched his whenceness.\n\nThereto Punch Costello roared out mainly _Etienne chanson_ but he loudly\nbid them, lo, wisdom hath built herself a house, this vast majestic\nlongstablished vault, the crystal palace of the Creator, all in applepie\norder, a penny for him who finds the pea.\n\n     _Behold the mansion reared by dedal Jack\n     See the malt stored in many a refluent sack,\n     In the proud cirque of Jackjohn's bivouac._\n\nA black crack of noise in the street here, alack, bawled back. Loud on\nleft Thor thundered: in anger awful the hammerhurler. Came now the storm\nthat hist his heart. And Master Lynch bade him have a care to flout and\nwitwanton as the god self was angered for his hellprate and paganry. And\nhe that had erst challenged to be so doughty waxed wan as they might all\nmark and shrank together and his pitch that was before so haught uplift\nwas now of a sudden quite plucked down and his heart shook within the\ncage of his breast as he tasted the rumour of that storm. Then did some\nmock and some jeer and Punch Costello fell hard again to his yale which\nMaster Lenehan vowed he would do after and he was indeed but a word and\na blow on any the least colour. But the braggart boaster cried that an\nold Nobodaddy was in his cups it was muchwhat indifferent and he would\nnot lag behind his lead. But this was only to dye his desperation as\ncowed he crouched in Horne's hall. He drank indeed at one draught to\npluck up a heart of any grace for it thundered long rumblingly over all\nthe heavens so that Master Madden, being godly certain whiles, knocked\nhim on his ribs upon that crack of doom and Master Bloom, at the\nbraggart's side, spoke to him calming words to slumber his great fear,\nadvertising how it was no other thing but a hubbub noise that he heard,\nthe discharge of fluid from the thunderhead, look you, having taken\nplace, and all of the order of a natural phenomenon.\n\nBut was young Boasthard's fear vanquished by Calmer's words? No, for he\nhad in his bosom a spike named Bitterness which could not by words be\ndone away. And was he then neither calm like the one nor godly like the\nother? He was neither as much as he would have liked to be either. But\ncould he not have endeavoured to have found again as in his youth the\nbottle Holiness that then he lived withal? Indeed no for Grace was not\nthere to find that bottle. Heard he then in that clap the voice of the\ngod Bringforth or, what Calmer said, a hubbub of Phenomenon? Heard?\nWhy, he could not but hear unless he had plugged him up the tube\nUnderstanding (which he had not done). For through that tube he saw that\nhe was in the land of Phenomenon where he must for a certain one day die\nas he was like the rest too a passing show. And would he not accept to\ndie like the rest and pass away? By no means would he though he must nor\nwould he make more shows according as men do with wives which Phenomenon\nhas commanded them to do by the book Law. Then wotted he nought of that\nother land which is called Believe-on-Me, that is the land of promise\nwhich behoves to the king Delightful and shall be for ever where there\nis no death and no birth neither wiving nor mothering at which all shall\ncome as many as believe on it? Yes, Pious had told him of that land and\nChaste had pointed him to the way but the reason was that in the way he\nfell in with a certain whore of an eyepleasing exterior whose name, she\nsaid, is Bird-in-the-Hand and she beguiled him wrongways from the true\npath by her flatteries that she said to him as, Ho, you pretty man, turn\naside hither and I will show you a brave place, and she lay at him so\nflatteringly that she had him in her grot which is named Two-in-the-Bush\nor, by some learned, Carnal Concupiscence.\n\nThis was it what all that company that sat there at commons in Manse\nof Mothers the most lusted after and if they met with this whore\nBird-in-the-Hand (which was within all foul plagues, monsters and a\nwicked devil) they would strain the last but they would make at her and\nknow her. For regarding Believe-on-Me they said it was nought else\nbut notion and they could conceive no thought of it for, first,\nTwo-in-the-Bush whither she ticed them was the very goodliest grot and\nin it were four pillows on which were four tickets with these words\nprinted on them, Pickaback and Topsyturvy and Shameface and Cheek by\nJowl and, second, for that foul plague Allpox and the monsters they\ncared not for them for Preservative had given them a stout shield of\noxengut and, third, that they might take no hurt neither from Offspring\nthat was that wicked devil by virtue of this same shield which was\nnamed Killchild. So were they all in their blind fancy, Mr Cavil and Mr\nSometimes Godly, Mr Ape Swillale, Mr False Franklin, Mr Dainty Dixon,\nYoung Boasthard and Mr Cautious Calmer. Wherein, O wretched company,\nwere ye all deceived for that was the voice of the god that was in a\nvery grievous rage that he would presently lift his arm up and\nspill their souls for their abuses and their spillings done by them\ncontrariwise to his word which forth to bring brenningly biddeth.\n\nSo Thursday sixteenth June Patk. Dignam laid in clay of an apoplexy and\nafter hard drought, please God, rained, a bargeman coming in by water a\nfifty mile or thereabout with turf saying the seed won't sprout, fields\nathirst, very sadcoloured and stunk mightily, the quags and tofts too.\nHard to breathe and all the young quicks clean consumed without sprinkle\nthis long while back as no man remembered to be without. The rosy buds\nall gone brown and spread out blobs and on the hills nought but dry flag\nand faggots that would catch at first fire. All the world saying, for\naught they knew, the big wind of last February a year that did havoc the\nland so pitifully a small thing beside this barrenness. But by and\nby, as said, this evening after sundown, the wind sitting in the\nwest, biggish swollen clouds to be seen as the night increased and the\nweatherwise poring up at them and some sheet lightnings at first and\nafter, past ten of the clock, one great stroke with a long thunder and\nin a brace of shakes all scamper pellmell within door for the smoking\nshower, the men making shelter for their straws with a clout or\nkerchief, womenfolk skipping off with kirtles catched up soon as the\npour came. In Ely place, Baggot street, Duke's lawn, thence through\nMerrion green up to Holles street a swash of water flowing that was\nbefore bonedry and not one chair or coach or fiacre seen about but\nno more crack after that first. Over against the Rt. Hon. Mr Justice\nFitzgibbon's door (that is to sit with Mr Healy the lawyer upon the\ncollege lands) Mal. Mulligan a gentleman's gentleman that had but come\nfrom Mr Moore's the writer's (that was a papish but is now, folk say,\na good Williamite) chanced against Alec. Bannon in a cut bob (which are\nnow in with dance cloaks of Kendal green) that was new got to town from\nMullingar with the stage where his coz and Mal M's brother will stay a\nmonth yet till Saint Swithin and asks what in the earth he does there,\nhe bound home and he to Andrew Horne's being stayed for to crush a cup\nof wine, so he said, but would tell him of a skittish heifer, big of\nher age and beef to the heel, and all this while poured with rain and\nso both together on to Horne's. There Leop. Bloom of Crawford's journal\nsitting snug with a covey of wags, likely brangling fellows, Dixon jun.,\nscholar of my lady of Mercy's, Vin. Lynch, a Scots fellow, Will. Madden,\nT. Lenehan, very sad about a racer he fancied and Stephen D. Leop. Bloom\nthere for a languor he had but was now better, be having dreamed tonight\na strange fancy of his dame Mrs Moll with red slippers on in a pair of\nTurkey trunks which is thought by those in ken to be for a change and\nMistress Purefoy there, that got in through pleading her belly, and now\non the stools, poor body, two days past her term, the midwives sore put\nto it and can't deliver, she queasy for a bowl of riceslop that is a\nshrewd drier up of the insides and her breath very heavy more than good\nand should be a bullyboy from the knocks, they say, but God give her\nsoon issue. 'Tis her ninth chick to live, I hear, and Lady day bit off\nher last chick's nails that was then a twelvemonth and with other three\nall breastfed that died written out in a fair hand in the king's bible.\nHer hub fifty odd and a methodist but takes the sacrament and is to\nbe seen any fair sabbath with a pair of his boys off Bullock harbour\ndapping on the sound with a heavybraked reel or in a punt he has\ntrailing for flounder and pollock and catches a fine bag, I hear. In sum\nan infinite great fall of rain and all refreshed and will much increase\nthe harvest yet those in ken say after wind and water fire shall come\nfor a prognostication of Malachi's almanac (and I hear that Mr Russell\nhas done a prophetical charm of the same gist out of the Hindustanish\nfor his farmer's gazette) to have three things in all but this a mere\nfetch without bottom of reason for old crones and bairns yet sometimes\nthey are found in the right guess with their queerities no telling how.\n\nWith this came up Lenehan to the feet of the table to say how the letter\nwas in that night's gazette and he made a show to find it about him\n(for he swore with an oath that he had been at pains about it) but on\nStephen's persuasion he gave over the search and was bidden to sit near\nby which he did mighty brisk. He was a kind of sport gentleman that\nwent for a merryandrew or honest pickle and what belonged of women,\nhorseflesh or hot scandal he had it pat. To tell the truth he was mean\nin fortunes and for the most part hankered about the coffeehouses\nand low taverns with crimps, ostlers, bookies, Paul's men, runners,\nflatcaps, waistcoateers, ladies of the bagnio and other rogues of the\ngame or with a chanceable catchpole or a tipstaff often at nights\ntill broad day of whom he picked up between his sackpossets much loose\ngossip. He took his ordinary at a boilingcook's and if he had but gotten\ninto him a mess of broken victuals or a platter of tripes with a bare\ntester in his purse he could always bring himself off with his tongue,\nsome randy quip he had from a punk or whatnot that every mother's son of\nthem would burst their sides. The other, Costello that is, hearing this\ntalk asked was it poetry or a tale. Faith, no, he says, Frank (that was\nhis name), 'tis all about Kerry cows that are to be butchered along of\nthe plague. But they can go hang, says he with a wink, for me with their\nbully beef, a pox on it. There's as good fish in this tin as ever came\nout of it and very friendly he offered to take of some salty sprats that\nstood by which he had eyed wishly in the meantime and found the place\nwhich was indeed the chief design of his embassy as he was sharpset.\n_Mort aux vaches_, says Frank then in the French language that had been\nindentured to a brandyshipper that has a winelodge in Bordeaux and he\nspoke French like a gentleman too. From a child this Frank had been\na donought that his father, a headborough, who could ill keep him to\nschool to learn his letters and the use of the globes, matriculated at\nthe university to study the mechanics but he took the bit between his\nteeth like a raw colt and was more familiar with the justiciary and the\nparish beadle than with his volumes. One time he would be a playactor,\nthen a sutler or a welsher, then nought would keep him from the bearpit\nand the cocking main, then he was for the ocean sea or to hoof it on\nthe roads with the romany folk, kidnapping a squire's heir by favour of\nmoonlight or fecking maids' linen or choking chicken behind a hedge. He\nhad been off as many times as a cat has lives and back again with naked\npockets as many more to his father the headborough who shed a pint\nof tears as often as he saw him. What, says Mr Leopold with his hands\nacross, that was earnest to know the drift of it, will they slaughter\nall? I protest I saw them but this day morning going to the Liverpool\nboats, says he. I can scarce believe 'tis so bad, says he. And he had\nexperience of the like brood beasts and of springers, greasy hoggets and\nwether wool, having been some years before actuary for Mr Joseph Cuffe,\na worthy salesmaster that drove his trade for live stock and meadow\nauctions hard by Mr Gavin Low's yard in Prussia street. I question with\nyou there, says he. More like 'tis the hoose or the timber tongue. Mr\nStephen, a little moved but very handsomely told him no such matter and\nthat he had dispatches from the emperor's chief tailtickler thanking\nhim for the hospitality, that was sending over Doctor Rinderpest, the\nbestquoted cowcatcher in all Muscovy, with a bolus or two of physic to\ntake the bull by the horns. Come, come, says Mr Vincent, plain dealing.\nHe'll find himself on the horns of a dilemma if he meddles with a\nbull that's Irish, says he. Irish by name and irish by nature, says Mr\nStephen, and he sent the ale purling about, an Irish bull in an English\nchinashop. I conceive you, says Mr Dixon. It is that same bull that was\nsent to our island by farmer Nicholas, the bravest cattlebreeder of them\nall, with an emerald ring in his nose. True for you, says Mr Vincent\ncross the table, and a bullseye into the bargain, says he, and a plumper\nand a portlier bull, says he, never shit on shamrock. He had horns\ngalore, a coat of cloth of gold and a sweet smoky breath coming out of\nhis nostrils so that the women of our island, leaving doughballs and\nrollingpins, followed after him hanging his bulliness in daisychains.\nWhat for that, says Mr Dixon, but before he came over farmer Nicholas\nthat was a eunuch had him properly gelded by a college of doctors who\nwere no better off than himself. So be off now, says he, and do all my\ncousin german the lord Harry tells you and take a farmer's blessing, and\nwith that he slapped his posteriors very soundly. But the slap and the\nblessing stood him friend, says Mr Vincent, for to make up he taught him\na trick worth two of the other so that maid, wife, abbess and widow to\nthis day affirm that they would rather any time of the month whisper\nin his ear in the dark of a cowhouse or get a lick on the nape from his\nlong holy tongue than lie with the finest strapping young ravisher in\nthe four fields of all Ireland. Another then put in his word: And they\ndressed him, says he, in a point shift and petticoat with a tippet and\ngirdle and ruffles on his wrists and clipped his forelock and rubbed him\nall over with spermacetic oil and built stables for him at every turn of\nthe road with a gold manger in each full of the best hay in the market\nso that he could doss and dung to his heart's content. By this time the\nfather of the faithful (for so they called him) was grown so heavy that\nhe could scarce walk to pasture. To remedy which our cozening dames and\ndamsels brought him his fodder in their apronlaps and as soon as his\nbelly was full he would rear up on his hind uarters to show their\nladyships a mystery and roar and bellow out of him in bulls' language\nand they all after him. Ay, says another, and so pampered was he that he\nwould suffer nought to grow in all the land but green grass for himself\n(for that was the only colour to his mind) and there was a board put up\non a hillock in the middle of the island with a printed notice, saying:\nBy the Lord Harry, Green is the grass that grows on the ground. And,\nsays Mr Dixon, if ever he got scent of a cattleraider in Roscommon or\nthe wilds of Connemara or a husbandman in Sligo that was sowing as much\nas a handful of mustard or a bag of rapeseed out he'd run amok over half\nthe countryside rooting up with his horns whatever was planted and all\nby lord Harry's orders. There was bad blood between them at first, says\nMr Vincent, and the lord Harry called farmer Nicholas all the old Nicks\nin the world and an old whoremaster that kept seven trulls in his house\nand I'll meddle in his matters, says he. I'll make that animal smell\nhell, says he, with the help of that good pizzle my father left me. But\none evening, says Mr Dixon, when the lord Harry was cleaning his royal\npelt to go to dinner after winning a boatrace (he had spade oars for\nhimself but the first rule of the course was that the others were to row\nwith pitchforks) he discovered in himself a wonderful likeness to a bull\nand on picking up a blackthumbed chapbook that he kept in the pantry\nhe found sure enough that he was a lefthanded descendant of the famous\nchampion bull of the Romans, _Bos Bovum_, which is good bog Latin for\nboss of the show. After that, says Mr Vincent, the lord Harry put his\nhead into a cow's drinkingtrough in the presence of all his courtiers\nand pulling it out again told them all his new name. Then, with the\nwater running off him, he got into an old smock and skirt that had\nbelonged to his grandmother and bought a grammar of the bulls' language\nto study but he could never learn a word of it except the first personal\npronoun which he copied out big and got off by heart and if ever he went\nout for a walk he filled his pockets with chalk to write it upon what\ntook his fancy, the side of a rock or a teahouse table or a bale of\ncotton or a corkfloat. In short, he and the bull of Ireland were soon as\nfast friends as an arse and a shirt. They were, says Mr Stephen, and\nthe end was that the men of the island seeing no help was toward, as\nthe ungrate women were all of one mind, made a wherry raft, loaded\nthemselves and their bundles of chattels on shipboard, set all masts\nerect, manned the yards, sprang their luff, heaved to, spread three\nsheets in the wind, put her head between wind and water, weighed anchor,\nported her helm, ran up the jolly Roger, gave three times three, let the\nbullgine run, pushed off in their bumboat and put to sea to recover\nthe main of America. Which was the occasion, says Mr Vincent, of the\ncomposing by a boatswain of that rollicking chanty:\n\n     _--Pope Peter's but a pissabed.\n     A man's a man for a' that._\n\nOur worthy acquaintance Mr Malachi Mulligan now appeared in the doorway\nas the students were finishing their apologue accompanied with a friend\nwhom he had just rencountered, a young gentleman, his name Alec Bannon,\nwho had late come to town, it being his intention to buy a colour or a\ncornetcy in the fencibles and list for the wars. Mr Mulligan was civil\nenough to express some relish of it all the more as it jumped with a\nproject of his own for the cure of the very evil that had been touched\non. Whereat he handed round to the company a set of pasteboard cards\nwhich he had had printed that day at Mr Quinnell's bearing a legend\nprinted in fair italics: _Mr Malachi Mulligan. Fertiliser and Incubator.\nLambay Island_. His project, as he went on to expound, was to withdraw\nfrom the round of idle pleasures such as form the chief business of sir\nFopling Popinjay and sir Milksop Quidnunc in town and to devote himself\nto the noblest task for which our bodily organism has been framed. Well,\nlet us hear of it, good my friend, said Mr Dixon. I make no doubt it\nsmacks of wenching. Come, be seated, both. 'Tis as cheap sitting as\nstanding. Mr Mulligan accepted of the invitation and, expatiating upon\nhis design, told his hearers that he had been led into this thought by\na consideration of the causes of sterility, both the inhibitory and the\nprohibitory, whether the inhibition in its turn were due to conjugal\nvexations or to a parsimony of the balance as well as whether the\nprohibition proceeded from defects congenital or from proclivities\nacquired. It grieved him plaguily, he said, to see the nuptial couch\ndefrauded of its dearest pledges: and to reflect upon so many agreeable\nfemales with rich jointures, a prey to the vilest bonzes, who hide their\nflambeau under a bushel in an uncongenial cloister or lose their womanly\nbloom in the embraces of some unaccountable muskin when they might\nmultiply the inlets of happiness, sacrificing the inestimable jewel of\ntheir sex when a hundred pretty fellows were at hand to caress, this, he\nassured them, made his heart weep. To curb this inconvenient (which\nhe concluded due to a suppression of latent heat), having advised with\ncertain counsellors of worth and inspected into this matter, he had\nresolved to purchase in fee simple for ever the freehold of Lambay\nisland from its holder, lord Talbot de Malahide, a Tory gentleman of\nnote much in favour with our ascendancy party. He proposed to set up\nthere a national fertilising farm to be named _Omphalos_ with an obelisk\nhewn and erected after the fashion of Egypt and to offer his dutiful\nyeoman services for the fecundation of any female of what grade of life\nsoever who should there direct to him with the desire of fulfilling the\nfunctions of her natural. Money was no object, he said, nor would he\ntake a penny for his pains. The poorest kitchenwench no less than the\nopulent lady of fashion, if so be their constructions and their tempers\nwere warm persuaders for their petitions, would find in him their man.\nFor his nutriment he shewed how he would feed himself exclusively upon a\ndiet of savoury tubercles and fish and coneys there, the flesh of these\nlatter prolific rodents being highly recommended for his purpose, both\nbroiled and stewed with a blade of mace and a pod or two of capsicum\nchillies. After this homily which he delivered with much warmth of\nasseveration Mr Mulligan in a trice put off from his hat a kerchief with\nwhich he had shielded it. They both, it seems, had been overtaken by the\nrain and for all their mending their pace had taken water, as might be\nobserved by Mr Mulligan's smallclothes of a hodden grey which was now\nsomewhat piebald. His project meanwhile was very favourably entertained\nby his auditors and won hearty eulogies from all though Mr Dixon of\nMary's excepted to it, asking with a finicking air did he purpose also\nto carry coals to Newcastle. Mr Mulligan however made court to the\nscholarly by an apt quotation from the classics which, as it dwelt\nupon his memory, seemed to him a sound and tasteful support of his\ncontention: _Talis ac tanta depravatio hujus seculi, O quirites,\nut matresfamiliarum nostrae lascivas cujuslibet semiviri libici\ntitillationes testibus ponderosis atque excelsis erectionibus\ncenturionum Romanorum magnopere anteponunt_, while for those of ruder\nwit he drove home his point by analogies of the animal kingdom more\nsuitable to their stomach, the buck and doe of the forest glade, the\nfarmyard drake and duck.\n\nValuing himself not a little upon his elegance, being indeed a proper\nman of person, this talkative now applied himself to his dress with\nanimadversions of some heat upon the sudden whimsy of the atmospherics\nwhile the company lavished their encomiums upon the project he had\nadvanced. The young gentleman, his friend, overjoyed as he was at a\npassage that had late befallen him, could not forbear to tell it his\nnearest neighbour. Mr Mulligan, now perceiving the table, asked for whom\nwere those loaves and fishes and, seeing the stranger, he made him\na civil bow and said, Pray, sir, was you in need of any professional\nassistance we could give? Who, upon his offer, thanked him very\nheartily, though preserving his proper distance, and replied that he was\ncome there about a lady, now an inmate of Horne's house, that was in an\ninteresting condition, poor body, from woman's woe (and here he fetched\na deep sigh) to know if her happiness had yet taken place. Mr Dixon,\nto turn the table, took on to ask of Mr Mulligan himself whether\nhis incipient ventripotence, upon which he rallied him, betokened an\novoblastic gestation in the prostatic utricle or male womb or was due,\nas with the noted physician, Mr Austin Meldon, to a wolf in the stomach.\nFor answer Mr Mulligan, in a gale of laughter at his smalls, smote\nhimself bravely below the diaphragm, exclaiming with an admirable droll\nmimic of Mother Grogan (the most excellent creature of her sex though\n'tis pity she's a trollop): There's a belly that never bore a bastard.\nThis was so happy a conceit that it renewed the storm of mirth and threw\nthe whole room into the most violent agitations of delight. The spry\nrattle had run on in the same vein of mimicry but for some larum in the\nantechamber.\n\nHere the listener who was none other than the Scotch student, a little\nfume of a fellow, blond as tow, congratulated in the liveliest fashion\nwith the young gentleman and, interrupting the narrative at a salient\npoint, having desired his visavis with a polite beck to have the\nobligingness to pass him a flagon of cordial waters at the same time by\na questioning poise of the head (a whole century of polite breeding had\nnot achieved so nice a gesture) to which was united an equivalent but\ncontrary balance of the bottle asked the narrator as plainly as was ever\ndone in words if he might treat him with a cup of it. _Mais bien sûr_,\nnoble stranger, said he cheerily, _et mille compliments_. That you may\nand very opportunely. There wanted nothing but this cup to crown my\nfelicity. But, gracious heaven, was I left with but a crust in my wallet\nand a cupful of water from the well, my God, I would accept of them and\nfind it in my heart to kneel down upon the ground and give thanks to\nthe powers above for the happiness vouchsafed me by the Giver of good\nthings. With these words he approached the goblet to his lips, took a\ncomplacent draught of the cordial, slicked his hair and, opening his\nbosom, out popped a locket that hung from a silk riband, that very\npicture which he had cherished ever since her hand had wrote therein.\nGazing upon those features with a world of tenderness, Ah, Monsieur, he\nsaid, had you but beheld her as I did with these eyes at that affecting\ninstant with her dainty tucker and her new coquette cap (a gift for her\nfeastday as she told me prettily) in such an artless disorder, of so\nmelting a tenderness, 'pon my conscience, even you, Monsieur, had been\nimpelled by generous nature to deliver yourself wholly into the hands of\nsuch an enemy or to quit the field for ever. I declare, I was never so\ntouched in all my life. God, I thank thee, as the Author of my days!\nThrice happy will he be whom so amiable a creature will bless with her\nfavours. A sigh of affection gave eloquence to these words and, having\nreplaced the locket in his bosom, he wiped his eye and sighed again.\nBeneficent Disseminator of blessings to all Thy creatures, how great\nand universal must be that sweetest of Thy tyrannies which can hold in\nthrall the free and the bond, the simple swain and the polished coxcomb,\nthe lover in the heyday of reckless passion and the husband of maturer\nyears. But indeed, sir, I wander from the point. How mingled and\nimperfect are all our sublunary joys. Maledicity! he exclaimed in\nanguish. Would to God that foresight had but remembered me to take my\ncloak along! I could weep to think of it. Then, though it had poured\nseven showers, we were neither of us a penny the worse. But beshrew me,\nhe cried, clapping hand to his forehead, tomorrow will be a new day and,\nthousand thunders, I know of a _marchand de capotes_, Monsieur Poyntz,\nfrom whom I can have for a livre as snug a cloak of the French fashion\nas ever kept a lady from wetting. Tut, tut! cries Le Fecondateur,\ntripping in, my friend Monsieur Moore, that most accomplished traveller\n(I have just cracked a half bottle AVEC LUI in a circle of the best wits\nof the town), is my authority that in Cape Horn, _ventre biche_, they\nhave a rain that will wet through any, even the stoutest cloak. A\ndrenching of that violence, he tells me, _sans blague_, has sent more\nthan one luckless fellow in good earnest posthaste to another world.\nPooh! A _livre!_ cries Monsieur Lynch. The clumsy things are dear at a\nsou. One umbrella, were it no bigger than a fairy mushroom, is worth ten\nsuch stopgaps. No woman of any wit would wear one. My dear Kitty told me\ntoday that she would dance in a deluge before ever she would starve in\nsuch an ark of salvation for, as she reminded me (blushing piquantly and\nwhispering in my ear though there was none to snap her words but giddy\nbutterflies), dame Nature, by the divine blessing, has implanted it in\nour hearts and it has become a household word that _il y a deux choses_\nfor which the innocence of our original garb, in other circumstances a\nbreach of the proprieties, is the fittest, nay, the only garment. The\nfirst, said she (and here my pretty philosopher, as I handed her to her\ntilbury, to fix my attention, gently tipped with her tongue the outer\nchamber of my ear), the first is a bath... But at this point a bell\ntinkling in the hall cut short a discourse which promised so bravely for\nthe enrichment of our store of knowledge.\n\nAmid the general vacant hilarity of the assembly a bell rang and, while\nall were conjecturing what might be the cause, Miss Callan entered and,\nhaving spoken a few words in a low tone to young Mr Dixon, retired with\na profound bow to the company. The presence even for a moment among a\nparty of debauchees of a woman endued with every quality of modesty and\nnot less severe than beautiful refrained the humourous sallies even of\nthe most licentious but her departure was the signal for an outbreak of\nribaldry. Strike me silly, said Costello, a low fellow who was fuddled.\nA monstrous fine bit of cowflesh! I'll be sworn she has rendezvoused\nyou. What, you dog? Have you a way with them? Gad's bud, immensely\nso, said Mr Lynch. The bedside manner it is that they use in the Mater\nhospice. Demme, does not Doctor O'Gargle chuck the nuns there under the\nchin. As I look to be saved I had it from my Kitty who has been wardmaid\nthere any time these seven months. Lawksamercy, doctor, cried the young\nblood in the primrose vest, feigning a womanish simper and with immodest\nsquirmings of his body, how you do tease a body! Drat the man! Bless\nme, I'm all of a wibbly wobbly. Why, you're as bad as dear little Father\nCantekissem, that you are! May this pot of four half choke me, cried\nCostello, if she aint in the family way. I knows a lady what's got a\nwhite swelling quick as I claps eyes on her. The young surgeon, however,\nrose and begged the company to excuse his retreat as the nurse had just\nthen informed him that he was needed in the ward. Merciful providence\nhad been pleased to put a period to the sufferings of the lady who was\n_enceinte_ which she had borne with a laudable fortitude and she had\ngiven birth to a bouncing boy. I want patience, said he, with those\nwho, without wit to enliven or learning to instruct, revile an ennobling\nprofession which, saving the reverence due to the Deity, is the greatest\npower for happiness upon the earth. I am positive when I say that if\nneed were I could produce a cloud of witnesses to the excellence of\nher noble exercitations which, so far from being a byword, should be a\nglorious incentive in the human breast. I cannot away with them. What?\nMalign such an one, the amiable Miss Callan, who is the lustre of\nher own sex and the astonishment of ours? And at an instant the most\nmomentous that can befall a puny child of clay? Perish the thought! I\nshudder to think of the future of a race where the seeds of such malice\nhave been sown and where no right reverence is rendered to mother and\nmaid in house of Horne. Having delivered himself of this rebuke he\nsaluted those present on the by and repaired to the door. A murmur\nof approval arose from all and some were for ejecting the low soaker\nwithout more ado, a design which would have been effected nor would\nhe have received more than his bare deserts had he not abridged his\ntransgression by affirming with a horrid imprecation (for he swore a\nround hand) that he was as good a son of the true fold as ever drew\nbreath. Stap my vitals, said he, them was always the sentiments of\nhonest Frank Costello which I was bred up most particular to honour thy\nfather and thy mother that had the best hand to a rolypoly or a hasty\npudding as you ever see what I always looks back on with a loving heart.\n\nTo revert to Mr Bloom who, after his first entry, had been conscious of\nsome impudent mocks which he however had borne with as being the fruits\nof that age upon which it is commonly charged that it knows not\npity. The young sparks, it is true, were as full of extravagancies\nas overgrown children: the words of their tumultuary discussions\nwere difficultly understood and not often nice: their testiness and\noutrageous _mots_ were such that his intellects resiled from: nor were\nthey scrupulously sensible of the proprieties though their fund of\nstrong animal spirits spoke in their behalf. But the word of Mr Costello\nwas an unwelcome language for him for he nauseated the wretch that\nseemed to him a cropeared creature of a misshapen gibbosity, born out\nof wedlock and thrust like a crookback toothed and feet first into the\nworld, which the dint of the surgeon's pliers in his skull lent indeed\na colour to, so as to put him in thought of that missing link of\ncreation's chain desiderated by the late ingenious Mr Darwin. It was now\nfor more than the middle span of our allotted years that he had passed\nthrough the thousand vicissitudes of existence and, being of a wary\nascendancy and self a man of rare forecast, he had enjoined his heart\nto repress all motions of a rising choler and, by intercepting them\nwith the readiest precaution, foster within his breast that plenitude\nof sufferance which base minds jeer at, rash judgers scorn and all find\ntolerable and but tolerable. To those who create themselves wits at the\ncost of feminine delicacy (a habit of mind which he never did hold\nwith) to them he would concede neither to bear the name nor to herit\nthe tradition of a proper breeding: while for such that, having lost\nall forbearance, can lose no more, there remained the sharp antidote of\nexperience to cause their insolency to beat a precipitate and inglorious\nretreat. Not but what he could feel with mettlesome youth which, caring\nnought for the mows of dotards or the gruntlings of the severe, is ever\n(as the chaste fancy of the Holy Writer expresses it) for eating of the\ntree forbid it yet not so far forth as to pretermit humanity upon any\ncondition soever towards a gentlewoman when she was about her lawful\noccasions. To conclude, while from the sister's words he had reckoned\nupon a speedy delivery he was, however, it must be owned, not a little\nalleviated by the intelligence that the issue so auspicated after an\nordeal of such duress now testified once more to the mercy as well as to\nthe bounty of the Supreme Being.\n\nAccordingly he broke his mind to his neighbour, saying that, to express\nhis notion of the thing, his opinion (who ought not perchance to express\none) was that one must have a cold constitution and a frigid genius not\nto be rejoiced by this freshest news of the fruition of her confinement\nsince she had been in such pain through no fault of hers. The dressy\nyoung blade said it was her husband's that put her in that expectation\nor at least it ought to be unless she were another Ephesian matron. I\nmust acquaint you, said Mr Crotthers, clapping on the table so as to\nevoke a resonant comment of emphasis, old Glory Allelujurum was round\nagain today, an elderly man with dundrearies, preferring through his\nnose a request to have word of Wilhelmina, my life, as he calls her. I\nbade him hold himself in readiness for that the event would burst anon.\n'Slife, I'll be round with you. I cannot but extol the virile potency of\nthe old bucko that could still knock another child out of her. All fell\nto praising of it, each after his own fashion, though the same young\nblade held with his former view that another than her conjugial had\nbeen the man in the gap, a clerk in orders, a linkboy (virtuous) or\nan itinerant vendor of articles needed in every household. Singular,\ncommuned the guest with himself, the wonderfully unequal faculty of\nmetempsychosis possessed by them, that the puerperal dormitory and the\ndissecting theatre should be the seminaries of such frivolity, that the\nmere acquisition of academic titles should suffice to transform in a\npinch of time these votaries of levity into exemplary practitioners of\nan art which most men anywise eminent have esteemed the noblest. But,\nhe further added, it is mayhap to relieve the pentup feelings that in\ncommon oppress them for I have more than once observed that birds of a\nfeather laugh together.\n\nBut with what fitness, let it be asked of the noble lord, his patron,\nhas this alien, whom the concession of a gracious prince has admitted\nto civic rights, constituted himself the lord paramount of our\ninternal polity? Where is now that gratitude which loyalty should have\ncounselled? During the recent war whenever the enemy had a temporary\nadvantage with his granados did this traitor to his kind not seize that\nmoment to discharge his piece against the empire of which he is a tenant\nat will while he trembled for the security of his four per cents? Has he\nforgotten this as he forgets all benefits received? Or is it that from\nbeing a deluder of others he has become at last his own dupe as he is,\nif report belie him not, his own and his only enjoyer? Far be it from\ncandour to violate the bedchamber of a respectable lady, the daughter of\na gallant major, or to cast the most distant reflections upon her\nvirtue but if he challenges attention there (as it was indeed highly his\ninterest not to have done) then be it so. Unhappy woman, she has been\ntoo long and too persistently denied her legitimate prerogative to\nlisten to his objurgations with any other feeling than the derision of\nthe desperate. He says this, a censor of morals, a very pelican in his\npiety, who did not scruple, oblivious of the ties of nature, to attempt\nillicit intercourse with a female domestic drawn from the lowest strata\nof society! Nay, had the hussy's scouringbrush not been her tutelary\nangel, it had gone with her as hard as with Hagar, the Egyptian! In the\nquestion of the grazing lands his peevish asperity is notorious and in\nMr Cuffe's hearing brought upon him from an indignant rancher a scathing\nretort couched in terms as straightforward as they were bucolic. It ill\nbecomes him to preach that gospel. Has he not nearer home a seedfield\nthat lies fallow for the want of the ploughshare? A habit reprehensible\nat puberty is second nature and an opprobrium in middle life. If he must\ndispense his balm of Gilead in nostrums and apothegms of dubious taste\nto restore to health a generation of unfledged profligates let his\npractice consist better with the doctrines that now engross him. His\nmarital breast is the repository of secrets which decorum is reluctant\nto adduce. The lewd suggestions of some faded beauty may console him for\na consort neglected and debauched but this new exponent of morals and\nhealer of ills is at his best an exotic tree which, when rooted in\nits native orient, throve and flourished and was abundant in balm\nbut, transplanted to a clime more temperate, its roots have lost their\nquondam vigour while the stuff that comes away from it is stagnant, acid\nand inoperative.\n\nThe news was imparted with a circumspection recalling the ceremonial\nusage of the Sublime Porte by the second female infirmarian to the\njunior medical officer in residence, who in his turn announced to the\ndelegation that an heir had been born, When he had betaken himself\nto the women's apartment to assist at the prescribed ceremony of the\nafterbirth in the presence of the secretary of state for domestic\naffairs and the members of the privy council, silent in unanimous\nexhaustion and approbation the delegates, chafing under the length and\nsolemnity of their vigil and hoping that the joyful occurrence would\npalliate a licence which the simultaneous absence of abigail and\nobstetrician rendered the easier, broke out at once into a strife of\ntongues. In vain the voice of Mr Canvasser Bloom was heard endeavouring\nto urge, to mollify, to refrain. The moment was too propitious for the\ndisplay of that discursiveness which seemed the only bond of union among\ntempers so divergent. Every phase of the situation was successively\neviscerated: the prenatal repugnance of uterine brothers, the Caesarean\nsection, posthumity with respect to the father and, that rarer form,\nwith respect to the mother, the fratricidal case known as the Childs\nMurder and rendered memorable by the impassioned plea of Mr Advocate\nBushe which secured the acquittal of the wrongfully accused, the\nrights of primogeniture and king's bounty touching twins and triplets,\nmiscarriages and infanticides, simulated or dissimulated, the acardiac\n_foetus in foetu_ and aprosopia due to a congestion, the agnathia\nof certain chinless Chinamen (cited by Mr Candidate Mulligan) in\nconsequence of defective reunion of the maxillary knobs along the medial\nline so that (as he said) one ear could hear what the other spoke, the\nbenefits of anesthesia or twilight sleep, the prolongation of labour\npains in advanced gravidancy by reason of pressure on the vein, the\npremature relentment of the amniotic fluid (as exemplified in the\nactual case) with consequent peril of sepsis to the matrix, artificial\ninsemination by means of syringes, involution of the womb consequent\nupon the menopause, the problem of the perpetration of the species in\nthe case of females impregnated by delinquent rape, that distressing\nmanner of delivery called by the Brandenburghers _Sturzgeburt,_ the\nrecorded instances of multiseminal, twikindled and monstrous births\nconceived during the catamenic period or of consanguineous parents--in\na word all the cases of human nativity which Aristotle has classified\nin his masterpiece with chromolithographic illustrations. The gravest\nproblems of obstetrics and forensic medicine were examined with as much\nanimation as the most popular beliefs on the state of pregnancy such as\nthe forbidding to a gravid woman to step over a countrystile lest,\nby her movement, the navelcord should strangle her creature and\nthe injunction upon her in the event of a yearning, ardently and\nineffectually entertained, to place her hand against that part of her\nperson which long usage has consecrated as the seat of castigation.\nThe abnormalities of harelip, breastmole, supernumerary digits, negro's\ninkle, strawberry mark and portwine stain were alleged by one as a\n_prima facie_ and natural hypothetical explanation of those swineheaded\n(the case of Madame Grissel Steevens was not forgotten) or doghaired\ninfants occasionally born. The hypothesis of a plasmic memory, advanced\nby the Caledonian envoy and worthy of the metaphysical traditions of\nthe land he stood for, envisaged in such cases an arrest of embryonic\ndevelopment at some stage antecedent to the human. An outlandish\ndelegate sustained against both these views, with such heat as almost\ncarried conviction, the theory of copulation between women and the males\nof brutes, his authority being his own avouchment in support of fables\nsuch as that of the Minotaur which the genius of the elegant Latin poet\nhas handed down to us in the pages of his Metamorphoses. The impression\nmade by his words was immediate but shortlived. It was effaced as easily\nas it had been evoked by an allocution from Mr Candidate Mulligan in\nthat vein of pleasantry which none better than he knew how to affect,\npostulating as the supremest object of desire a nice clean old man.\nContemporaneously, a heated argument having arisen between Mr Delegate\nMadden and Mr Candidate Lynch regarding the juridical and theological\ndilemma created in the event of one Siamese twin predeceasing the other,\nthe difficulty by mutual consent was referred to Mr Canvasser Bloom\nfor instant submittal to Mr Coadjutor Deacon Dedalus. Hitherto silent,\nwhether the better to show by preternatural gravity that curious dignity\nof the garb with which he was invested or in obedience to an inward\nvoice, he delivered briefly and, as some thought, perfunctorily the\necclesiastical ordinance forbidding man to put asunder what God has\njoined.\n\nBut Malachias' tale began to freeze them with horror. He conjured up the\nscene before them. The secret panel beside the chimney slid back and\nin the recess appeared... Haines! Which of us did not feel his flesh\ncreep! He had a portfolio full of Celtic literature in one hand, in the\nother a phial marked _Poison._ Surprise, horror, loathing were depicted\non all faces while he eyed them with a ghostly grin. I anticipated some\nsuch reception, he began with an eldritch laugh, for which, it seems,\nhistory is to blame. Yes, it is true. I am the murderer of Samuel\nChilds. And how I am punished! The inferno has no terrors for me. This\nis the appearance is on me. Tare and ages, what way would I be resting\nat all, he muttered thickly, and I tramping Dublin this while back\nwith my share of songs and himself after me the like of a soulth or a\nbullawurrus? My hell, and Ireland's, is in this life. It is what I tried\nto obliterate my crime. Distractions, rookshooting, the Erse language\n(he recited some), laudanum (he raised the phial to his lips), camping\nout. In vain! His spectre stalks me. Dope is my only hope... Ah!\nDestruction! The black panther! With a cry he suddenly vanished and the\npanel slid back. An instant later his head appeared in the door opposite\nand said: Meet me at Westland Row station at ten past eleven. He was\ngone. Tears gushed from the eyes of the dissipated host. The seer\nraised his hand to heaven, murmuring: The vendetta of Mananaun! The\nsage repeated: _Lex talionis_. The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy\nwithout incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done. Malachias,\novercome by emotion, ceased. The mystery was unveiled. Haines was the\nthird brother. His real name was Childs. The black panther was himself\nthe ghost of his own father. He drank drugs to obliterate. For this\nrelief much thanks. The lonely house by the graveyard is uninhabited.\nNo soul will live there. The spider pitches her web in the solitude.\nThe nocturnal rat peers from his hole. A curse is on it. It is haunted.\nMurderer's ground.\n\nWhat is the age of the soul of man? As she hath the virtue of the\nchameleon to change her hue at every new approach, to be gay with the\nmerry and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age changeable as\nher mood. No longer is Leopold, as he sits there, ruminating, chewing\nthe cud of reminiscence, that staid agent of publicity and holder of a\nmodest substance in the funds. A score of years are blown away. He is\nyoung Leopold. There, as in a retrospective arrangement, a mirror within\na mirror (hey, presto!), he beholdeth himself. That young figure of then\nis seen, precociously manly, walking on a nipping morning from the old\nhouse in Clanbrassil street to the high school, his booksatchel on\nhim bandolierwise, and in it a goodly hunk of wheaten loaf, a mother's\nthought. Or it is the same figure, a year or so gone over, in his first\nhard hat (ah, that was a day!), already on the road, a fullfledged\ntraveller for the family firm, equipped with an orderbook, a scented\nhandkerchief (not for show only), his case of bright trinketware (alas!\na thing now of the past!) and a quiverful of compliant smiles for this\nor that halfwon housewife reckoning it out upon her fingertips or for\na budding virgin, shyly acknowledging (but the heart? tell me!) his\nstudied baisemoins. The scent, the smile, but, more than these, the dark\neyes and oleaginous address, brought home at duskfall many a commission\nto the head of the firm, seated with Jacob's pipe after like labours in\nthe paternal ingle (a meal of noodles, you may be sure, is aheating),\nreading through round horned spectacles some paper from the Europe of a\nmonth before. But hey, presto, the mirror is breathed on and the young\nknighterrant recedes, shrivels, dwindles to a tiny speck within the\nmist. Now he is himself paternal and these about him might be his\nsons. Who can say? The wise father knows his own child. He thinks of a\ndrizzling night in Hatch street, hard by the bonded stores there, the\nfirst. Together (she is a poor waif, a child of shame, yours and mine\nand of all for a bare shilling and her luckpenny), together they hear\nthe heavy tread of the watch as two raincaped shadows pass the new royal\nuniversity. Bridie! Bridie Kelly! He will never forget the name, ever\nremember the night: first night, the bridenight. They are entwined\nin nethermost darkness, the willer with the willed, and in an instant\n(_fiat_!) light shall flood the world. Did heart leap to heart? Nay,\nfair reader. In a breath 'twas done but--hold! Back! It must not be! In\nterror the poor girl flees away through the murk. She is the bride of\ndarkness, a daughter of night. She dare not bear the sunnygolden babe\nof day. No, Leopold. Name and memory solace thee not. That youthful\nillusion of thy strength was taken from thee--and in vain. No son of thy\nloins is by thee. There is none now to be for Leopold, what Leopold was\nfor Rudolph.\n\nThe voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is the\ninfinite of space: and swiftly, silently the soul is wafted over regions\nof cycles of generations that have lived. A region where grey twilight\never descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her\ndusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars. She follows her mother with\nungainly steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal. Twilight phantoms\nare they, yet moulded in prophetic grace of structure, slim shapely\nhaunches, a supple tendonous neck, the meek apprehensive skull. They\nfade, sad phantoms: all is gone. Agendath is a waste land, a home of\nscreechowls and the sandblind upupa. Netaim, the golden, is no more. And\non the highway of the clouds they come, muttering thunder of rebellion,\nthe ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark! Huuh! Parallax stalks behind and goads\nthem, the lancinating lightnings of whose brow are scorpions. Elk and\nyak, the bulls of Bashan and of Babylon, mammoth and mastodon, they come\ntrooping to the sunken sea, _Lacus Mortis_. Ominous revengeful zodiacal\nhost! They moan, passing upon the clouds, horned and capricorned, the\ntrumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned, the giantantlered, snouter\nand crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all their moving moaning\nmultitude, murderers of the sun.\n\nOnward to the dead sea they tramp to drink, unslaked and with horrible\ngulpings, the salt somnolent inexhaustible flood. And the equine portent\ngrows again, magnified in the deserted heavens, nay to heaven's own\nmagnitude, till it looms, vast, over the house of Virgo. And lo, wonder\nof metempsychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride, harbinger of the\ndaystar, the bride, ever virgin. It is she, Martha, thou lost one,\nMillicent, the young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she now\narise, a queen among the Pleiades, in the penultimate antelucan hour,\nshod in sandals of bright gold, coifed with a veil of what do you call\nit gossamer. It floats, it flows about her starborn flesh and loose it\nstreams, emerald, sapphire, mauve and heliotrope, sustained on currents\nof the cold interstellar wind, winding, coiling, simply swirling,\nwrithing in the skies a mysterious writing till, after a myriad\nmetamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangled sign\nupon the forehead of Taurus.\n\nFrancis was reminding Stephen of years before when they had been at\nschool together in Conmee's time. He asked about Glaucon, Alcibiades,\nPisistratus. Where were they now? Neither knew. You have spoken of the\npast and its phantoms, Stephen said. Why think of them? If I call them\ninto life across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop to\nmy call? Who supposes it? I, Bous Stephanoumenos, bullockbefriending\nbard, am lord and giver of their life. He encircled his gadding hair\nwith a coronal of vineleaves, smiling at Vincent. That answer and those\nleaves, Vincent said to him, will adorn you more fitly when something\nmore, and greatly more, than a capful of light odes can call your genius\nfather. All who wish you well hope this for you. All desire to see\nyou bring forth the work you meditate, to acclaim you Stephaneforos. I\nheartily wish you may not fail them. O no, Vincent Lenehan said, laying\na hand on the shoulder near him. Have no fear. He could not leave his\nmother an orphan. The young man's face grew dark. All could see how hard\nit was for him to be reminded of his promise and of his recent loss. He\nwould have withdrawn from the feast had not the noise of voices allayed\nthe smart. Madden had lost five drachmas on Sceptre for a whim of the\nrider's name: Lenehan as much more. He told them of the race. The flag\nfell and, huuh! off, scamper, the mare ran out freshly with 0. Madden\nup. She was leading the field. All hearts were beating. Even Phyllis\ncould not contain herself. She waved her scarf and cried: Huzzah!\nSceptre wins! But in the straight on the run home when all were in close\norder the dark horse Throwaway drew level, reached, outstripped her. All\nwas lost now. Phyllis was silent: her eyes were sad anemones. Juno, she\ncried, I am undone. But her lover consoled her and brought her a bright\ncasket of gold in which lay some oval sugarplums which she partook. A\ntear fell: one only. A whacking fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane.\nFour winners yesterday and three today. What rider is like him? Mount\nhim on the camel or the boisterous buffalo the victory in a hack canter\nis still his. But let us bear it as was the ancient wont. Mercy on the\nluckless! Poor Sceptre! he said with a light sigh. She is not the filly\nthat she was. Never, by this hand, shall we behold such another. By gad,\nsir, a queen of them. Do you remember her, Vincent? I wish you could\nhave seen my queen today, Vincent said. How young she was and radiant\n(Lalage were scarce fair beside her) in her yellow shoes and frock of\nmuslin, I do not know the right name of it. The chestnuts that shaded\nus were in bloom: the air drooped with their persuasive odour and with\npollen floating by us. In the sunny patches one might easily have\ncooked on a stone a batch of those buns with Corinth fruit in them that\nPeriplipomenes sells in his booth near the bridge. But she had nought\nfor her teeth but the arm with which I held her and in that she nibbled\nmischievously when I pressed too close. A week ago she lay ill, four\ndays on the couch, but today she was free, blithe, mocked at peril.\nShe is more taking then. Her posies tool Mad romp that she is, she had\npulled her fill as we reclined together. And in your ear, my friend, you\nwill not think who met us as we left the field. Conmee himself! He was\nwalking by the hedge, reading, I think a brevier book with, I doubt not,\na witty letter in it from Glycera or Chloe to keep the page. The sweet\ncreature turned all colours in her confusion, feigning to reprove a\nslight disorder in her dress: a slip of underwood clung there for the\nvery trees adore her. When Conmee had passed she glanced at her lovely\necho in that little mirror she carries. But he had been kind. In going\nby he had blessed us. The gods too are ever kind, Lenehan said. If I had\npoor luck with Bass's mare perhaps this draught of his may serve me more\npropensely. He was laying his hand upon a winejar: Malachi saw it and\nwithheld his act, pointing to the stranger and to the scarlet label.\nWarily, Malachi whispered, preserve a druid silence. His soul is far\naway. It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be\nborn. Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the\nincorruptible eon of the gods. Do you not think it, Stephen? Theosophos\ntold me so, Stephen answered, whom in a previous existence Egyptian\npriests initiated into the mysteries of karmic law. The lords of the\nmoon, Theosophos told me, an orangefiery shipload from planet Alpha\nof the lunar chain would not assume the etheric doubles and these\nwere therefore incarnated by the rubycoloured egos from the second\nconstellation.\n\nHowever, as a matter of fact though, the preposterous surmise about him\nbeing in some description of a doldrums or other or mesmerised which\nwas entirely due to a misconception of the shallowest character, was\nnot the case at all. The individual whose visual organs while the above\nwas going on were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptoms of\nanimation was as astute if not astuter than any man living and anybody\nthat conjectured the contrary would have found themselves pretty\nspeedily in the wrong shop. During the past four minutes or thereabouts\nhe had been staring hard at a certain amount of number one Bass bottled\nby Messrs Bass and Co at Burton-on-Trent which happened to be situated\namongst a lot of others right opposite to where he was and which was\ncertainly calculated to attract anyone's remark on account of its\nscarlet appearance. He was simply and solely, as it subsequently\ntranspired for reasons best known to himself, which put quite an\naltogether different complexion on the proceedings, after the moment\nbefore's observations about boyhood days and the turf, recollecting two\nor three private transactions of his own which the other two were as\nmutually innocent of as the babe unborn. Eventually, however, both\ntheir eyes met and as soon as it began to dawn on him that the other was\nendeavouring to help himself to the thing he involuntarily determined\nto help him himself and so he accordingly took hold of the neck of the\nmediumsized glass recipient which contained the fluid sought after and\nmade a capacious hole in it by pouring a lot of it out with, also at the\nsame time, however, a considerable degree of attentiveness in order not\nto upset any of the beer that was in it about the place.\n\nThe debate which ensued was in its scope and progress an epitome of the\ncourse of life. Neither place nor council was lacking in dignity. The\ndebaters were the keenest in the land, the theme they were engaged on\nthe loftiest and most vital. The high hall of Horne's house had never\nbeheld an assembly so representative and so varied nor had the\nold rafters of that establishment ever listened to a language so\nencyclopaedic. A gallant scene in truth it made. Crotthers was there at\nthe foot of the table in his striking Highland garb, his face glowing\nfrom the briny airs of the Mull of Galloway. There too, opposite to him,\nwas Lynch whose countenance bore already the stigmata of early depravity\nand premature wisdom. Next the Scotchman was the place assigned to\nCostello, the eccentric, while at his side was seated in stolid repose\nthe squat form of Madden. The chair of the resident indeed stood vacant\nbefore the hearth but on either flank of it the figure of Bannon in\nexplorer's kit of tweed shorts and salted cowhide brogues contrasted\nsharply with the primrose elegance and townbred manners of Malachi\nRoland St John Mulligan. Lastly at the head of the board was the young\npoet who found a refuge from his labours of pedagogy and metaphysical\ninquisition in the convivial atmosphere of Socratic discussion, while\nto right and left of him were accommodated the flippant prognosticator,\nfresh from the hippodrome, and that vigilant wanderer, soiled by the\ndust of travel and combat and stained by the mire of an indelible\ndishonour, but from whose steadfast and constant heart no lure or peril\nor threat or degradation could ever efface the image of that voluptuous\nloveliness which the inspired pencil of Lafayette has limned for ages\nyet to come.\n\nIt had better be stated here and now at the outset that the perverted\ntranscendentalism to which Mr S. Dedalus' (Div. Scep.) contentions\nwould appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs directly counter to\naccepted scientific methods. Science, it cannot be too often repeated,\ndeals with tangible phenomena. The man of science like the man in the\nstreet has to face hardheaded facts that cannot be blinked and explain\nthem as best he can. There may be, it is true, some questions which\nscience cannot answer--at present--such as the first problem submitted\nby Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv.) regarding the future determination of sex.\nMust we accept the view of Empedocles of Trinacria that the right ovary\n(the postmenstrual period, assert others) is responsible for the birth\nof males or are the too long neglected spermatozoa or nemasperms the\ndifferentiating factors or is it, as most embryologists incline to\nopine, such as Culpepper, Spallanzani, Blumenbach, Lusk, Hertwig,\nLeopold and Valenti, a mixture of both? This would be tantamount to\na cooperation (one of nature's favourite devices) between the _nisus\nformativus_ of the nemasperm on the one hand and on the other a happily\nchosen position, _succubitus felix_ of the passive element. The other\nproblem raised by the same inquirer is scarcely less vital: infant\nmortality. It is interesting because, as he pertinently remarks, we\nare all born in the same way but we all die in different ways. Mr M.\nMulligan (Hyg. et Eug. Doc.) blames the sanitary conditions in which\nour greylunged citizens contract adenoids, pulmonary complaints etc. by\ninhaling the bacteria which lurk in dust. These factors, he alleged,\nand the revolting spectacles offered by our streets, hideous publicity\nposters, religious ministers of all denominations, mutilated soldiers\nand sailors, exposed scorbutic cardrivers, the suspended carcases of\ndead animals, paranoic bachelors and unfructified duennas--these, he\nsaid, were accountable for any and every fallingoff in the calibre of\nthe race. Kalipedia, he prophesied, would soon be generally adopted\nand all the graces of life, genuinely good music, agreeable literature,\nlight philosophy, instructive pictures, plastercast reproductions of\nthe classical statues such as Venus and Apollo, artistic coloured\nphotographs of prize babies, all these little attentions would enable\nladies who were in a particular condition to pass the intervening months\nin a most enjoyable manner. Mr J. Crotthers (Disc. Bacc.) attributes\nsome of these demises to abdominal trauma in the case of women workers\nsubjected to heavy labours in the workshop and to marital discipline in\nthe home but by far the vast majority to neglect, private or official,\nculminating in the exposure of newborn infants, the practice of criminal\nabortion or in the atrocious crime of infanticide. Although the former\n(we are thinking of neglect) is undoubtedly only too true the case he\ncites of nurses forgetting to count the sponges in the peritoneal cavity\nis too rare to be normative. In fact when one comes to look into it the\nwonder is that so many pregnancies and deliveries go off so well as they\ndo, all things considered and in spite of our human shortcomings which\noften baulk nature in her intentions. An ingenious suggestion is\nthat thrown out by Mr V. Lynch (Bacc. Arith.) that both natality and\nmortality, as well as all other phenomena of evolution, tidal movements,\nlunar phases, blood temperatures, diseases in general, everything, in\nfine, in nature's vast workshop from the extinction of some remote sun\nto the blossoming of one of the countless flowers which beautify our\npublic parks is subject to a law of numeration as yet unascertained.\nStill the plain straightforward question why a child of normally healthy\nparents and seemingly a healthy child and properly looked after succumbs\nunaccountably in early childhood (though other children of the same\nmarriage do not) must certainly, in the poet's words, give us pause.\nNature, we may rest assured, has her own good and cogent reasons for\nwhatever she does and in all probability such deaths are due to some law\nof anticipation by which organisms in which morbous germs have taken\nup their residence (modern science has conclusively shown that only the\nplasmic substance can be said to be immortal) tend to disappear at an\nincreasingly earlier stage of development, an arrangement which, though\nproductive of pain to some of our feelings (notably the maternal), is\nnevertheless, some of us think, in the long run beneficial to the\nrace in general in securing thereby the survival of the fittest. Mr S.\nDedalus' (Div. Scep.) remark (or should it be called an interruption?)\nthat an omnivorous being which can masticate, deglute, digest and\napparently pass through the ordinary channel with pluterperfect\nimperturbability such multifarious aliments as cancrenous females\nemaciated by parturition, corpulent professional gentlemen, not to speak\nof jaundiced politicians and chlorotic nuns, might possibly find gastric\nrelief in an innocent collation of staggering bob, reveals as nought\nelse could and in a very unsavoury light the tendency above alluded to.\nFor the enlightenment of those who are not so intimately acquainted with\nthe minutiae of the municipal abattoir as this morbidminded esthete and\nembryo philosopher who for all his overweening bumptiousness in things\nscientific can scarcely distinguish an acid from an alkali prides\nhimself on being, it should perhaps be stated that staggering bob in\nthe vile parlance of our lowerclass licensed victuallers signifies the\ncookable and eatable flesh of a calf newly dropped from its mother. In\na recent public controversy with Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv.) which took\nplace in the commons' hall of the National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30\nand 31 Holles street, of which, as is well known, Dr A. Horne (Lic. in\nMidw., F. K. Q. C. P. I.) is the able and popular master, he is reported\nby eyewitnesses as having stated that once a woman has let the cat\ninto the bag (an esthete's allusion, presumably, to one of the most\ncomplicated and marvellous of all nature's processes--the act of sexual\ncongress) she must let it out again or give it life, as he phrased it,\nto save her own. At the risk of her own, was the telling rejoinder of\nhis interlocutor, none the less effective for the moderate and measured\ntone in which it was delivered.\n\nMeanwhile the skill and patience of the physician had brought about a\nhappy _accouchement._ It had been a weary weary while both for patient\nand doctor. All that surgical skill could do was done and the brave\nwoman had manfully helped. She had. She had fought the good fight and\nnow she was very very happy. Those who have passed on, who have gone\nbefore, are happy too as they gaze down and smile upon the touching\nscene. Reverently look at her as she reclines there with the motherlight\nin her eyes, that longing hunger for baby fingers (a pretty sight it is\nto see), in the first bloom of her new motherhood, breathing a silent\nprayer of thanksgiving to One above, the Universal Husband. And as her\nloving eyes behold her babe she wishes only one blessing more, to have\nher dear Doady there with her to share her joy, to lay in his arms that\nmite of God's clay, the fruit of their lawful embraces. He is older now\n(you and I may whisper it) and a trifle stooped in the shoulders yet\nin the whirligig of years a grave dignity has come to the conscientious\nsecond accountant of the Ulster bank, College Green branch. O Doady,\nloved one of old, faithful lifemate now, it may never be again, that\nfaroff time of the roses! With the old shake of her pretty head she\nrecalls those days. God! How beautiful now across the mist of years! But\ntheir children are grouped in her imagination about the bedside, hers\nand his, Charley, Mary Alice, Frederick Albert (if he had lived), Mamy,\nBudgy (Victoria Frances), Tom, Violet Constance Louisa, darling little\nBobsy (called after our famous hero of the South African war, lord Bobs\nof Waterford and Candahar) and now this last pledge of their union, a\nPurefoy if ever there was one, with the true Purefoy nose. Young hopeful\nwill be christened Mortimer Edward after the influential third cousin of\nMr Purefoy in the Treasury Remembrancer's office, Dublin Castle. And so\ntime wags on: but father Cronion has dealt lightly here. No, let no sigh\nbreak from that bosom, dear gentle Mina. And Doady, knock the ashes from\nyour pipe, the seasoned briar you still fancy when the curfew rings for\nyou (may it be the distant day!) and dout the light whereby you read\nin the Sacred Book for the oil too has run low, and so with a tranquil\nheart to bed, to rest. He knows and will call in His own good time. You\ntoo have fought the good fight and played loyally your man's part. Sir,\nto you my hand. Well done, thou good and faithful servant!\n\nThere are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil\nmemories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart\nbut they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim,\nlet them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself\nthat they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will\ncall them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the\nmost various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel\nand harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the\nevening or at the feast, at midnight, when he is now filled with wine.\nNot to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under\nher wrath, not for vengeance to cut him off from the living but shrouded\nin the piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful.\n\nThe stranger still regarded on the face before him a slow recession of\nthat false calm there, imposed, as it seemed, by habit or some studied\ntrick, upon words so embittered as to accuse in their speaker an\nunhealthiness, a _flair,_ for the cruder things of life. A scene\ndisengages itself in the observer's memory, evoked, it would seem, by\na word of so natural a homeliness as if those days were really present\nthere (as some thought) with their immediate pleasures. A shaven space\nof lawn one soft May evening, the wellremembered grove of lilacs at\nRoundtown, purple and white, fragrant slender spectators of the game but\nwith much real interest in the pellets as they run slowly forward over\nthe sward or collide and stop, one by its fellow, with a brief alert\nshock. And yonder about that grey urn where the water moves at times\nin thoughtful irrigation you saw another as fragrant sisterhood, Floey,\nAtty, Tiny and their darker friend with I know not what of arresting in\nher pose then, Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely brace of them pendent\nfrom an ear, bringing out the foreign warmth of the skin so daintily\nagainst the cool ardent fruit. A lad of four or five in linseywoolsey\n(blossomtime but there will be cheer in the kindly hearth when ere long\nthe bowls are gathered and hutched) is standing on the urn secured by\nthat circle of girlish fond hands. He frowns a little just as this young\nman does now with a perhaps too conscious enjoyment of the danger but\nmust needs glance at whiles towards where his mother watches from the\nPIAZZETTA giving upon the flowerclose with a faint shadow of remoteness\nor of reproach (_alles Vergangliche_) in her glad look.\n\nMark this farther and remember. The end comes suddenly. Enter that\nantechamber of birth where the studious are assembled and note their\nfaces. Nothing, as it seems, there of rash or violent. Quietude of\ncustody, rather, befitting their station in that house, the vigilant\nwatch of shepherds and of angels about a crib in Bethlehem of Juda long\nago. But as before the lightning the serried stormclouds, heavy with\npreponderant excess of moisture, in swollen masses turgidly distended,\ncompass earth and sky in one vast slumber, impending above parched field\nand drowsy oxen and blighted growth of shrub and verdure till in an\ninstant a flash rives their centres and with the reverberation of the\nthunder the cloudburst pours its torrent, so and not otherwise was the\ntransformation, violent and instantaneous, upon the utterance of the\nword.\n\nBurke's! outflings my lord Stephen, giving the cry, and a tag and\nbobtail of all them after, cockerel, jackanapes, welsher, pilldoctor,\npunctual Bloom at heels with a universal grabbing at headgear,\nashplants, bilbos, Panama hats and scabbards, Zermatt alpenstocks and\nwhat not. A dedale of lusty youth, noble every student there. Nurse\nCallan taken aback in the hallway cannot stay them nor smiling surgeon\ncoming downstairs with news of placentation ended, a full pound if a\nmilligramme. They hark him on. The door! It is open? Ha! They are out,\ntumultuously, off for a minute's race, all bravely legging it, Burke's\nof Denzille and Holles their ulterior goal. Dixon follows giving them\nsharp language but raps out an oath, he too, and on. Bloom stays with\nnurse a thought to send a kind word to happy mother and nurseling up\nthere. Doctor Diet and Doctor Quiet. Looks she too not other now? Ward\nof watching in Horne's house has told its tale in that washedout pallor.\nThen all being gone, a glance of motherwit helping, he whispers close in\ngoing: Madam, when comes the storkbird for thee?\n\nThe air without is impregnated with raindew moisture, life essence\ncelestial, glistening on Dublin stone there under starshiny _coelum._\nGod's air, the Allfather's air, scintillant circumambient cessile air.\nBreathe it deep into thee. By heaven, Theodore Purefoy, thou hast done a\ndoughty deed and no botch! Thou art, I vow, the remarkablest progenitor\nbarring none in this chaffering allincluding most farraginous chronicle.\nAstounding! In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed possibility which\nthou hast fructified with thy modicum of man's work. Cleave to her!\nServe! Toil on, labour like a very bandog and let scholarment and all\nMalthusiasts go hang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore. Art drooping\nunder thy load, bemoiled with butcher's bills at home and ingots (not\nthine!) in the countinghouse? Head up! For every newbegotten thou shalt\ngather thy homer of ripe wheat. See, thy fleece is drenched. Dost envy\nDarby Dullman there with his Joan? A canting jay and a rheumeyed\ncurdog is all their progeny. Pshaw, I tell thee! He is a mule, a dead\ngasteropod, without vim or stamina, not worth a cracked kreutzer.\nCopulation without population! No, say I! Herod's slaughter of the\ninnocents were the truer name. Vegetables, forsooth, and sterile\ncohabitation! Give her beefsteaks, red, raw, bleeding! She is a hoary\npandemonium of ills, enlarged glands, mumps, quinsy, bunions, hayfever,\nbedsores, ringworm, floating kidney, Derbyshire neck, warts, bilious\nattacks, gallstones, cold feet, varicose veins. A truce to threnes and\ntrentals and jeremies and all such congenital defunctive music! Twenty\nyears of it, regret them not. With thee it was not as with many that\nwill and would and wait and never--do. Thou sawest thy America, thy\nlifetask, and didst charge to cover like the transpontine bison. How\nsaith Zarathustra? _Deine Kuh Trübsal melkest Du. Nun Trinkst Du die\nsüsse Milch des Euters_. See! it displodes for thee in abundance. Drink,\nman, an udderful! Mother's milk, Purefoy, the milk of human kin, milk\ntoo of those burgeoning stars overhead rutilant in thin rainvapour,\npunch milk, such as those rioters will quaff in their guzzling den, milk\nof madness, the honeymilk of Canaan's land. Thy cow's dug was tough,\nwhat? Ay, but her milk is hot and sweet and fattening. No dollop this\nbut thick rich bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch! Pap! _Per deam\nPartulam et Pertundam nunc est bibendum_!\n\nAll off for a buster, armstrong, hollering down the street. Bonafides.\nWhere you slep las nigh? Timothy of the battered naggin. Like ole\nBillyo. Any brollies or gumboots in the fambly? Where the Henry Nevil's\nsawbones and ole clo? Sorra one o' me knows. Hurrah there, Dix! Forward\nto the ribbon counter. Where's Punch? All serene. Jay, look at the\ndrunken minister coming out of the maternity hospal! _Benedicat vos\nomnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius_. A make, mister. The Denzille lane\nboys. Hell, blast ye! Scoot. Righto, Isaacs, shove em out of the\nbleeding limelight. Yous join uz, dear sir? No hentrusion in life. Lou\nheap good man. Allee samee dis bunch. _En avant, mes enfants_! Fire\naway number one on the gun. Burke's! Burke's! Thence they advanced five\nparasangs. Slattery's mounted foot. Where's that bleeding awfur? Parson\nSteve, apostates' creed! No, no, Mulligan! Abaft there! Shove ahead.\nKeep a watch on the clock. Chuckingout time. Mullee! What's on you? _Ma\nmère m'a mariée._ British Beatitudes! _Retamplatan Digidi Boumboum_.\nAyes have it. To be printed and bound at the Druiddrum press by two\ndesigning females. Calf covers of pissedon green. Last word in art\nshades. Most beautiful book come out of Ireland my time. _Silentium!_\nGet a spurt on. Tention. Proceed to nearest canteen and there annex\nliquor stores. March! Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are (atitudes!)\nparching. Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs battleships, buggery\nand bishops. Whether on the scaffold high. Beer, beef, trample the\nbibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the trampellers. Thunderation! Keep\nthe durned millingtary step. We fall. Bishops boosebox. Halt! Heave to.\nRugger. Scrum in. No touch kicking. Wow, my tootsies! You hurt? Most\namazingly sorry!\n\nQuery. Who's astanding this here do? Proud possessor of damnall. Declare\nmisery. Bet to the ropes. Me nantee saltee. Not a red at me this week\ngone. Yours? Mead of our fathers for the _Übermensch._ Dittoh. Five\nnumber ones. You, sir? Ginger cordial. Chase me, the cabby's caudle.\nStimulate the caloric. Winding of his ticker. Stopped short never to go\nagain when the old. Absinthe for me, savvy? _Caramba!_ Have an eggnog or\na prairie oyster. Enemy? Avuncular's got my timepiece. Ten to. Obligated\nawful. Don't mention it. Got a pectoral trauma, eh, Dix? Pos fact. Got\nbet be a boomblebee whenever he wus settin sleepin in hes bit garten.\nDigs up near the Mater. Buckled he is. Know his dona? Yup, sartin I do.\nFull of a dure. See her in her dishybilly. Peels off a credit. Lovey\nlovekin. None of your lean kine, not much. Pull down the blind, love.\nTwo Ardilauns. Same here. Look slippery. If you fall don't wait to get\nup. Five, seven, nine. Fine! Got a prime pair of mincepies, no kid. And\nher take me to rests and her anker of rum. Must be seen to be believed.\nYour starving eyes and allbeplastered neck you stole my heart, O\ngluepot. Sir? Spud again the rheumatiz? All poppycock, you'll scuse me\nsaying. For the hoi polloi. I vear thee beest a gert vool. Well, doc?\nBack fro Lapland? Your corporosity sagaciating O K? How's the squaws\nand papooses? Womanbody after going on the straw? Stand and deliver.\nPassword. There's hair. Ours the white death and the ruddy birth. Hi!\nSpit in your own eye, boss! Mummer's wire. Cribbed out of Meredith.\nJesified, orchidised, polycimical jesuit! Aunty mine's writing Pa Kinch.\nBaddybad Stephen lead astray goodygood Malachi.\n\nHurroo! Collar the leather, youngun. Roun wi the nappy. Here, Jock braw\nHielentman's your barleybree. Lang may your lum reek and your kailpot\nboil! My tipple. _Merci._ Here's to us. How's that? Leg before wicket.\nDon't stain my brandnew sitinems. Give's a shake of peppe, you there.\nCatch aholt. Caraway seed to carry away. Twig? Shrieks of silence. Every\ncove to his gentry mort. Venus Pandemos. _Les petites femmes_. Bold bad\ngirl from the town of Mullingar. Tell her I was axing at her. Hauding\nSara by the wame. On the road to Malahide. Me? If she who seduced me had\nleft but the name. What do you want for ninepence? Machree, macruiskeen.\nSmutty Moll for a mattress jig. And a pull all together. _Ex!_\n\nWaiting, guvnor? Most deciduously. Bet your boots on. Stunned like,\nseeing as how no shiners is acoming. Underconstumble? He've got the\nchink _ad lib_. Seed near free poun on un a spell ago a said war hisn.\nUs come right in on your invite, see? Up to you, matey. Out with the\noof. Two bar and a wing. You larn that go off of they there Frenchy\nbilks? Won't wash here for nuts nohow. Lil chile velly solly. Ise de\ncutest colour coon down our side. Gawds teruth, Chawley. We are nae fou.\nWe're nae tha fou. Au reservoir, mossoo. Tanks you.\n\n'Tis, sure. What say? In the speakeasy. Tight. I shee you, shir. Bantam,\ntwo days teetee. Bowsing nowt but claretwine. Garn! Have a glint, do.\nGum, I'm jiggered. And been to barber he have. Too full for words. With\na railway bloke. How come you so? Opera he'd like? Rose of Castile. Rows\nof cast. Police! Some H2O for a gent fainted. Look at Bantam's flowers.\nGemini. He's going to holler. The colleen bawn. My colleen bawn. O,\ncheese it! Shut his blurry Dutch oven with a firm hand. Had the winner\ntoday till I tipped him a dead cert. The ruffin cly the nab of Stephen\nHand as give me the jady coppaleen. He strike a telegramboy paddock wire\nbig bug Bass to the depot. Shove him a joey and grahamise. Mare on form\nhot order. Guinea to a goosegog. Tell a cram, that. Gospeltrue. Criminal\ndiversion? I think that yes. Sure thing. Land him in chokeechokee if the\nharman beck copped the game. Madden back Madden's a maddening back. O\nlust our refuge and our strength. Decamping. Must you go? Off to mammy.\nStand by. Hide my blushes someone. All in if he spots me. Come ahome,\nour Bantam. Horryvar, mong vioo. Dinna forget the cowslips for hersel.\nCornfide. Wha gev ye thon colt? Pal to pal. Jannock. Of John Thomas, her\nspouse. No fake, old man Leo. S'elp me, honest injun. Shiver my timbers\nif I had. There's a great big holy friar. Vyfor you no me tell? Vel,\nI ses, if that aint a sheeny nachez, vel, I vil get misha mishinnah.\nThrough yerd our lord, Amen.\n\nYou move a motion? Steve boy, you're going it some. More bluggy\ndrunkables? Will immensely splendiferous stander permit one stooder of\nmost extreme poverty and one largesize grandacious thirst to terminate\none expensive inaugurated libation? Give's a breather. Landlord,\nlandlord, have you good wine, staboo? Hoots, mon, a wee drap to pree.\nCut and come again. Right. Boniface! Absinthe the lot. _Nos omnes\nbiberimus viridum toxicum diabolus capiat posterioria nostria_.\nClosingtime, gents. Eh? Rome boose for the Bloom toff. I hear you say\nonions? Bloo? Cadges ads. Photo's papli, by all that's gorgeous. Play\nlow, pardner. Slide. _Bonsoir la compagnie_. And snares of the poxfiend.\nWhere's the buck and Namby Amby? Skunked? Leg bail. Aweel, ye maun e'en\ngang yer gates. Checkmate. King to tower. Kind Kristyann wil yu help\nyung man hoose frend tuk bungellow kee tu find plais whear tu lay crown\nof his hed 2 night. Crickey, I'm about sprung. Tarnally dog gone my\nshins if this beent the bestest puttiest longbreak yet. Item, curate,\ncouple of cookies for this child. Cot's plood and prandypalls, none! Not\na pite of sheeses? Thrust syphilis down to hell and with him those other\nlicensed spirits. Time, gents! Who wander through the world. Health all!\n_a la vôtre_!\n\nGolly, whatten tunket's yon guy in the mackintosh? Dusty Rhodes. Peep\nat his wearables. By mighty! What's he got? Jubilee mutton. Bovril,\nby James. Wants it real bad. D'ye ken bare socks? Seedy cuss in the\nRichmond? Rawthere! Thought he had a deposit of lead in his penis.\nTrumpery insanity. Bartle the Bread we calls him. That, sir, was once\na prosperous cit. Man all tattered and torn that married a maiden all\nforlorn. Slung her hook, she did. Here see lost love. Walking Mackintosh\nof lonely canyon. Tuck and turn in. Schedule time. Nix for the hornies.\nPardon? Seen him today at a runefal? Chum o' yourn passed in his checks?\nLudamassy! Pore piccaninnies! Thou'll no be telling me thot, Pold veg!\nDid ums blubble bigsplash crytears cos fren Padney was took off in black\nbag? Of all de darkies Massa Pat was verra best. I never see the like\nsince I was born. _Tiens, tiens_, but it is well sad, that, my faith,\nyes. O, get, rev on a gradient one in nine. Live axle drives are souped.\nLay you two to one Jenatzy licks him ruddy well hollow. Jappies? High\nangle fire, inyah! Sunk by war specials. Be worse for him, says he, nor\nany Rooshian. Time all. There's eleven of them. Get ye gone. Forward,\nwoozy wobblers! Night. Night. May Allah the Excellent One your soul this\nnight ever tremendously conserve.\n\nYour attention! We're nae tha fou. The Leith police dismisseth us. The\nleast tholice. Ware hawks for the chap puking. Unwell in his abominable\nregions. Yooka. Night. Mona, my true love. Yook. Mona, my own love. Ook.\n\nHark! Shut your obstropolos. Pflaap! Pflaap! Blaze on. There she goes.\nBrigade! Bout ship. Mount street way. Cut up! Pflaap! Tally ho. You not\ncome? Run, skelter, race. Pflaaaap!\n\nLynch! Hey? Sign on long o' me. Denzille lane this way. Change here for\nBawdyhouse. We two, she said, will seek the kips where shady Mary is.\nRighto, any old time. _Laetabuntur in cubilibus suis_. You coming long?\nWhisper, who the sooty hell's the johnny in the black duds? Hush! Sinned\nagainst the light and even now that day is at hand when he shall come to\njudge the world by fire. Pflaap! _Ut implerentur scripturae_. Strike\nup a ballad. Then outspake medical Dick to his comrade medical Davy.\nChristicle, who's this excrement yellow gospeller on the Merrion\nhall? Elijah is coming! Washed in the blood of the Lamb. Come on you\nwinefizzling, ginsizzling, booseguzzling existences! Come on, you\ndog-gone, bullnecked, beetlebrowed, hogjowled, peanutbrained, weaseleyed\nfourflushers, false alarms and excess baggage! Come on, you triple\nextract of infamy! Alexander J Christ Dowie, that's my name, that's\nyanked to glory most half this planet from Frisco beach to Vladivostok.\nThe Deity aint no nickel dime bumshow. I put it to you that He's on the\nsquare and a corking fine business proposition. He's the grandest thing\nyet and don't you forget it. Shout salvation in King Jesus. You'll\nneed to rise precious early you sinner there, if you want to diddle the\nAlmighty God. Pflaaaap! Not half. He's got a coughmixture with a punch\nin it for you, my friend, in his back pocket. Just you try it on.\n\n\n\n_The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches\nan uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green\nwill-o'-the-wisps and danger signals. Rows of grimy houses with gaping\ndoors. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins. Round Rabaiotti's halted ice\ngondola stunted men and women squabble. They grab wafers between which\nare wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. Sucking, they scatter slowly.\nChildren. The swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the\nmurk, white and blue under a lighthouse. Whistles call and answer._\n\nTHE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I'll be with you.\n\nTHE ANSWERS: Round behind the stable.\n\n_(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth dribbling,\njerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance. A chain of children 's hands\nimprisons him.)_\n\nTHE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute!\n\nTHE IDIOT: _(Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles)_ Grhahute!\n\nTHE CHILDREN: Where's the great light?\n\nTHE IDIOT: _(Gobbing)_ Ghaghahest.\n\n_(They release him. He jerks on. A pigmy woman swings on a rope slung\nbetween two railings, counting. A form sprawled against a dustbin and\nmuffled by its arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, and\nsnores again. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches\nto shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A crone standing by with a smoky\noillamp rams her last bottle in the maw of his sack. He heaves his\nbooty, tugs askew his peaked cap and hobbles off mutely. The crone\nmakes back for her lair, swaying her lamp. A bandy child, asquat on the\ndoorstep with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts,\nclutches her skirt, scrambles up. A drunken navvy grips with both hands\nthe railings of an area, lurching heavily. At a comer two night watch in\nshouldercapes, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall. A plate\ncrashes: a woman screams: a child wails. Oaths of a man roar, mutter,\ncease. Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens. In a room lit by a\ncandle stuck in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the hair\nof a scrofulous child. Cissy Caffrey's voice, still young, sings shrill\nfrom a lane.)_\n\nCISSY CAFFREY:\n\n     _I gave it to Molly\n     Because she was jolly,\n     The leg of the duck,\n     The leg of the duck._\n\n_(Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their oxters,\nas they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their\nmouths a volleyed fart. Laughter of men from the lane. A hoarse virago\nretorts.)_\n\nTHE VIRAGO: Signs on you, hairy arse. More power the Cavan girl.\n\nCISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. _(She\nsings)_\n\n     _I gave it to Nelly\n     To stick in her belly,\n     The leg of the duck,\n     The leg of the duck._\n\n_(Private Carr and Private Compton turn and counterretort, their tunics\nbloodbright in a lampglow, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped\npolls. Stephen Dedalus and Lynch pass through the crowd close to the\nredcoats.)_\n\nPRIVATE COMPTON: _(Jerks his finger)_ Way for the parson.\n\nPRIVATE CARR: _(Turns and calls)_ What ho, parson!\n\nCISSY CAFFREY: _(Her voice soaring higher)_\n\n     _She has it, she got it,\n     Wherever she put it,\n     The leg of the duck._\n\n_(Stephen, flourishing the ashplant in his left hand, chants with joy\nthe_ introit _for paschal time. Lynch, his jockeycap low on his brow,\nattends him, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face.)_\n\nSTEPHEN: _Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro. Alleluia_.\n\n_(The famished snaggletusks of an elderly bawd protrude from a\ndoorway.)_\n\nTHE BAWD: _(Her voice whispering huskily)_ Sst! Come here till I tell\nyou. Maidenhead inside. Sst!\n\nSTEPHEN: _(Altius aliquantulum) Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista_.\n\nTHE BAWD: _(Spits in their trail her jet of venom)_ Trinity medicals.\nFallopian tube. All prick and no pence.\n\n_(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with bertha supple, draws her shawl\nacross her nostrils.)_\n\nEDY BOARDMAN: _(Bickering)_ And says the one: I seen you up Faithful\nplace with your squarepusher, the greaser off the railway, in his\ncometobed hat. Did you, says I. That's not for you to say, says I. You\nnever seen me in the mantrap with a married highlander, says I. The\nlikes of her! Stag that one is! Stubborn as a mule! And her walking with\ntwo fellows the one time, Kilbride, the enginedriver, and lancecorporal\nOliphant.\n\nSTEPHEN: _(Ttriumphaliter) Salvi facti sunt._\n\n_(He flourishes his ashplant, shivering the lamp image, shattering light\nover the world. A liver and white spaniel on the prowl slinks after him,\ngrowling. Lynch scares it with a kick.)_\n\nLYNCH: So that?\n\nSTEPHEN: (_Looks behind_) So that gesture, not music not odour, would be\na universal language, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay\nsense but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm.\n\nLYNCH: Pornosophical philotheology. Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street!\n\nSTEPHEN: We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. Even\nthe allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of\nlove.\n\nLYNCH: Ba!\n\nSTEPHEN: Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a jug?\nThis movement illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar.\nHold my stick.\n\nLYNCH: Damn your yellow stick. Where are we going?\n\nSTEPHEN: Lecherous lynx, _to la belle dame sans merci,_ Georgina\nJohnson, _ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam._\n\n_(Stephen thrusts the ashplant on him and slowly holds out his hands,\nhis head going back till both hands are a span from his breast, down\nturned, in planes intersecting, the fingers about to part, the left\nbeing higher.)_\n\nLYNCH: Which is the jug of bread? It skills not. That or the\ncustomhouse. Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk.\n\n_(They pass. Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a gaslamp and, clasping, climbs\nin spasms. From the top spur he slides down. Jacky Caffrey clasps to\nclimb. The navvy lurches against the lamp. The twins scuttle off in the\ndark. The navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a wing of his\nnose and ejects from the farther nostril a long liquid jet of snot.\nShouldering the lamp he staggers away through the crowd with his flaring\ncresset._\n\n_Snakes of river fog creep slowly. From drains, clefts, cesspools,\nmiddens arise on all sides stagnant fumes. A glow leaps in the south\nbeyond the seaward reaches of the river. The navvy, staggering forward,\ncleaves the crowd and lurches towards the tramsiding on the farther side\nunder the railway bridge bloom appears, flushed, panting, cramming bread\nand chocolate into a sidepocket. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a\ncomposite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image. A concave mirror\nat the side presents to him lovelorn longlost lugubru Booloohoom. Grave\nGladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom. he passes, struck by the\nstare of truculent Wellington, but in the convex mirror grin unstruck\nthe bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy._\n\n_At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the bright\narclamp. He disappears. In a moment he reappears and hurries on.)_\n\nBLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!\n\n_(He disappears into Olhausen's, the porkbutcher's, under the downcoming\nrollshutter. A few moments later he emerges from under the shutter,\npuffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each hand he holds a parcel, one\ncontaining a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the other a cold sheep's trotter,\nsprinkled with wholepepper. He gasps, standing upright. Then bending to\none side he presses a parcel against his ribs and groans.)_\n\nBLOOM: Stitch in my side. Why did I run?\n\n_(He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the lampset\nsiding. The glow leaps again.)_\n\nBLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.\n\n_(He stands at Cormack's corner, watching)_\n\nBLOOM: _Aurora borealis_ or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of course.\nSouth side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush. We're\nsafe. _(He hums cheerfully)_ London's burning, London's burning! On\nfire, on fire! (_He catches sight of the navvy lurching through the\ncrowd at the farther side of Talbot street_) I'll miss him. Run. Quick.\nBetter cross here.\n\n_(He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout.)_\n\nTHE URCHINS: Mind out, mister! (_Two cyclists, with lighted paper\nlanterns aswing, swim by him, grazing him, their bells rattling_)\n\nTHE BELLS: Haltyaltyaltyall.\n\nBLOOM: _(Halts erect, stung by a spasm)_ Ow!\n\n_(He looks round, darts forward suddenly. Through rising fog a dragon\nsandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon him,\nits huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the wire. The\nmotorman bangs his footgong.)_\n\nTHE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.\n\n_(The brake cracks violently. Bloom, raising a policeman's whitegloved\nhand, blunders stifflegged out of the track. The motorman, thrown\nforward, pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells as he slides past over\nchains and keys.)_\n\nTHE MOTORMAN: Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?\n\nBLOOM: _(Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again. He brushes a\nmudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand.)_ No thoroughfare. Close\nshave that but cured the stitch. Must take up Sandow's exercises again.\nOn the hands down. Insure against street accident too. The Providential.\n_(He feels his trouser pocket)_ Poor mamma's panacea. Heel easily catch\nin track or bootlace in a cog. Day the wheel of the black Maria peeled\noff my shoe at Leonard's corner. Third time is the charm. Shoe trick.\nInsolent driver. I ought to report him. Tension makes them nervous.\nMight be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman. Same\nstyle of beauty. Quick of him all the same. The stiff walk. True word\nspoken in jest. That awful cramp in Lad lane. Something poisonous I\nate. Emblem of luck. Why? Probably lost cattle. Mark of the beast. _(He\ncloses his eyes an instant)_ Bit light in the head. Monthly or effect of\nthe other. Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too much for me now. Ow!\n\n(A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a\nvisage unknown, injected with dark mercury. From under a wideleaved\nsombrero the figure regards him with evil eye.)\n\nBLOOM: _Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta?_\n\nTHE FIGURE: (_Impassive, raises a signal arm_) Password. _Sraid Mabbot._\n\nBLOOM: Haha. _Merci._ Esperanto. _Slan leath. (He mutters)_ Gaelic\nleague spy, sent by that fireeater.\n\n_(He steps forward. A sackshouldered ragman bars his path. He steps\nleft, ragsackman left.)_\n\nBLOOM: I beg. (_He swerves, sidles, stepaside, slips past and on_.)\n\nBLOOM: Keep to the right, right, right. If there is a signpost planted\nby the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? I who\nlost my way and contributed to the columns of the _Irish Cyclist_ the\nletter headed _In darkest Stepaside_. Keep, keep, keep to the right.\nRags and bones at midnight. A fence more likely. First place murderer\nmakes for. Wash off his sins of the world.\n\n_(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt against\nBloom.)_\n\nBLOOM: O\n\n_(Shocked, on weak hams, he halts. Tommy and Jacky vanish there, there.\nBloom pats with parcelled hands watch fobpocket, bookpocket, pursepoket,\nsweets of sin, potato soap.)_\n\nBLOOM: Beware of pickpockets. Old thieves' dodge. Collide. Then snatch\nyour purse.\n\n_(The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the ground. A sprawled form\nsneezes. A stooped bearded figure appears garbed in the long caftan\nof an elder in Zion and a smokingcap with magenta tassels. Horned\nspectacles hang down at the wings of the nose. Yellow poison streaks are\non the drawn face.)_\n\nRUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. I told you not go with\ndrunken goy ever. So you catch no money.\n\nBLOOM: _(Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back and, crestfallen,\nfeels warm and cold feetmeat) Ja, ich weiss, papachi._\n\nRUDOLPH: What you making down this place? Have you no soul? _(with\nfeeble vulture talons he feels the silent face of Bloom)_ Are you not\nmy son Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Are you not my dear son Leopold\nwho left the house of his father and left the god of his fathers Abraham\nand Jacob?\n\nBLOOM: _(With precaution)_ I suppose so, father. Mosenthal. All that's\nleft of him.\n\nRUDOLPH: _(Severely)_ One night they bring you home drunk as dog after\nspend your good money. What you call them running chaps?\n\nBLOOM: _(In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with white vestslips,\nnarrowshouldered, in brown Alpine hat, wearing gent's sterling silver\nwaterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one\nside of him coated with stiffening mud)_ Harriers, father. Only that\nonce.\n\nRUDOLPH: Once! Mud head to foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw. They make\nyou kaputt, Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps.\n\nBLOOM: _(Weakly)_ They challenged me to a sprint. It was muddy. I\nslipped.\n\nRUDOLPH: _(With contempt) Goim nachez_! Nice spectacles for your poor\nmother!\n\nBLOOM: Mamma!\n\nELLEN BLOOM: _(In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's\ncrinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind,\ngrey mittens and cameo brooch, her plaited hair in a crispine net,\nappears over the staircase banisters, a slanted candlestick in her hand,\nand cries out in shrill alarm)_ O blessed Redeemer, what have they done\nto him! My smelling salts! _(She hauls up a reef of skirt and ransacks\nthe pouch of her striped blay petticoat. A phial, an Agnus Dei, a\nshrivelled potato and a celluloid doll fall out)_ Sacred Heart of Mary,\nwhere were you at all at all?\n\n_(Bloom, mumbling, his eyes downcast, begins to bestow his parcels in\nhis filled pockets but desists, muttering.)_\n\nA VOICE: _(Sharply)_ Poldy!\n\nBLOOM: Who? _(He ducks and wards off a blow clumsily)_ At your service.\n\n_(He looks up. Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in\nTurkish costume stands before him. Opulent curves fill out her scarlet\ntrousers and jacket, slashed with gold. A wide yellow cummerbund girdles\nher. A white yashmak, violet in the night, covers her face, leaving free\nonly her large dark eyes and raven hair.)_\n\nBLOOM: Molly!\n\nMARION: Welly? Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to\nme. _(Satirically)_ Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?\n\nBLOOM: _(Shifts from foot to foot)_ No, no. Not the least little bit.\n\n_(He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, questions,\nhopes, crubeens for her supper, things to tell her, excuse, desire,\nspellbound. A coin gleams on her forehead. On her feet are jewelled\ntoerings. Her ankles are linked by a slender fetterchain. Beside her\na camel, hooded with a turreting turban, waits. A silk ladder of\ninnumerable rungs climbs to his bobbing howdah. He ambles near with\ndisgruntled hindquarters. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her goldcurb\nwristbangles angriling, scolding him in Moorish.)_\n\nMARION: Nebrakada! Femininum!\n\n_(The camel, lifting a foreleg, plucks from a tree a large mango fruit,\noffers it to his mistress, blinking, in his cloven hoof, then droops his\nhead and, grunting, with uplifted neck, fumbles to kneel. Bloom stoops\nhis back for leapfrog.)_\n\nBLOOM: I can give you... I mean as your business menagerer... Mrs\nMarion... if you...\n\nMARION: So you notice some change? _(Her hands passing slowly over her\ntrinketed stomacher, a slow friendly mockery in her eyes)_ O Poldy,\nPoldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud! Go and see life. See the\nwide world.\n\nBLOOM: I was just going back for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower\nwater. Shop closes early on Thursday. But the first thing in the\nmorning. _(He pats divers pockets)_ This moving kidney. Ah!\n\n_(He points to the south, then to the east. A cake of new clean lemon\nsoap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)_\n\nTHE SOAP: We're a capital couple are Bloom and I. He brightens the\nearth. I polish the sky.\n\n\n_(The freckled face of Sweny, the druggist, appears in the disc of the\nsoapsun.)_\n\nSWENY: Three and a penny, please.\n\nBLOOM: Yes. For my wife. Mrs Marion. Special recipe.\n\nMARION: _(Softly)_ Poldy!\n\nBLOOM: Yes, ma'am?\n\nMARION: _ti trema un poco il cuore?_\n\n_(In disdain she saunters away, plump as a pampered pouter pigeon,\nhumming the duet from_ Don Giovanni.)\n\nBLOOM: Are you sure about that _voglio_? I mean the pronunciati...\n\n_(He follows, followed by the sniffing terrier. The elderly bawd seizes\nhis sleeve, the bristles of her chinmole glittering.)_\n\nTHE BAWD: Ten shillings a maidenhead. Fresh thing was never touched.\nFifteen. There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk.\n\n_(She points. In the gap of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie\nKelly stands.)_\n\nBRIDIE: Hatch street. Any good in your mind?\n\n_(With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. A burly rough pursues\nwith booted strides. He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into\ngloom. Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker.)_\n\nTHE BAWD: _(Her wolfeyes shining)_ He's getting his pleasure. You won't\nget a virgin in the flash houses. Ten shillings. Don't be all night\nbefore the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch.\n\n_(Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward. She draws from behind, ogling,\nand shows coyly her bloodied clout.)_\n\nGERTY: With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. _(She murmurs)_ You\ndid that. I hate you.\n\nBLOOM: I? When? You're dreaming. I never saw you.\n\nTHE BAWD: Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Writing the gentleman\nfalse letters. Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother take\nthe strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you.\n\nGERTY: _(To Bloom)_ When you saw all the secrets of my bottom drawer.\n_(She paws his sleeve, slobbering)_ Dirty married man! I love you for\ndoing that to me.\n\n_(She glides away crookedly. Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat\nwith loose bellows pockets, stands in the causeway, her roguish eyes\nwideopen, smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth.)_\n\nMRS BREEN: Mr...\n\nBLOOM: _(Coughs gravely)_ Madam, when we last had this pleasure by\nletter dated the sixteenth instant...\n\nMRS BREEN: Mr Bloom! You down here in the haunts of sin! I caught you\nnicely! Scamp!\n\nBLOOM: _(Hurriedly)_ Not so loud my name. Whatever do you think of me?\nDon't give me away. Walls have ears. How do you do? It's ages since I.\nYou're looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable weather we are having\nthis time of year. Black refracts heat. Short cut home here. Interesting\nquarter. Rescue of fallen women. Magdalen asylum. I am the secretary...\n\nMRS BREEN: _(Holds up a finger)_ Now, don't tell a big fib! I know\nsomebody won't like that. O just wait till I see Molly! _(Slily)_\nAccount for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!\n\nBLOOM: _(Looks behind)_ She often said she'd like to visit. Slumming.\nThe exotic, you see. Negro servants in livery too if she had money.\nOthello black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones and cornerman at\nthe Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter.\n\n_(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, scarlet socks,\nupstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their buttonholes,\nleap out. Each has his banjo slung. Their paler smaller negroid hands\njingle the twingtwang wires. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and tusks they\nrattle through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back to\nback, toe heel, heel toe, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.)_\n\nTOM AND SAM:\n\n     There's someone in the house with Dina\n     There's someone in the house, I know,\n     There's someone in the house with Dina\n     Playing on the old banjo.\n\n_(They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, chuckling,\nchortling, trumming, twanging, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.)_\n\nBLOOM: _(With a sour tenderish smile)_ A little frivol, shall we, if\nyou are so inclined? Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a\nfraction of a second?\n\nMRS BREEN: _(Screams gaily)_ O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself!\n\nBLOOM: For old sake' sake. I only meant a square party, a mixed marriage\nmingling of our different little conjugials. You know I had a soft\ncorner for you. _(Gloomily)_ 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear\ngazelle.\n\nMRS BREEN: Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply. _(She\nputs out her hand inquisitively)_ What are you hiding behind your back?\nTell us, there's a dear.\n\nBLOOM: _(Seizes her wrist with his free hand)_ Josie Powell that was,\nprettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking\nback in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina\nSimpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game,\nfinding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this\nsnuffbox?\n\nMRS BREEN: You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic\nrecitation and you looked the part. You were always a favourite with the\nladies.\n\nBLOOM: _(Squire of dames, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings,\nblue masonic badge in his buttonhole, black bow and mother-of-pearl\nstuds, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his hand)_ Ladies and\ngentlemen, I give you Ireland, home and beauty.\n\nMRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall. Love's old sweet song.\n\nBLOOM: _(Meaningfully dropping his voice)_ I confess I'm teapot with\ncuriosity to find out whether some person's something is a little teapot\nat present.\n\nMRS BREEN: _(Gushingly)_ Tremendously teapot! London's teapot and I'm\nsimply teapot all over me! _(She rubs sides with him)_ After the parlour\nmystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase\nottoman. Under the mistletoe. Two is company.\n\nBLOOM: _(Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an amber halfmoon, his\nfingers and thumb passing slowly down to her soft moist meaty palm which\nshe surrenders gently)_ The witching hour of night. I took the splinter\nout of this hand, carefully, slowly. _(Tenderly, as he slips on her\nfinger a ruby ring) Là ci darem la mano._\n\nMRS BREEN: _(In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, a\ntinsel sylph's diadem on her brow with her dancecard fallen beside\nher moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing quickly)\nVoglio e non._ You're hot! You're scalding! The left hand nearest the\nheart.\n\nBLOOM: When you made your present choice they said it was beauty and\nthe beast. I can never forgive you for that. _(His clenched fist at\nhis brow)_ Think what it means. All you meant to me then. _(Hoarsely)_\nWoman, it's breaking me!\n\n_(Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with Wisdom Hely's sandwich-boards,\nshuffles past them in carpet slippers, his dull beard thrust out,\nmuttering to right and left. Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the pall of\nthe ace of spades, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter.)_\n\nALF BERGAN: _(Points jeering at the sandwichboards)_ U. p: Up.\n\nMRS BREEN: _(To Bloom)_ High jinks below stairs. _(She gives him the\nglad eye)_ Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well? You wanted to.\n\nBLOOM: _(Shocked)_ Molly's best friend! Could you?\n\nMRS BREEN: _(Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a pigeon kiss)_\nHnhn. The answer is a lemon. Have you a little present for me there?\n\nBLOOM: _(Offhandedly)_ Kosher. A snack for supper. The home without\npotted meat is incomplete. I was at _Leah._ Mrs Bandmann Palmer.\nTrenchant exponent of Shakespeare. Unfortunately threw away the\nprogramme. Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Feel.\n\n_(Richie Goulding, three ladies' hats pinned on his head, appears\nweighted to one side by the black legal bag of Collis and Ward on which\na skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash. He opens it\nand shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddies and\ntightpacked pills.)_\n\nRICHIE: Best value in Dub.\n\n_(Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands on the curbstone, folding his\nnapkin, waiting to wait.)_\n\nPAT: _(Advances with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy)_ Steak and\nkidney. Bottle of lager. Hee hee hee. Wait till I wait.\n\nRICHIE: Goodgod. Inev erate inall...\n\n_(With hanging head he marches doggedly forward. The navvy, lurching by,\ngores him with his flaming pronghorn.)_\n\nRICHIE: _(With a cry of pain, his hand to his back)_ Ah! Bright's!\nLights!\n\nBLOOM: _(Ooints to the navvy)_ A spy. Don't attract attention. I hate\nstupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament.\n\nMRS BREEN: Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and\nbull story.\n\nBLOOM: I want to tell you a little secret about how I came to be here.\nBut you must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a most particular\nreason.\n\nMRS BREEN: _(All agog)_ O, not for worlds.\n\nBLOOM: Let's walk on. Shall us?\n\nMRS BREEN: Let's.\n\n_(The bawd makes an unheeded sign. Bloom walks on with Mrs Breen. The\nterrier follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail.)_\n\nTHE BAWD: Jewman's melt!\n\nBLOOM: _(In an oatmeal sporting suit, a sprig of woodbine in the lapel,\ntony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white\nspats, fawn dustcoat on his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in\nbandolier and a grey billycock hat)_ Do you remember a long long time,\nyears and years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was\nweaned when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?\n\nMRS BREEN: _(In smart Saxe tailormade, white velours hat and spider\nveil)_ Leopardstown.\n\nBLOOM: I mean, Leopardstown. And Molly won seven shillings on a three\nyear old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old\nfiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette you were in your heyday then and\nyou had on that new hat of white velours with a surround of molefur that\nMrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was marked down to nineteen and\neleven, a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and I'll lay you what\nyou like she did it on purpose...\n\nMRS BREEN: She did, of course, the cat! Don't tell me! Nice adviser!\n\nBLOOM: Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the other ducky\nlittle tammy toque with the bird of paradise wing in it that I admired\non you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was a\npity to kill it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a thing with\na heart the size of a fullstop.\n\nMRS BREEN: _(Squeezes his arm, simpers)_ Naughty cruel I was!\n\nBLOOM: _(Low, secretly, ever more rapidly)_ And Molly was eating a\nsandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Frankly,\nthough she had her advisers or admirers, I never cared much for her\nstyle. She was...\n\nMRS BREEN: Too...\n\nBLOOM: Yes. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly\nwere mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses,\nthe tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses\nwas her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I\never heard or read or knew or came across...\n\nMRS BREEN: _(Eagerly)_ Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.\n\n_(She fades from his side. Followed by the whining dog he walks on\ntowards hellsgates. In an archway a standing woman, bent forward, her\nfeet apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of loiterers\nlisten to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out with raucous\nhumour. An armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in maimed\nsodden playfight.)_\n\nTHE GAFFER: _(Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout)_ And when Cairns\ncame down from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing\nit into only into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the\nshavings for Derwan's plasterers.\n\nTHE LOITERERS: _(Guffaw with cleft palates)_ O jays!\n\n_(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Spattered with size and lime of their\nlodges they frisk limblessly about him.)_\n\nBLOOM: Coincidence too. They think it funny. Anything but that. Broad\ndaylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.\n\nTHE LOITERERS: Jays, that's a good one. Glauber salts. O jays, into the\nmen's porter.\n\n_(Bloom passes. Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled,\ncall from lanes, doors, corners.)_\n\nTHE WHORES:\n\n     Are you going far, queer fellow?\n     How's your middle leg?\n     Got a match on you?\n     Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you.\n\n\n_(He plodges through their sump towards the lighted street beyond. From\na bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk.\nIn the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy and the two\nredcoats.)_\n\nTHE NAVVY: _(Belching)_ Where's the bloody house?\n\nTHE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street. Shilling a bottle of stout.\nRespectable woman.\n\nTHE NAVVY: _(Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with them)_\nCome on, you British army!\n\nPRIVATE CARR: _(Behind his back)_ He aint half balmy.\n\nPRIVATE COMPTON: _(Laughs)_ What ho!\n\nPRIVATE CARR: _(To the navvy)_ Portobello barracks canteen. You ask for\nCarr. Just Carr.\n\nTHE NAVVY: _(Shouts)_\n\nWe are the boys. Of Wexford.\n\nPRIVATE COMPTON: Say! What price the sergeantmajor?\n\nPRIVATE CARR: Bennett? He's my pal. I love old Bennett.\n\nTHE NAVVY: _(Shouts)_\n\n     The galling chain.\n     And free our native land.\n\n_(He staggers forward, dragging them with him. Bloom stops, at fault.\nThe dog approaches, his tongue outlolling, panting)_\n\nBLOOM: Wildgoose chase this. Disorderly houses. Lord knows where they\nare gone. Drunks cover distance double quick. Nice mixup. Scene at\nWestland row. Then jump in first class with third ticket. Then too far.\nTrain with engine behind. Might have taken me to Malahide or a siding\nfor the night or collision. Second drink does it. Once is a dose. What\nam I following him for? Still, he's the best of that lot. If I hadn't\nheard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have\nmet. Kismet. He'll lose that cash. Relieving office here. Good biz for\ncheapjacks, organs. What do ye lack? Soon got, soon gone. Might have\nlost my life too with that mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut only\nfor presence of mind. Can't always save you, though. If I had passed\nTruelock's window that day two minutes later would have been shot.\nAbsence of body. Still if bullet only went through my coat get damages\nfor shock, five hundred pounds. What was he? Kildare street club toff.\nGod help his gamekeeper.\n\n_(He gazes ahead, reading on the wall a scrawled chalk legend_ Wet Dream\n_and a phallic design._) Odd! Molly drawing on the frosted carriagepane\nat Kingstown. What's that like? _(Gaudy dollwomen loll in the lighted\ndoorways, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes. The\nodour of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in slow round ovalling\nwreaths.)_\n\nTHE WREATHS: Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.\n\nBLOOM: My spine's a bit limp. Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get\nall pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One and eightpence too\nmuch. _(The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand,\nwagging his tail.)_ Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today.\nBetter speak to him first. Like women they like _rencontres._ Stinks\nlike a polecat. _Chacun son gout_. He might be mad. Dogdays. Uncertain\nin his movements. Good fellow! Fido! Good fellow! Garryowen! _(The\nwolfdog sprawls on his back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his\nlong black tongue lolling out.)_ Influence of his surroundings. Give\nand have done with it. Provided nobody. _(Calling encouraging words he\nshambles back with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the setter into\na dark stalestunk corner. He unrolls one parcel and goes to dump the\ncrubeen softly but holds back and feels the trotter.)_ Sizeable for\nthreepence. But then I have it in my left hand. Calls for more effort.\nWhy? Smaller from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six.\n\n_(With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter slide. The\nmastiff mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself with growling greed,\ncrunching the bones. Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant.\nThey murmur together.)_\n\nTHE WATCH: Bloom. Of Bloom. For Bloom. Bloom.\n\n_(Each lays hand on Bloom's shoulder.)_\n\nFIRST WATCH: Caught in the act. Commit no nuisance.\n\nBLOOM: _(Stammers)_ I am doing good to others.\n\n_(A covey of gulls, storm petrels, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with\nBanbury cakes in their beaks.)_\n\nTHE GULLS: Kaw kave kankury kake.\n\nBLOOM: The friend of man. Trained by kindness.\n\n_(He points. Bob Doran, toppling from a high barstool, sways over the\nmunching spaniel.)_\n\nBOB DORAN: Towser. Give us the paw. Give the paw.\n\n_(The bulldog growls, his scruff standing, a gobbet of pig's knuckle\nbetween his molars through which rabid scumspittle dribbles. Bob Doran\nfills silently into an area.)_\n\nSECOND WATCH: Prevention of cruelty to animals.\n\nBLOOM: _(Enthusiastically)_ A noble work! I scolded that tramdriver on\nHarold's cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his harness scab.\nBad French I got for my pains. Of course it was frosty and the last\ntram. All tales of circus life are highly demoralising.\n\n_(Signor Maffei, passionpale, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs\nin his shirtfront, steps forward, holding a circus paperhoop, a\ncurling carriagewhip and a revolver with which he covers the gorging\nboarhound.)_\n\nSIGNOR MAFFEI: _(With a sinister smile)_ Ladies and gentlemen, my\neducated greyhound. It was I broke in the bucking broncho Ajax with my\npatent spiked saddle for carnivores. Lash under the belly with a knotted\nthong. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to\nheel, no matter how fractious, even _Leo ferox_ there, the Libyan\nmaneater. A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part\nproduced Fritz of Amsterdam, the thinking hyena. _(He glares)_ I possess\nthe Indian sign. The glint of my eye does it with these breastsparklers.\n_(With a bewitching smile)_ I now introduce Mademoiselle Ruby, the pride\nof the ring.\n\nFIRST WATCH: Come. Name and address.\n\nBLOOM: I have forgotten for the moment. Ah, yes! _(He takes off his high\ngrade hat, saluting)_ Dr Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon. You have heard\nof von Blum Pasha. Umpteen millions. _Donnerwetter!_ Owns half Austria.\nEgypt. Cousin.\n\nFIRST WATCH: Proof.\n\n_(A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom's hat.)_\n\nBLOOM: _(In red fez, cadi's dress coat with broad green sash, wearing\na false badge of the Legion of Honour, picks up the card hastily and\noffers it)_ Allow me. My club is the Junior Army and Navy. Solicitors:\nMessrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk.\n\nFIRST WATCH: _(Reads)_ Henry Flower. No fixed abode. Unlawfully watching\nand besetting.\n\nSECOND WATCH: An alibi. You are cautioned.\n\nBLOOM: _(Produces from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower)_ This\nis the flower in question. It was given me by a man I don't know his\nname. _(Plausibly)_ You know that old joke, rose of Castile. Bloom. The\nchange of name. Virag. _(He murmurs privately and confidentially)_ We\nare engaged you see, sergeant. Lady in the case. Love entanglement. _(He\nshoulders the second watch gently)_ Dash it all. It's a way we gallants\nhave in the navy. Uniform that does it. _(He turns gravely to the first\nwatch)_ Still, of course, you do get your Waterloo sometimes. Drop in\nsome evening and have a glass of old Burgundy. _(To the second watch\ngaily)_ I'll introduce you, inspector. She's game. Do it in the shake of\na lamb's tail.\n\n_(A dark mercurialised face appears, leading a veiled figure.)_\n\nTHE DARK MERCURY: The Castle is looking for him. He was drummed out of\nthe army.\n\nMARTHA: _(Thickveiled, a crimson halter round her neck, a copy of\nthe_ Irish Times _in her hand, in tone of reproach, pointing)_ Henry!\nLeopold! Lionel, thou lost one! Clear my name.\n\nFIRST WATCH: _(Sternly)_ Come to the station.\n\nBLOOM: _(Scared, hats himself, steps back, then, plucking at his heart\nand lifting his right forearm on the square, he gives the sign and\ndueguard of fellowcraft)_ No, no, worshipful master, light of love.\nMistaken identity. The Lyons mail. Lesurques and Dubosc. You remember\nthe Childs fratricide case. We medical men. By striking him dead with\na hatchet. I am wrongfully accused. Better one guilty escape than\nninetynine wrongfully condemned.\n\nMARTHA: _(Sobbing behind her veil)_ Breach of promise. My real name\nis Peggy Griffin. He wrote to me that he was miserable. I'll tell my\nbrother, the Bective rugger fullback, on you, heartless flirt.\n\nBLOOM: _(Behind his hand)_ She's drunk. The woman is inebriated. _(He\nmurmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim)_ Shitbroleeth.\n\nSECOND WATCH: _(Tears in his eyes, to Bloom)_ You ought to be thoroughly\nwell ashamed of yourself.\n\nBLOOM: Gentlemen of the jury, let me explain. A pure mare's nest. I am\na man misunderstood. I am being made a scapegoat of. I am a respectable\nmarried man, without a stain on my character. I live in Eccles street.\nMy wife, I am the daughter of a most distinguished commander, a gallant\nupstanding gentleman, what do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy,\none of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles. Got his\nmajority for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift.\n\nFIRST WATCH: Regiment.\n\nBLOOM: _(Turns to the gallery)_ The royal Dublins, boys, the salt of the\nearth, known the world over. I think I see some old comrades in arms\nup there among you. The R. D. F., with our own Metropolitan police,\nguardians of our homes, the pluckiest lads and the finest body of men,\nas physique, in the service of our sovereign.\n\nA VOICE: Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booed Joe Chamberlain?\n\nBLOOM: _(His hand on the shoulder of the first watch)_ My old dad too\nwas a J. P. I'm as staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. I fought with\nthe colours for king and country in the absentminded war under general\nGough in the park and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was\nmentioned in dispatches. I did all a white man could. _(With quiet\nfeeling)_ Jim Bludso. Hold her nozzle again the bank.\n\nFIRST WATCH: Profession or trade.\n\nBLOOM: Well, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. In fact\nwe are just bringing out a collection of prize stories of which I am the\ninventor, something that is an entirely new departure. I am connected\nwith the British and Irish press. If you ring up...\n\n_(Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a quill between his teeth. His\nscarlet beak blazes within the aureole of his straw hat. He dangles\na hank of Spanish onions in one hand and holds with the other hand a\ntelephone receiver nozzle to his ear.)_\n\nMYLES CRAWFORD: _(His cock's wattles wagging)_ Hello, seventyseven\neightfour. Hello. _Freeman's Urinal_ and _Weekly Arsewipe_ here.\nParalyse Europe. You which? Bluebags? Who writes? Is it Bloom?\n\n_(Mr Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in the witnessbox, in accurate\nmorning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing,\ncreased lavender trousers and patent boots. He carries a large portfolio\nlabelled_ Matcham's Masterstrokes.)\n\nBEAUFOY: _(Drawls)_ No, you aren't. Not by a long shot if I know it.\nI don't see it that's all. No born gentleman, no-one with the most\nrudimentary promptings of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly\nloathsome conduct. One of those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapy sneak\nmasquerading as a litterateur. It's perfectly obvious that with the most\ninherent baseness he has cribbed some of my bestselling copy, really\ngorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in which are beneath\nsuspicion. The Beaufoy books of love and great possessions, with which\nyour lordship is doubtless familiar, are a household word throughout the\nkingdom.\n\nBLOOM: _(Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum)_ That bit about the\nlaughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may...\n\nBEAUFOY: _(His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the court)_ You\nfunny ass, you! You're too beastly awfully weird for words! I don't\nthink you need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard.\nMy literary agent Mr J. B. Pinker is in attendance. I presume, my\nlord, we shall receive the usual witnesses' fees, shan't we? We are\nconsiderably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw\nof Rheims, who has not even been to a university.\n\nBLOOM: _(Indistinctly)_ University of life. Bad art.\n\nBEAUFOY: _(Shouts)_ It's a damnably foul lie, showing the moral\nrottenness of the man! _(He extends his portfolio)_ We have here damning\nevidence, the _corpus delicti_, my lord, a specimen of my maturer work\ndisfigured by the hallmark of the beast.\n\nA VOICE FROM THE GALLERY:\n\nMoses, Moses, king of the jews, Wiped his arse in the Daily News.\n\nBLOOM: _(Bravely)_ Overdrawn.\n\nBEAUFOY: You low cad! You ought to be ducked in the horsepond, you\nrotter! _(To the court)_ Why, look at the man's private life! Leading\na quadruple existence! Street angel and house devil. Not fit to be\nmentioned in mixed society! The archconspirator of the age!\n\nBLOOM: _(To the court)_ And he, a bachelor, how...\n\nFIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom. Call the woman Driscoll.\n\nTHE CRIER: Mary Driscoll, scullerymaid!\n\n_(Mary Driscoll, a slipshod servant girl, approaches. She has a bucket\non the crook of her arm and a scouringbrush in her hand.)_\n\nSECOND WATCH: Another! Are you of the unfortunate class?\n\nMARY DRISCOLL: _(Indignantly)_ I'm not a bad one. I bear a respectable\ncharacter and was four months in my last place. I was in a situation,\nsix pounds a year and my chances with Fridays out and I had to leave\nowing to his carryings on.\n\nFIRST WATCH: What do you tax him with?\n\nMARY DRISCOLL: He made a certain suggestion but I thought more of myself\nas poor as I am.\n\nBLOOM: _(In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, heelless\nslippers, unshaven, his hair rumpled: softly)_ I treated you white.\nI gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station.\nIncautiously I took your part when you were accused of pilfering.\nThere's a medium in all things. Play cricket.\n\nMARY DRISCOLL: _(Excitedly)_ As God is looking down on me this night if\never I laid a hand to them oysters!\n\nFIRST WATCH: The offence complained of? Did something happen?\n\nMARY DRISCOLL: He surprised me in the rere of the premises, Your honour,\nwhen the missus was out shopping one morning with a request for a safety\npin. He held me and I was discoloured in four places as a result. And he\ninterfered twict with my clothing.\n\nBLOOM: She counterassaulted.\n\nMARY DRISCOLL: _(Scornfully)_ I had more respect for the scouringbrush,\nso I had. I remonstrated with him, Your lord, and he remarked: keep it\nquiet.\n\n_(General laughter.)_\n\nGEORGE FOTTRELL: _(Clerk of the crown and peace, resonantly)_ Order in\ncourt! The accused will now make a bogus statement.\n\n_(Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a fullblown waterlily, begins\na long unintelligible speech. They would hear what counsel had to say in\nhis stirring address to the grand jury. He was down and out but, though\nbranded as a black sheep, if he might say so, he meant to reform, to\nretrieve the memory of the past in a purely sisterly way and return to\nnature as a purely domestic animal. A sevenmonths' child, he had been\ncarefully brought up and nurtured by an aged bedridden parent. There\nmight have been lapses of an erring father but he wanted to turn over\na new leaf and now, when at long last in sight of the whipping post,\nto lead a homely life in the evening of his days, permeated by the\naffectionate surroundings of the heaving bosom of the family. An\nacclimatised Britisher, he had seen that summer eve from the footplate\nof an engine cab of the Loop line railway company while the rain\nrefrained from falling glimpses, as it were, through the windows of\nloveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly\nrural of happiness of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one\nand ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to\nthe Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their pensums or\nmodel young ladies playing on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour\nreciting the family rosary round the crackling Yulelog while in the\nboreens and green lanes the colleens with their swains strolled what\ntimes the strains of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with\nfour acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a sacrifice, greatest bargain\never..._\n\n_(Renewed laughter. He mumbles incoherently. Reporters complain that\nthey cannot hear.)_\n\nLONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: _(Without looking up from their notebooks)_\nLoosen his boots.\n\nPROFESSOR MACHUGH: _(From the presstable, coughs and calls)_ Cough it\nup, man. Get it out in bits.\n\n_(The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and the bucket. A large bucket.\nBloom himself. Bowel trouble. In Beaver street Gripe, yes. Quite bad.\nA plasterer's bucket. By walking stifflegged. Suffered untold misery.\nDeadly agony. About noon. Love or burgundy. Yes, some spinach. Crucial\nmoment. He did not look in the bucket Nobody. Rather a mess. Not\ncompletely._ A Titbits _back number_.)\n\n_(Uproar and catcalls. Bloom in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash,\ndinged silk hat sideways on his head, a strip of stickingplaster across\nhis nose, talks inaudibly.)_\n\nJ. J. O'MOLLOY: _(In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with\na voice of pained protest)_ This is no place for indecent levity at\nthe expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. We are not in a\nbeargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. My\nclient is an infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as\na stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny. The trumped up\nmisdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on\nby hallucination, such familiarities as the alleged guilty occurrence\nbeing quite permitted in my client's native place, the land of the\nPharaoh. _Prima facie_, I put it to you that there was no attempt at\ncarnally knowing. Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of\nby Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not repeated. I would\ndeal in especial with atavism. There have been cases of shipwreck and\nsomnambulism in my client's family. If the accused could speak he could\na tale unfold--one of the strangest that have ever been narrated between\nthe covers of a book. He himself, my lord, is a physical wreck from\ncobbler's weak chest. His submission is that he is of Mongolian\nextraction and irresponsible for his actions. Not all there, in fact.\n\nBLOOM: _(Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in lascar's vest and trousers,\napologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole's eyes and looks about\nhim dazedly, passing a slow hand across his forehead. Then he hitches\nhis belt sailor fashion and with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes\nthe court, pointing one thumb heavenward.)_ Him makee velly muchee fine\nnight. _(He begins to lilt simply)_\n\n     Li li poo lil chile\n     Blingee pigfoot evly night\n     Payee two shilly...\n\n_(He is howled down.)_\n\nJ. J. O'MOLLOY: _(Hotly to the populace)_ This is a lonehand fight. By\nHades, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this\nfashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. The Mosaic code has\nsuperseded the law of the jungle. I say it and I say it emphatically,\nwithout wishing for one moment to defeat the ends of justice, accused\nwas not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered\nwith. The young person was treated by defendant as if she were his very\nown daughter. _(Bloom takes J. J. O'Molloy's hand and raises it to his\nlips.)_ I shall call rebutting evidence to prove up to the hilt that the\nhidden hand is again at its old game. When in doubt persecute Bloom. My\nclient, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the world to\ndo anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or\ncast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard,\nresponsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. He\nwants to go straight. I regard him as the whitest man I know. He is down\non his luck at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive property\nat Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now be\nshown. _(To Bloom)_ I suggest that you will do the handsome thing.\n\nBLOOM: A penny in the pound.\n\n_(The image of the lake of Kinnereth with blurred cattle cropping in\nsilver haze is projected on the wall. Moses Dlugacz, ferreteyed albino,\nin blue dungarees, stands up in the gallery, holding in each hand an\norange citron and a pork kidney.)_\n\nDLUGACZ: _(Hoarsely)_ Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13.\n\n_(J. J. O'Molloy steps on to a low plinth and holds the lapel of his\ncoat with solemnity. His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with\nsunken eyes, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John F.\nTaylor. He applies his handkerchief to his mouth and scrutinises the\ngalloping tide of rosepink blood.)_\n\nJ.J.O'MOLLOY: _(Almost voicelessly)_ Excuse me. I am suffering from a\nsevere chill, have recently come from a sickbed. A few wellchosen words.\n_(He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and proboscidal eloquence of\nSeymour Bushe.)_ When the angel's book comes to be opened if aught\nthat the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and of\nsoultransfiguring deserves to live I say accord the prisoner at the bar\nthe sacred benefit of the doubt. _(A paper with something written on it\nis handed into court._)\n\nBLOOM: _(In court dress)_ Can give best references. Messrs Callan,\nColeman. Mr Wisdom Hely J. P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Mr V. B. Dillon,\nex lord mayor of Dublin. I have moved in the charmed circle of the\nhighest... Queens of Dublin society. _(Carelessly)_ I was just chatting\nthis afternoon at the viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir Robert and\nlady Ball, astronomer royal at the levee. Sir Bob, I said...\n\nMRS YELVERTON BARRY: _(In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength\nivory gloves, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a comb of\nbrilliants and panache of osprey in her hair)_ Arrest him, constable. He\nwrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was\nin the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster circuit, signed James\nLovebirch. He said that he had seen from the gods my peerless globes as\nI sat in a box of the _Theatre Royal_ at a command performance of _La\nCigale_. I deeply inflamed him, he said. He made improper overtures\nto me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the following\nThursday, Dunsink time. He offered to send me through the post a work\nof fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled _The Girl with the Three\nPairs of Stays_.\n\nMRS BELLINGHAM: _(In cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to the\nnose, steps out of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell\nquizzing-glasses which she takes from inside her huge opossum muff)_\nAlso to me. Yes, I believe it is the same objectionable person. Because\nhe closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day\nduring the cold snap of February ninetythree when even the grid of the\nwastepipe and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen. Subsequently\nhe enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the heights, as he said,\nin my honour. I had it examined by a botanical expert and elicited the\ninformation that it was ablossom of the homegrown potato plant purloined\nfrom a forcingcase of the model farm.\n\nMRS YELVERTON BARRY: Shame on him!\n\n_(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward)_\n\nTHE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: _(Screaming)_ Stop thief! Hurrah there,\nBluebeard! Three cheers for Ikey Mo!\n\nSECOND WATCH: _(Produces handcuffs)_ Here are the darbies.\n\nMRS BELLINGHAM: He addressed me in several handwritings with fulsome\ncompliments as a Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my\nfrostbound coachman Palmer while in the same breath he expressed himself\nas envious of his earflaps and fleecy sheepskins and of his fortunate\nproximity to my person, when standing behind my chair wearing my livery\nand the armorial bearings of the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable,\na buck's head couped or. He lauded almost extravagantly my nether\nextremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to the limit, and\neulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which,\nhe said, he could conjure up. He urged me (stating that he felt it\nhis mission in life to urge me) to defile the marriage bed, to commit\nadultery at the earliest possible opportunity.\n\nTHE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(In amazon costume, hard hat,\njackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, fawn musketeer gauntlets\nwith braided drums, long train held up and hunting crop with which she\nstrikes her welt constantly)_ Also me. Because he saw me on the polo\nground of the Phoenix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of\nIreland. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger\nDennehy of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob\n_Centaur._ This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car\nand sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold\nafter dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. I have it still.\nIt represents a partially nude señorita, frail and lovely (his wife, as\nhe solemnly assured me, taken by him from nature), practising illicit\nintercourse with a muscular torero, evidently a blackguard. He urged me\nto do likewise, to misbehave, to sin with officers of the garrison. He\nimplored me to soil his letter in an unspeakable manner, to chastise\nhim as he richly deserves, to bestride and ride him, to give him a most\nvicious horsewhipping.\n\nMRS BELLINGHAM: Me too.\n\nMRS YELVERTON BARRY: Me too.\n\n_(Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters\nreceived from Bloom.)_\n\nTHE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(Stamps her jingling spurs in a\nsudden paroxysm of fury)_ I will, by the God above me. I'll scourge the\npigeonlivered cur as long as I can stand over him. I'll flay him alive.\n\nBLOOM: _(His eyes closing, quails expectantly)_ Here? _(He squirms)_\nAgain! _(He pants cringing)_ I love the danger.\n\nTHE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Very much so! I'll make it hot for\nyou. I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that.\n\nMRS BELLINGHAM: Tan his breech well, the upstart! Write the stars and\nstripes on it!\n\nMRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful! There's no excuse for him! A married\nman!\n\nBLOOM: All these people. I meant only the spanking idea. A warm tingling\nglow without effusion. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation.\n\nTHE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(Laughs derisively)_ O, did you, my\nfine fellow? Well, by the living God, you'll get the surprise of your\nlife now, believe me, the most unmerciful hiding a man ever bargained\nfor. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury.\n\nMRS BELLINGHAM: _(Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses vindictively)_\nMake him smart, Hanna dear. Give him ginger. Thrash the mongrel within\nan inch of his life. The cat-o'-nine-tails. Geld him. Vivisect him.\n\nBLOOM: _(Shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands: with hangdog mien)_ O\ncold! O shivery! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet.\nLet me off this once. _(He offers the other cheek)_\n\nMRS YELVERTON BARRY: _(Severely)_ Don't do so on any account, Mrs\nTalboys! He should be soundly trounced!\n\nTHE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(Unbuttoning her gauntlet\nviolently)_ I'll do no such thing. Pigdog and always was ever since\nhe was pupped! To dare address me! I'll flog him black and blue in\nthe public streets. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. He is a\nwellknown cuckold. _(She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the air)_\nTake down his trousers without loss of time. Come here, sir! Quick!\nReady?\n\nBLOOM: _(Trembling, beginning to obey)_ The weather has been so warm.\n\n_(Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with a bevy of barefoot newsboys.)_\n\nDAVY STEPHENS: _Messenger of the Sacred Heart and Evening Telegraph_\nwith Saint Patrick's Day supplement. Containing the new addresses of all\nthe cuckolds in Dublin.\n\n_(The very reverend Canon O'Hanlon in cloth of gold cope elevates and\nexposes a marble timepiece. Before him Father Conroy and the reverend\nJohn Hughes S.J. bend low.)_\n\nTHE TIMEPIECE: _(Unportalling)_\n\n     Cuckoo.\n     Cuckoo.\n     Cuckoo.\n\n_(The brass quoits of a bed are heard to jingle.)_\n\nTHE QUOITS: Jigjag. Jigajiga. Jigjag.\n\n_(A panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing rapidly in the jurybox\nthe faces of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon\nDedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford,\nLenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the featureless face of a\nNameless One.)_\n\nTHE NAMELESS ONE: Bareback riding. Weight for age. Gob, he organised\nher.\n\nTHE JURORS: _(All their heads turned to his voice)_ Really?\n\nTHE NAMELESS ONE: _(Snarls)_ Arse over tip. Hundred shillings to five.\n\nTHE JURORS: _(All their heads lowered in assent)_ Most of us thought as\nmuch.\n\nFIRST WATCH: He is a marked man. Another girl's plait cut. Wanted: Jack\nthe Ripper. A thousand pounds reward.\n\nSECOND WATCH: _(Awed, whispers)_ And in black. A mormon. Anarchist.\n\nTHE CRIER: _(Loudly)_ Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a\nwellknown dynamitard, forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a public\nnuisance to the citizens of Dublin and whereas at this commission of\nassizes the most honourable...\n\n_(His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, in judicial\ngarb of grey stone rises from the bench, stonebearded. He bears in his\narms an umbrella sceptre. From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic\nramshorns.)_\n\nTHE RECORDER: I will put an end to this white slave traffic and rid\nDublin of this odious pest. Scandalous! _(He dons the black cap)_ Let\nhim be taken, Mr Subsheriff, from the dock where he now stands and\ndetained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure\nand there be hanged by the neck until he is dead and therein fail not\nat your peril or may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Remove him. _(A\nblack skullcap descends upon his head.)_\n\n_(The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, smoking a pungent Henry\nClay.)_\n\nLONG JOHN FANNING: _(Scowls and calls with rich rolling utterance)_\nWho'll hang Judas Iscariot?\n\n_(H. Rumbold, master barber, in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's\napron, a rope coiled over his shoulder, mounts the block. A life\npreserver and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his belt. He rubs\ngrimly his grappling hands, knobbed with knuckledusters.)_\n\nRUMBOLD: _(To the recorder with sinister familiarity)_ Hanging Harry,\nyour Majesty, the Mersey terror. Five guineas a jugular. Neck or\nnothing.\n\n_(The bells of George's church toll slowly, loud dark iron.)_\n\nTHE BELLS: Heigho! Heigho!\n\nBLOOM: _(Desperately)_ Wait. Stop. Gulls. Good heart. I saw. Innocence.\nGirl in the monkeyhouse. Zoo. Lewd chimpanzee. _(Breathlessly)_ Pelvic\nbasin. Her artless blush unmanned me. _(Overcome with emotion)_ I left\nthe precincts. (He turns to a figure in the crowd, appealing) Hynes, may\nI speak to you? You know me. That three shillings you can keep. If you\nwant a little more...\n\nHYNES: _(Coldly)_ You are a perfect stranger.\n\nSECOND WATCH: _(Points to the corner)_ The bomb is here.\n\nFIRST WATCH: Infernal machine with a time fuse.\n\nBLOOM: No, no. Pig's feet. I was at a funeral.\n\nFIRST WATCH: _(Draws his truncheon)_ Liar!\n\n_(The beagle lifts his snout, showing the grey scorbutic face of Paddy\nDignam. He has gnawed all. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath.\nHe grows to human size and shape. His dachshund coat becomes a brown\nmortuary habit. His green eye flashes bloodshot. Half of one ear, all\nthe nose and both thumbs are ghouleaten.)_\n\nPADDY DIGNAM: _(In a hollow voice)_ It is true. It was my funeral.\nDoctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease\nfrom natural causes.\n\n_(He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.)_\n\nBLOOM: _(In triumph)_ You hear?\n\nPADDY DIGNAM: Bloom, I am Paddy Dignam's spirit. List, list, O list!\n\nBLOOM: The voice is the voice of Esau.\n\nSECOND WATCH: _(Blesses himself)_ How is that possible?\n\nFIRST WATCH: It is not in the penny catechism.\n\nPADDY DIGNAM: By metempsychosis. Spooks.\n\nA VOICE: O rocks.\n\nPADDY DIGNAM: _(Earnestly)_ Once I was in the employ of Mr J. H. Menton,\nsolicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk.\nNow I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Hard lines. The\npoor wife was awfully cut up. How is she bearing it? Keep her off that\nbottle of sherry. _(He looks round him)_ A lamp. I must satisfy an\nanimal need. That buttermilk didn't agree with me.\n\n_(The portly figure of John O'Connell, caretaker, stands forth, holding\na bunch of keys tied with crape. Beside him stands Father Coffey,\nchaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in a surplice and bandanna nightcap,\nholding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.)_\n\nFATHER COFFEY: _(Yawns, then chants with a hoarse croak)_ Namine.\nJacobs. Vobiscuits. Amen.\n\nJOHN O'CONNELL: _(Foghorns stormily through his megaphone)_ Dignam,\nPatrick T, deceased.\n\nPADDY DIGNAM: _(With pricked up ears, winces)_ Overtones. _(He wriggles\nforward and places an ear to the ground)_ My master's voice!\n\nJOHN O'CONNELL: Burial docket letter number U. P. eightyfive thousand.\nField seventeen. House of Keys. Plot, one hundred and one.\n\n_(Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his tail\nstiffpointcd, his ears cocked.)_\n\nPADDY DIGNAM: Pray for the repose of his soul.\n\n_(He worms down through a coalhole, his brown habit trailing its tether\nover rattling pebbles. After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on\nfungus turtle paws under a grey carapace. Dignam's voice, muffled, is\nheard baying under ground:_ Dignam's dead and gone below. _Tom Rochford,\nrobinredbreasted, in cap and breeches, jumps from his twocolumned\nmachine.)_\n\nTOM ROCHFORD: _(A hand to his breastbone, bows)_ Reuben J. A florin I\nfind him. _(He fixes the manhole with a resolute stare)_ My turn now on.\nFollow me up to Carlow.\n\n_(He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the air and is engulfed in the\ncoalhole. Two discs on the columns wobble, eyes of nought. All recedes.\nBloom plodges forward again through the sump. Kisses chirp amid\nthe rifts of fog a piano sounds. He stands before a lighted house,\nlistening. The kisses, winging from their bowers fly about him,\ntwittering, warbling, cooing.)_\n\nTHE KISSES: _(Warbling)_ Leo! _(Twittering)_ Icky licky micky sticky for\nLeo! _(Cooing)_ Coo coocoo! Yummyyum, Womwom! _(Warbling)_ Big comebig!\nPirouette! Leopopold! _(Twittering)_ Leeolee! _(Warbling)_ O Leo!\n\n_(They rustle, flutter upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks,\nsilvery sequins.)_\n\nBLOOM: A man's touch. Sad music. Church music. Perhaps here.\n\n_(Zoe Higgins, a young whore in a sapphire slip, closed with three\nbronze buckles, a slim black velvet fillet round her throat, nods, trips\ndown the steps and accosts him.)_\n\nZOE: Are you looking for someone? He's inside with his friend.\n\nBLOOM: Is this Mrs Mack's?\n\nZOE: No, eightyone. Mrs Cohen's. You might go farther and fare worse.\nMother Slipperslapper. _(Familiarly)_ She's on the job herself tonight\nwith the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for\nher son in Oxford. Working overtime but her luck's turned today.\n_(Suspiciously)_ You're not his father, are you?\n\nBLOOM: Not I!\n\nZOE: You both in black. Has little mousey any tickles tonight?\n\n_(His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach. A hand glides over his\nleft thigh.)_\n\nZOE: How's the nuts?\n\nBLOOM: Off side. Curiously they are on the right. Heavier, I suppose.\nOne in a million my tailor, Mesias, says.\n\nZOE: _(In sudden alarm)_ You've a hard chancre.\n\nBLOOM: Not likely.\n\nZOE: I feel it.\n\n_(Her hand slides into his left trouser pocket and brings out a hard\nblack shrivelled potato. She regards it and Bloom with dumb moist\nlips.)_\n\nBLOOM: A talisman. Heirloom.\n\nZOE: For Zoe? For keeps? For being so nice, eh?\n\n_(She puts the potato greedily into a pocket then links his arm,\ncuddling him with supple warmth. He smiles uneasily. Slowly, note by\nnote, oriental music is played. He gazes in the tawny crystal of her\neyes, ringed with kohol. His smile softens.)_\n\nZOE: You'll know me the next time.\n\nBLOOM: _(Forlornly)_ I never loved a dear gazelle but it was sure to...\n\n_(Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are lakes. Round\ntheir shores file shadows black of cedargroves. Aroma rises, a strong\nhairgrowth of resin. It burns, the orient, a sky of sapphire, cleft by\nthe bronze flight of eagles. Under it lies the womancity nude, white,\nstill, cool, in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Mammoth\nroses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes,\nstrangely murmuring.)_\n\nZOE: _(Murmuring singsong with the music, her odalisk lips lusciously\nsmeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater) Schorach ani wenowach,\nbenoith Hierushaloim._\n\nBLOOM: _(Fascinated)_ I thought you were of good stock by your accent.\n\nZOE: And you know what thought did?\n\n_(She bites his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, sending on\nhim a cloying breath of stale garlic. The roses draw apart, disclose a\nsepulchre of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.)_\n\nBLOOM: _(Draws back, mechanically caressing her right bub with a flat\nawkward hand)_ Are you a Dublin girl?\n\nZOE: _(Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her coil)_ No bloody\nfear. I'm English. Have you a swaggerroot?\n\nBLOOM: _(As before)_ Rarely smoke, dear. Cigar now and then. Childish\ndevice. _(Lewdly)_ The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder\nof rank weed.\n\nZOE: Go on. Make a stump speech out of it.\n\nBLOOM: _(In workman's corduroy overalls, black gansy with red floating\ntie and apache cap)_ Mankind is incorrigible. Sir Walter Ralegh brought\nfrom the new world that potato and that weed, the one a killer of\npestilence by absorption, the other a poisoner of the ear, eye, heart,\nmemory, will understanding, all. That is to say he brought the poison\na hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the\nfood. Suicide. Lies. All our habits. Why, look at our public life!\n\n_(Midnight chimes from distant steeples.)_\n\nTHE CHIMES: Turn again, Leopold! Lord mayor of Dublin!\n\nBLOOM: _(In alderman's gown and chain)_ Electors of Arran Quay, Inns\nQuay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline, I say,\nfrom the cattlemarket to the river. That's the music of the future.\nThat's my programme. _Cui bono_? But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in\ntheir phantom ship of finance...\n\nAN ELECTOR: Three times three for our future chief magistrate!\n\n_(The aurora borealis of the torchlight procession leaps.)_\n\nTHE TORCHBEARERS: Hooray!\n\n_(Several wellknown burgesses, city magnates and freemen of the city\nshake hands with Bloom and congratulate him. Timothy Harrington, late\nthrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold chain and\nwhite silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens.\nThey nod vigorously in agreement.)_\n\nLATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: _(In scarlet robe with mace, gold mayoral\nchain and large white silk scarf)_ That alderman sir Leo Bloom's speech\nbe printed at the expense of the ratepayers. That the house in which\nhe was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that the\nthoroughfare hitherto known as Cow Parlour off Cork street be henceforth\ndesignated Boulevard Bloom.\n\nCOUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: Carried unanimously.\n\nBLOOM: _(Impassionedly)_ These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as\nthey recline in their upholstered poop, casting dice, what reck they?\nMachines is their cry, their chimera, their panacea. Laboursaving\napparatuses, supplanters, bugbears, manufactured monsters for mutual\nmurder, hideous hobgoblins produced by a horde of capitalistic lusts\nupon our prostituted labour. The poor man starves while they are\ngrassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and phartridges\nin their purblind pomp of pelf and power. But their reign is rover for\nrever and ever and ev...\n\n_(Prolonged applause. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring\nup. A streamer bearing the legends_ Cead Mile Failte _and_ Mah Ttob\nMelek Israel _Spans the street. All the windows are thronged with\nsightseers, chiefly ladies. Along the route the regiments of the\nroyal Dublin Fusiliers, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the Cameron\nHighlanders and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back\nthe crowd. Boys from High school are perched on the lampposts,\ntelegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings,\nrainspouts, whistling and cheering the pillar of the cloud appears. A\nfife and drum band is heard in the distance playing the Kol Nidre. The\nbeaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and\nwaving oriental palms. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high,\nsurrounded by pennons of the civic flag. The van of the procession\nappears headed by John Howard Parnell, city marshal, in a chessboard\ntabard, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms. They are\nfollowed by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor of\nDublin, his lordship the lord mayor of Cork, their worships the\nmayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish\nrepresentative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the cloth\nof estate, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the chapter of the\nsaints of finance in their plutocratic order of precedence, the bishop\nof Down and Connor, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of\nArmagh, primate of all Ireland, His Grace, the most reverend Dr William\nAlexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, the chief\nrabbi, the presbyterian moderator, the heads of the baptist, anabaptist,\nmethodist and Moravian chapels and the honorary secretary of the society\nof friends. After them march the guilds and trades and trainbands\nwith flying colours: coopers, bird fanciers, millwrights, newspaper\ncanvassers, law scriveners, masseurs, vintners, trussmakers,\nchimneysweeps, lard refiners, tabinet and poplin weavers, farriers,\nItalian warehousemen, church decorators, bootjack manufacturers,\nundertakers, silk mercers, lapidaries, salesmasters, corkcutters,\nassessors of fire losses, dyers and cleaners, export bottlers,\nfellmongers, ticketwriters, heraldic seal engravers, horse repository\nhands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, riddlemakers,\negg and potato factors, hosiers and glovers, plumbing contractors. After\nthem march gentlemen of the bedchamber, Black Rod, Deputy Garter,\nGold Stick, the master of horse, the lord great chamberlain, the earl\nmarshal, the high constable carrying the sword of state, saint Stephen's\niron crown, the chalice and bible. Four buglers on foot blow a sennet.\nBeefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome. Under an arch of triumph\nBloom appears, bareheaded, in a crimson velvet mantle trimmed with\nermine, bearing Saint Edward's staff the orb and sceptre with the dove,\nthe curtana. He is seated on a milkwhite horse with long flowing crimson\ntail, richly caparisoned, with golden headstall. Wild excitement. The\nladies from their balconies throw down rosepetals. The air is perfumed\nwith essences. The men cheer. Bloom's boys run amid the bystanders with\nbranches of hawthorn and wrenbushes.)_\n\nBLOOM'S BOYS:\n\n     The wren, the wren,\n     The king of all birds,\n     Saint Stephen's his day\n     Was caught in the furze.\n\n\nA BLACKSMITH: _(Murmurs)_ For the honour of God! And is that Bloom? He\nscarcely looks thirtyone.\n\nA PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: That's the famous Bloom now, the world's greatest\nreformer. Hats off!\n\n_(All uncover their heads. Women whisper eagerly.)_\n\nA MILLIONAIRESS: _(Richly)_ Isn't he simply wonderful?\n\nA NOBLEWOMAN: _(Nobly)_ All that man has seen!\n\nA FEMINIST: _(Masculinely)_ And done!\n\nA BELLHANGER: A classic face! He has the forehead of a thinker.\n\n_(Bloom's weather. A sunburst appears in the northwest.)_\n\nTHE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: I here present your undoubted\nemperor-president and king-chairman, the most serene and potent and very\npuissant ruler of this realm. God save Leopold the First!\n\nALL: God save Leopold the First!\n\nBLOOM: _(In dalmatic and purple mantle, to the bishop of Down and\nConnor, with dignity)_ Thanks, somewhat eminent sir.\n\nWILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: _(In purple stock and shovel hat)_\nWill you to your power cause law and mercy to be executed in all your\njudgments in Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?\n\nBLOOM: _(Placing his right hand on his testicles, swears)_ So may the\nCreator deal with me. All this I promise to do.\n\nMICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: _(Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's\nhead) Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis. Habemus carneficem._ Leopold,\nPatrick, Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed!\n\n_(Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold and puts on a ruby ring. He\nascends and stands on the stone of destiny. The representative peers put\non at the same time their twentyeight crowns. Joybells ring in Christ\nchurch, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide. Mirus bazaar\nfireworks go up from all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic\ndesigns. The peers do homage, one by one, approaching and\ngenuflecting.)_\n\nTHE PEERS: I do become your liege man of life and limb to earthly\nworship.\n\n_(Bloom holds up his right hand on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor\ndiamond. His palfrey neighs. Immediate silence. Wireless\nintercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception\nof message.)_\n\nBLOOM: My subjects! We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix\nhereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we have this day repudiated\nour former spouse and have bestowed our royal hand upon the princess\nSelene, the splendour of night.\n\n_(The former morganatic spouse of Bloom is hastily removed in the Black\nMaria. The princess Selene, in moonblue robes, a silver crescent on her\nhead, descends from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants. An outburst of\ncheering.)_\n\nJOHN HOWARD PARNELL: _(Raises the royal standard)_ Illustrious Bloom!\nSuccessor to my famous brother!\n\nBLOOM: _(Embraces John Howard Parnell)_ We thank you from our heart,\nJohn, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the promised land of\nour common ancestors.\n\n_(The freedom of the city is presented to him embodied in a charter. The\nkeys of Dublin, crossed on a crimson cushion, are given to him. He shows\nall that he is wearing green socks.)_\n\nTOM KERNAN: You deserve it, your honour.\n\nBLOOM: On this day twenty years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at\nLadysmith. Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with\ntelling effect. Half a league onward! They charge! All is lost now! Do\nwe yield? No! We drive them headlong! Lo! We charge! Deploying to the\nleft our light horse swept across the heights of Plevna and, uttering\ntheir warcry _Bonafide Sabaoth_, sabred the Saracen gunners to a man.\n\nTHE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Hear! Hear!\n\nJOHN WYSE NOLAN: There's the man that got away James Stephens.\n\nA BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: Bravo!\n\nAN OLD RESIDENT: You're a credit to your country, sir, that's what you\nare.\n\nAN APPLEWOMAN: He's a man like Ireland wants.\n\nBLOOM: My beloved subjects, a new era is about to dawn. I, Bloom, tell\nyou verily it is even now at hand. Yea, on the word of a Bloom, ye shall\nere long enter into the golden city which is to be, the new Bloomusalem\nin the Nova Hibernia of the future.\n\n_(Thirtytwo workmen, wearing rosettes, from all the counties of Ireland,\nunder the guidance of Derwan the builder, construct the new Bloomusalem.\nIt is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the shape of a\nhuge pork kidney, containing forty thousand rooms. In the course of its\nextension several buildings and monuments are demolished. Government\noffices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds. Numerous houses\nare razed to the ground. The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and\nboxes, all marked in red with the letters: L. B. several paupers\nfill from a ladder. A part of the walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal\nsightseers, collapses.)_\n\nTHE SIGHTSEERS: _(Dying) Morituri te salutant. (They die)_\n\n_(A man in a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor. He points an\nelongated finger at Bloom.)_\n\nTHE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Don't you believe a word he says. That man is\nLeopold M'Intosh, the notorious fireraiser. His real name is Higgins.\n\nBLOOM: Shoot him! Dog of a christian! So much for M'Intosh!\n\n_(A cannonshot. The man in the macintosh disappears. Bloom with his\nsceptre strikes down poppies. The instantaneous deaths of many\npowerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of standing\ncommittees, are reported. Bloom's bodyguard distribute Maundy money,\ncommemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive\nHenry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in\nsealed envelopes tied with gold thread, butter scotch, pineapple rock,_\nbillets doux _in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers\nof toad in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days'\nindulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes,\nseason tickets available for all tramlines, coupons of the royal and\nprivileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of\nthe World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz (politic), Care of the\nBaby (infantilic), 50 Meals for 7/6 (culinic), Was Jesus a Sun Myth?\n(historic), Expel that Pain (medic), Infant's Compendium of the\nUniverse (cosmic), Let's All Chortle (hilaric), Canvasser's Vade Mecum\n(journalic), Loveletters of Mother Assistant (erotic), Who's Who in\nSpace (astric), Songs that Reached Our Heart (melodic), Pennywise's Way\nto Wealth (parsimonic). A general rush and scramble. Women press forward\nto touch the hem of Bloom's robe. The Lady Gwendolen Dubedat bursts\nthrough the throng, leaps on his horse and kisses him on both cheeks\namid great acclamation. A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken.\nBabes and sucklings are held up.)_\n\nTHE WOMEN: Little father! Little father!\n\nTHE BABES AND SUCKLINGS:\n\n     Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home,\n     Cakes in his pocket for Leo alone.\n\n\n_(Bloom, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the stomach.)_\n\nBABY BOARDMAN: _(Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his mouth)_\nHajajaja.\n\nBLOOM: _(Shaking hands with a blind stripling)_ My more than Brother!\n_(Placing his arms round the shoulders of an old couple)_ Dear old\nfriends! _(He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls)_\nPeep! Bopeep! _(He wheels twins in a perambulator)_ Ticktacktwo\nwouldyousetashoe? _(He performs juggler's tricks, draws red, orange,\nyellow, green, blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from his\nmouth)_ Roygbiv. 32 feet per second. _(He consoles a widow)_ Absence\nmakes the heart grow younger. _(He dances the Highland fling with\ngrotesque antics)_ Leg it, ye devils! _(He kisses the bedsores of a\npalsied veteran_) Honourable wounds! _(He trips up a fit policeman)_\nU. p: up. U. p: up. _(He whispers in the ear of a blushing waitress and\nlaughs kindly)_ Ah, naughty, naughty! _(He eats a raw turnip offered\nhim by Maurice Butterly, farmer)_ Fine! Splendid! _(He refuses to\naccept three shillings offered him by Joseph Hynes, journalist)_ My dear\nfellow, not at all! (He gives his coat to a beggar) Please accept. _(He\ntakes part in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples)_\nCome on, boys! Wriggle it, girls!\n\nTHE CITIZEN: _(Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his emerald\nmuffler)_ May the good God bless him!\n\n_(The rams' horns sound for silence. The standard of Zion is hoisted.)_\n\nBLOOM: _(Uncloaks impressively, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper and\nreads solemnly)_ Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom\nKippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim\nMeshuggah Talith.\n\n_(An official translation is read by Jimmy Henry, assistant town\nclerk.)_\n\nJIMMY HENRY: The Court of Conscience is now open. His Most Catholic\nMajesty will now administer open air justice. Free medical and legal\nadvice, solution of doubles and other problems. All cordially invited.\nGiven at this our loyal city of Dublin in the year I of the Paradisiacal\nEra.\n\nPADDY LEONARD: What am I to do about my rates and taxes?\n\nBLOOM: Pay them, my friend.\n\nPADDY LEONARD: Thank you.\n\nNOSEY FLYNN: Can I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance?\n\nBLOOM: _(Obdurately)_ Sirs, take notice that by the law of torts you are\nbound over in your own recognisances for six months in the sum of five\npounds.\n\nJ. J. O'MOLLOY: A Daniel did I say? Nay! A Peter O'Brien!\n\nNOSEY FLYNN: Where do I draw the five pounds?\n\nPISSER BURKE: For bladder trouble?\n\nBLOOM:\n\n     _Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil.,_ 20 minims\n     _Tinct. nux vom.,_ 5 minims\n     _Extr. taraxel. iiq.,_ 30 minims.\n     _Aq. dis. ter in die._\n\nCHRIS CALLINAN: What is the parallax of the subsolar ecliptic of\nAldebaran?\n\nBLOOM: Pleased to hear from you, Chris. K. II.\n\nJOE HYNES: Why aren't you in uniform?\n\nBLOOM: When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the\nAustrian despot in a dank prison where was yours?\n\nBEN DOLLARD: Pansies?\n\nBLOOM: Embellish (beautify) suburban gardens.\n\nBEN DOLLARD: When twins arrive?\n\nBLOOM: Father (pater, dad) starts thinking.\n\nLARRY O'ROURKE: An eightday licence for my new premises. You remember\nme, sir Leo, when you were in number seven. I'm sending around a dozen\nof stout for the missus.\n\nBLOOM: _(Coldly)_ You have the advantage of me. Lady Bloom accepts no\npresents.\n\nCROFTON: This is indeed a festivity.\n\nBLOOM: _(Solemnly)_ You call it a festivity. I call it a sacrament.\n\nALEXANDER KEYES: When will we have our own house of keys?\n\nBLOOM: I stand for the reform of municipal morals and the plain ten\ncommandments. New worlds for old. Union of all, jew, moslem and gentile.\nThree acres and a cow for all children of nature. Saloon motor hearses.\nCompulsory manual labour for all. All parks open to the public day and\nnight. Electric dishscrubbers. Tuberculosis, lunacy, war and mendicancy\nmust now cease. General amnesty, weekly carnival with masked licence,\nbonuses for all, esperanto the universal language with universal\nbrotherhood. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors.\nFree money, free rent, free love and a free lay church in a free lay\nstate.\n\nO'MADDEN BURKE: Free fox in a free henroost.\n\nDAVY BYRNE: _(Yawning)_ Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach!\n\nBLOOM: Mixed races and mixed marriage.\n\nLENEHAN: What about mixed bathing?\n\n_(bloom explains to those near him his schemes for social regeneration.\nAll agree with him. The keeper of the Kildare Street Museum appears,\ndragging a lorry on which are the shaking statues of several naked\ngoddesses, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos, Venus Metempsychosis, and\nplaster figures, also naked, representing the new nine muses, Commerce,\nOperatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Speech, Plural\nVoting, Gastronomy, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments,\nPainless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.)_\n\nFATHER FARLEY: He is an episcopalian, an agnostic, an anythingarian\nseeking to overthrow our holy faith.\n\nMRS RIORDAN: _(Tears up her will)_ I'm disappointed in you! You bad man!\n\nMOTHER GROGAN: _(Removes her boot to throw it at Bloom)_ You beast! You\nabominable person!\n\nNOSEY FLYNN: Give us a tune, Bloom. One of the old sweet songs.\n\nBLOOM: _(With rollicking humour)_\n\n     I vowed that I never would leave her,\n     She turned out a cruel deceiver.\n     With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom.\n\nHOPPY HOLOHAN: Good old Bloom! There's nobody like him after all.\n\nPADDY LEONARD: Stage Irishman!\n\nBLOOM: What railway opera is like a tramline in Gibraltar? The Rows of\nCasteele._(Laughter.)_\n\nLENEHAN: Plagiarist! Down with Bloom!\n\nTHE VEILED SIBYL: _(Enthusiastically)_ I'm a Bloomite and I glory in it.\nI believe in him in spite of all. I'd give my life for him, the funniest\nman on earth.\n\nBLOOM: _(Winks at the bystanders)_ I bet she's a bonny lassie.\n\nTHEODORE PUREFOY: _(In fishingcap and oilskin jacket)_ He employs a\nmechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature.\n\nTHE VEILED SIBYL: _(Stabs herself)_ My hero god! _(She dies)_\n\n_(Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by\nstabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening\ntheir veins, refusing food, casting themselves under steamrollers, from\nthe top of Nelson's Pillar, into the great vat of Guinness's brewery,\nasphyxiating themselves by placing their heads in gasovens, hanging\nthemselves in stylish garters, leaping from windows of different\nstoreys.)_\n\nALEXANDER J DOWIE: _(Violently)_ Fellowchristians and antiBloomites, the\nman called Bloom is from the roots of hell, a disgrace to christian\nmen. A fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat\nof Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery, recalling the\ncities of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. This vile hypocrite,\nbronzed with infamy, is the white bull mentioned in the Apocalypse.\nA worshipper of the Scarlet Woman, intrigue is the very breath of his\nnostrils. The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him.\nCaliban!\n\nTHE MOB: Lynch him! Roast him! He's as bad as Parnell was. Mr Fox!\n\n_(Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom. Several shopkeepers from upper\nand lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value,\nhambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's\ntails, odd pieces of fat.)_\n\nBLOOM: _(Excitedly)_ This is midsummer madness, some ghastly joke again.\nBy heaven, I am guiltless as the unsunned snow! It was my brother Henry.\nHe is my double. He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn. Slander, the\nviper, has wrongfully accused me. Fellowcountrymen, _sgenl inn ban bata\ncoisde gan capall._ I call on my old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex\nspecialist, to give medical testimony on my behalf.\n\nDR MULLIGAN: _(In motor jerkin, green motorgoggles on his brow)_ Dr\nBloom is bisexually abnormal. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace's\nprivate asylum for demented gentlemen. Born out of bedlock hereditary\nepilepsy is present, the consequence of unbridled lust. Traces of\nelephantiasis have been discovered among his ascendants. There are\nmarked symptoms of chronic exhibitionism. Ambidexterity is also\nlatent. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in\nconsequence, a reformed rake, and has metal teeth. In consequence of a\nfamily complex he has temporarily lost his memory and I believe him\nto be more sinned against than sinning. I have made a pervaginal\nexamination and, after application of the acid test to 5427 anal,\naxillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be _virgo intacta._\n\n_(Bloom holds his high grade hat over his genital organs.)_\n\nDR MADDEN: Hypsospadia is also marked. In the interest of coming\ngenerations I suggest that the parts affected should be preserved in\nspirits of wine in the national teratological museum.\n\nDR CROTTHERS: I have examined the patient's urine. It is albuminoid.\nSalivation is insufficient, the patellar reflex intermittent.\n\nDR PUNCH COSTELLO: The _fetor judaicus_ is most perceptible.\n\nDR DIXON: _(Reads a bill of health)_ Professor Bloom is a finished\nexample of the new womanly man. His moral nature is simple and lovable.\nMany have found him a dear man, a dear person. He is a rather quaint\nfellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the medical sense.\nHe has written a really beautiful letter, a poem in itself, to the court\nmissionary of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society which clears up\neverything. He is practically a total abstainer and I can affirm that\nhe sleeps on a straw litter and eats the most Spartan food, cold dried\ngrocer's peas. He wears a hairshirt of pure Irish manufacture winter and\nsummer and scourges himself every Saturday. He was, I understand, at one\ntime a firstclass misdemeanant in Glencree reformatory. Another report\nstates that he was a very posthumous child. I appeal for clemency in the\nname of the most sacred word our vocal organs have ever been called upon\nto speak. He is about to have a baby.\n\n_(General commotion and compassion. Women faint. A wealthy American\nmakes a street collection for Bloom. Gold and silver coins, blank\ncheques, banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds, maturing bills of exchange,\nI. O. U's, wedding rings, watchchains, lockets, necklaces and bracelets\nare rapidly collected.)_\n\nBLOOM: O, I so want to be a mother.\n\nMRS THORNTON: _(In nursetender's gown)_ Embrace me tight, dear. You'll\nbe soon over it. Tight, dear.\n\n_(Bloom embraces her tightly and bears eight male yellow and white\nchildren. They appear on a redcarpeted staircase adorned with expensive\nplants. All the octuplets are handsome, with valuable metallic faces,\nwellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern\nlanguages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences. Each\nhas his name printed in legible letters on his shirtfront: Nasodoro,\nGoldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber,\nVifargent, Panargyros. They are immediately appointed to positions of\nhigh public trust in several different countries as managing directors\nof banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmen of limited liability\ncompanies, vicechairmen of hotel syndicates.)_\n\nA VOICE: Bloom, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David?\n\nBLOOM: _(Darkly)_ You have said it.\n\nBROTHER BUZZ: Then perform a miracle like Father Charles.\n\nBANTAM LYONS: Prophesy who will win the Saint Leger.\n\n_(Bloom walks on a net, covers his left eye with his left ear, passes\nthrough several walls, climbs Nelson's Pillar, hangs from the top ledge\nby his eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters (shells included), heals\nseveral sufferers from king's evil, contracts his face so as to resemble\nmany historical personages, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler,\nMoses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip\nvan Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild,\nRobinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot\nsimultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back,\neclipses the sun by extending his little finger.)_\n\nBRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: _(In papal zouave's uniform, steel cuirasses as\nbreastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large profane moustaches\nand brown paper mitre) Leopoldi autem generatio._ Moses begat Noah\nand Noah begat Eunuch and Eunuch begat O'Halloran and O'Halloran begat\nGuggenheim and Guggenheim begat Agendath and Agendath begat Netaim and\nNetaim begat Le Hirsch and Le Hirsch begat Jesurum and Jesurum begat\nMacKay and MacKay begat Ostrolopsky and Ostrolopsky begat Smerdoz\nand Smerdoz begat Weiss and Weiss begat Schwarz and Schwarz begat\nAdrianopoli and Adrianopoli begat Aranjuez and Aranjuez begat Lewy\nLawson and Lewy Lawson begat Ichabudonosor and Ichabudonosor begat\nO'Donnell Magnus and O'Donnell Magnus begat Christbaum and Christbaum\nbegat ben Maimun and ben Maimun begat Dusty Rhodes and Dusty Rhodes\nbegat Benamor and Benamor begat Jones-Smith and Jones-Smith begat\nSavorgnanovich and Savorgnanovich begat Jasperstone and Jasperstone\nbegat Vingtetunieme and Vingtetunieme begat Szombathely and Szombathely\nbegat Virag and Virag begat Bloom _et vocabitur nomen eius Emmanuel._\n\nA DEADHAND: _(Writes on the wall)_ Bloom is a cod.\n\nCRAB: _(In bushranger's kit)_ What did you do in the cattlecreep behind\nKilbarrack?\n\nA FEMALE INFANT: _(Shakes a rattle)_ And under Ballybough bridge?\n\nA HOLLYBUSH: And in the devil's glen?\n\nBLOOM: _(Blushes furiously all over from frons to nates, three tears\nfilling from his left eye)_ Spare my past.\n\nTHE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: _(In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with Donnybrook\nfair shillelaghs)_ Sjambok him!\n\n_(Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in the pillory with crossed arms,\nhis feet protruding. He whistles_ Don Giovanni, a cenar teco. _Artane\norphans, joining hands, caper round him. Girls of the Prison Gate\nMission, joining hands, caper round in the opposite direction.)_\n\nTHE ARTANE ORPHANS:\n\n     You hig, you hog, you dirty dog!\n     You think the ladies love you!\n     THE PRISON GATE GIRLS:\n\n\n     If you see Kay\n     Tell him he may\n     See you in tea\n     Tell him from me.\n\nHORNBLOWER: _(In ephod and huntingcap, announces)_ And he shall carry\nthe sins of the people to Azazel, the spirit which is in the wilderness,\nand to Lilith, the nighthag. And they shall stone him and defile him,\nyea, all from Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the land of Ham.\n\n_(All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom. Many bonafide\ntravellers and ownerless dogs come near him and defile him. Mastiansky\nand Citron approach in gaberdines, wearing long earlocks. They wag their\nbeards at Bloom.)_\n\nMASTIANSKY AND CITRON: Belial! Laemlein of Istria, the false Messiah!\nAbulafia! Recant!\n\n_(George R Mesias, Bloom's tailor, appears, a tailor's goose under his\narm, presenting a bill)_\n\nMESIAS: To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings.\n\nBLOOM: _(Rubs his hands cheerfully)_ Just like old times. Poor Bloom!\n\n_(Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his\nshoulders the drowned corpse of his son, approaches the pillory.)_\n\nREUBEN J: _(Whispers hoarsely)_ The squeak is out. A split is gone for\nthe flatties. Nip the first rattler.\n\nTHE FIRE BRIGADE: Pflaap!\n\nBROTHER BUZZ: _(Invests Bloom in a yellow habit with embroidery of\npainted flames and high pointed hat. He places a bag of gunpowder round\nhis neck and hands him over to the civil power, saying)_ Forgive him his\ntrespasses.\n\n_(Lieutenant Myers of the Dublin Fire Brigade by general request sets\nfire to Bloom. Lamentations.)_\n\nTHE CITIZEN: Thank heaven!\n\nBLOOM: _(In a seamless garment marked I. H. S. stands upright amid\nphoenix flames)_ Weep not for me, O daughters of Erin.\n\n_(He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces of burning. The daughters of\nErin, in black garments, with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles\nin their hands, kneel down and pray.)_\n\nTHE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN:\n\n     Kidney of Bloom, pray for us\n     Flower of the Bath, pray for us\n     Mentor of Menton, pray for us\n     Canvasser for the Freeman, pray for us\n     Charitable Mason, pray for us\n     Wandering Soap, pray for us\n     Sweets of Sin, pray for us\n     Music without Words, pray for us\n     Reprover of the Citizen, pray for us\n     Friend of all Frillies, pray for us\n     Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us\n     Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us.\n\n_(A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'brien, sings\nthe chorus from Handel's Messiah alleluia for the lord god omnipotent\nreigneth, accompanied on the organ by Joseph Glynn. Bloom becomes mute,\nshrunken, carbonised.)_\n\n\nZOE: Talk away till you're black in the face.\n\nBLOOM: _(In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in the band, dusty brogues, an\nemigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his hand, leading a black bogoak\npig by a sugaun, with a smile in his eye)_ Let me be going now, woman of\nthe house, for by all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the\nfather and mother of a bating. _(With a tear in his eye)_ All insanity.\nPatriotism, sorrow for the dead, music, future of the race. To be or not\nto be. Life's dream is o'er. End it peacefully. They can live on. _(He\ngazes far away mournfully)_ I am ruined. A few pastilles of aconite. The\nblinds drawn. A letter. Then lie back to rest. _(He breathes softly)_ No\nmore. I have lived. Fare. Farewell.\n\nZOE: _(Stiffly, her finger in her neckfillet)_ Honest? Till the next\ntime. _(She sneers)_ Suppose you got up the wrong side of the bed or\ncame too quick with your best girl. O, I can read your thoughts!\n\nBLOOM: _(Bitterly)_ Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and bottle.\nI'm sick of it. Let everything rip.\n\nZOE: _(In sudden sulks)_ I hate a rotter that's insincere. Give a\nbleeding whore a chance.\n\nBLOOM: _(Repentantly)_ I am very disagreeable. You are a necessary evil.\nWhere are you from? London?\n\nZOE: _(Glibly)_ Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs. I'm\nYorkshire born. _(She holds his hand which is feeling for her nipple)_\nI say, Tommy Tittlemouse. Stop that and begin worse. Have you cash for a\nshort time? Ten shillings?\n\nBLOOM: _(Smiles, nods slowly)_ More, houri, more.\n\nZOE: And more's mother? _(She pats him offhandedly with velvet paws)_\nAre you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola? Come and I'll\npeel off.\n\nBLOOM: _(Feeling his occiput dubiously with the unparalleled\nembarrassment of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her peeled\npears)_ Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew. The greeneyed\nmonster. _(Earnestly)_ You know how difficult it is. I needn't tell you.\n\nZOE: _(Flattered)_ What the eye can't see the heart can't grieve for.\n_(She pats him)_ Come.\n\nBLOOM: Laughing witch! The hand that rocks the cradle.\n\nZOE: Babby!\n\nBLOOM: _(In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with a caul of dark hair,\nfixes big eyes on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles with a\nchubby finger, his moist tongue lolling and lisping)_ One two tlee: tlee\ntlwo tlone.\n\nTHE BUCKLES: Love me. Love me not. Love me.\n\nZOE: Silent means consent. _(With little parted talons she captures his\nhand, her forefinger giving to his palm the passtouch of secret monitor,\nluring him to doom.)_ Hot hands cold gizzard.\n\n_(He hesitates amid scents, music, temptations. She leads him towards\nthe steps, drawing him by the odour of her armpits, the vice of her\npainted eyes, the rustle of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the\nlion reek of all the male brutes that have possessed her.)_\n\nTHE MALE BRUTES: _(Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their\nloosebox, faintly roaring, their drugged heads swaying to and fro)_\nGood!\n\n_(Zoe and Bloom reach the doorway where two sister whores are seated.\nThey examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile to\nhis hasty bow. He trips awkwardly.)_\n\nZOE: _(Her lucky hand instantly saving him)_ Hoopsa! Don't fall\nupstairs.\n\nBLOOM: The just man falls seven times. _(He stands aside at the\nthreshold)_ After you is good manners.\n\nZOE: Ladies first, gentlemen after.\n\n_(She crosses the threshold. He hesitates. She turns and, holding out\nher hands, draws him over. He hops. On the antlered rack of the hall\nhang a man 's hat and waterproof. Bloom uncovers himself but, seeing\nthem, frowns, then smiles, preoccupied. A door on the return landing is\nflung open. A man in purple shirt and grey trousers, brownsocked, passes\nwith an ape's gait, his bald head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a\nfull waterjugjar, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels. Averting\nhis face quickly Bloom bends to examine on the halltable the spaniel\neyes of a running fox: then, his lifted head sniffing, follows Zoe\ninto the musicroom. A shade of mauve tissuepaper dims the light of the\nchandelier. Round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping. The\nfloor is covered with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar\nrhomboids. Footmarks are stamped over it in all senses, heel to heel,\nheel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a morris of shuffling feet\nwithout body phantoms, all in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. The walls\nare tapestried with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. In the grate\nis spread a screen of peacock feathers. Lynch squats crosslegged on\nthe hearthrug of matted hair, his cap back to the front. With a wand he\nbeats time slowly. Kitty Ricketts, a bony pallid whore in navy costume,\ndoeskin gloves rolled back from a coral wristlet, a chain purse in\nher hand, sits perched on the edge of the table swinging her leg and\nglancing at herself in the gilt mirror over the mantelpiece. A tag\nof her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket. Lynch indicates\nmockingly the couple at the piano.)_\n\nKITTY: _(Coughs behind her hand)_ She's a bit imbecillic. _(She signs\nwith a waggling forefinger)_ Blemblem. _(Lynch lifts up her skirt and\nwhite petticoat with his wand she settles them down quickly.)_ Respect\nyourself. _(She hiccups, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which\nher hair glows, red with henna)_ O, excuse!\n\nZOE: More limelight, Charley. _(She goes to the chandelier and turns the\ngas full cock)_\n\nKITTY: _(Peers at the gasjet)_ What ails it tonight?\n\nLYNCH: _(Deeply)_ Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.\n\nZOE: Clap on the back for Zoe.\n\n_(The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: a brass poker. Stephen stands at\nthe pianola on which sprawl his hat and ashplant. With two fingers he\nrepeats once more the series of empty fifths. Florry Talbot, a blond\nfeeble goosefat whore in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry,\nlolls spreadeagle in the sofacorner, her limp forearm pendent over the\nbolster, listening. A heavy stye droops over her sleepy eyelid.)_\n\nKITTY: _(Hiccups again with a kick of her horsed foot)_ O, excuse!\n\nZOE: _(Promptly)_ Your boy's thinking of you. Tie a knot on your shift.\n\n_(Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over\nher shoulder, back, arm, chair to the ground. Lynch lifts the curled\ncaterpillar on his wand. She snakes her neck, nestling. Stephen glances\nbehind at the squatted figure with its cap back to the front.)_\n\nSTEPHEN: As a matter of fact it is of no importance whether Benedetto\nMarcello found it or made it. The rite is the poet's rest. It may be an\nold hymn to Demeter or also illustrate _Coela enarrant gloriam Domini._\nIt is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and\nmixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David's\nthat is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip\nfrom the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness of his\nalmightiness. _Mais nom de nom,_ that is another pair of trousers.\n_Jetez la gourme. Faut que jeunesse se passe. (He stops, points at\nLynch's cap, smiles, laughs)_ Which side is your knowledge bump?\n\nTHE CAP: _(With saturnine spleen)_ Bah! It is because it is. Woman's\nreason. Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet. Death is the highest form\nof life. Bah!\n\nSTEPHEN: You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes.\nHow long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? Whetstone!\n\nTHE CAP: Bah!\n\nSTEPHEN: Here's another for you. _(He frowns)_ The reason is because\nthe fundamental and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible\ninterval which...\n\nTHE CAP: Which? Finish. You can't.\n\nSTEPHEN: _(With an effort)_ Interval which. Is the greatest possible\nellipse. Consistent with. The ultimate return. The octave. Which.\n\nTHE CAP: Which?\n\n_(Outside the gramophone begins to blare_ The Holy City.)\n\nSTEPHEN: _(Abruptly)_ What went forth to the ends of the world to\ntraverse not itself, God, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller,\nhaving itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self. Wait a\nmoment. Wait a second. Damn that fellow's noise in the street. Self\nwhich it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. _Ecco!_\n\nLYNCH: _(With a mocking whinny of laughter grins at Bloom and Zoe\nHiggins)_ What a learned speech, eh?\n\nZOE: _(Briskly)_ God help your head, he knows more than you have\nforgotten.\n\n_(With obese stupidity Florry Talbot regards Stephen.)_\n\nFLORRY: They say the last day is coming this summer.\n\nKITTY: No!\n\nZOE: _(Explodes in laughter)_ Great unjust God!\n\nFLORRY: _(Offended)_ Well, it was in the papers about Antichrist. O, my\nfoot's tickling.\n\n_(Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past,\nyelling.)_\n\nTHE NEWSBOYS: Stop press edition. Result of the rockinghorse races. Sea\nserpent in the royal canal. Safe arrival of Antichrist.\n\n_(Stephen turns and sees Bloom.)_\n\nSTEPHEN: A time, times and half a time.\n\n_(Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a clutching hand open on his\nspine, stumps forward. Across his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from\nwhich protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills. Aloft over his\nshoulder he bears a long boatpole from the hook of which the sodden\nhuddled mass of his only son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from\nthe slack of its breeches. A hobgoblin in the image of Punch Costello,\nhipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead\nand Ally Sloper nose, tumbles in somersaults through the gathering\ndarkness.)_\n\nALL: What?\n\nTHE HOBGOBLIN: _(His jaws chattering, capers to and fro, goggling his\neyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched clutching arms, then\nall at once thrusts his lipless face through the fork of his thighs) Il\nvient! C'est moi! L'homme qui rit! L'homme primigene! (He whirls round\nand round with dervish howls) Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux! (He\ncrouches juggling. Tiny roulette planets fly from his hands.) Les jeux\nsont faits! (The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks) Rien\nva plus! (The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and away. He\nsprings off into vacuum.)_\n\nFLORRY: _(Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly)_ The end of\nthe world!\n\n_(A female tepid effluvium leaks out from her. Nebulous obscurity\noccupies space. Through the drifting fog without the gramophone blares\nover coughs and feetshuffling.)_\n\nTHE GRAMOPHONE: Jerusalem!\n\nOpen your gates and sing\n\nHosanna...\n\n_(A rocket rushes up the sky and bursts. A white star fills from it,\nproclaiming the consummation of all things and second coming of Elijah.\nAlong an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End\nof the World, a twoheaded octopus in gillie's kilts, busby and tartan\nfilibegs, whirls through the murk, head over heels, in the form of the\nThree Legs of Man.)_\n\nTHE END OF THE WORLD: _(with a Scotch accent)_ Wha'll dance the keel\nrow, the keel row, the keel row?\n\n_(Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, harsh\nas a corncrake's, jars on high. Perspiring in a loose lawn surplice with\nfunnel sleeves he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the\nbanner of old glory is draped. He thumps the parapet.)_\n\nELIJAH: No yapping, if you please, in this booth. Jake Crane, Creole\nSue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths\nshut. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. Boys, do it now. God's\ntime is 12.25. Tell mother you'll be there. Rush your order and you play\na slick ace. Join on right here. Book through to eternity junction, the\nnonstop run. Just one word more. Are you a god or a doggone clod? If the\nsecond advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ, Stephen\nChrist, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it's up to\nyou to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos?\nNo. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something\nwithin, the higher self. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama,\nan Ingersoll. Are you all in this vibration? I say you are. You once\nnobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back\nnumber. You got me? It's a lifebrightener, sure. The hottest stuff ever\nwas. It's the whole pie with jam in. It's just the cutest snappiest line\nout. It is immense, supersumptuous. It restores. It vibrates. I know\nand I am some vibrator. Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A.\nJ. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy, have you got that? O. K.\nSeventyseven west sixtyninth street. Got me? That's it. You call me up\nby sunphone any old time. Bumboosers, save your stamps. _(He shouts)_\nNow then our glory song. All join heartily in the singing. Encore! _(He\nsings)_ Jeru...\n\nTHE GRAMOPHONE: _(Drowning his voice)_ Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh...\n_(The disc rasps gratingly against the needle)_\n\nTHE THREE WHORES: _(Covering their ears, squawk)_ Ahhkkk!\n\nELIJAH: _(In rolledup shirtsleeves, black in the face, shouts at the top\nof his voice, his arms uplifted)_ Big Brother up there, Mr President,\nyou hear what I done just been saying to you. Certainly, I sort of\nbelieve strong in you, Mr President. I certainly am thinking now Miss\nHiggins and Miss Ricketts got religion way inside them. Certainly seems\nto me I don't never see no wusser scared female than the way you been,\nMiss Florry, just now as I done seed you. Mr President, you come long\nand help me save our sisters dear. _(He winks at his audience)_ Our Mr\nPresident, he twig the whole lot and he aint saying nothing.\n\nKITTY-KATE: I forgot myself. In a weak moment I erred and did what I did\non Constitution hill. I was confirmed by the bishop and enrolled in\nthe brown scapular. My mother's sister married a Montmorency. It was a\nworking plumber was my ruination when I was pure.\n\nZOE-FANNY: I let him larrup it into me for the fun of it.\n\nFLORRY-TERESA: It was in consequence of a portwine beverage on top of\nHennessy's three star. I was guilty with Whelan when he slipped into the\nbed.\n\nSTEPHEN: In the beginning was the word, in the end the world without\nend. Blessed be the eight beatitudes.\n\n_(The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, Lenehan, Bannon,\nMulligan and Lynch in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast,\ngoosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching)_\n\nTHE BEATITUDES: _(Incoherently)_ Beer beef battledog buybull businum\nbarnum buggerum bishop.\n\nLYSTER: _(In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, says\ndiscreetly)_ He is our friend. I need not mention names. Seek thou the\nlight.\n\n_(He corantos by. Best enters in hairdresser's attire, shinily\nlaundered, his locks in curlpapers. He leads John Eglinton who wears a\nmandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, lizardlettered, and a high pagoda\nhat.)_\n\nBEST: _(Smiling, lifts the hat and displays a shaven poll from the crown\nof which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with an orange topknot)_ I was\njust beautifying him, don't you know. A thing of beauty, don't you know,\nYeats says, or I mean, Keats says.\n\nJOHN EGLINTON: _(Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it\ntowards a corner: with carping accent)_ Esthetics and cosmetics are for\nthe boudoir. I am out for truth. Plain truth for a plain man. Tanderagee\nwants the facts and means to get them.\n\n_(In the cone of the searchlight behind the coalscuttle, ollave,\nholyeyed, the bearded figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees.\nHe rises slowly. A cold seawind blows from his druid mouth. About his\nhead writhe eels and elvers. He is encrusted with weeds and shells. His\nright hand holds a bicycle pump. His left hand grasps a huge crayfish by\nits two talons.)_\n\nMANANAUN MACLIR: _(With a voice of waves)_ Aum! Hek! Wal! Ak! Lub! Mor!\nMa! White yoghin of the gods. Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos.\n_(With a voice of whistling seawind)_ Punarjanam patsypunjaub! I won't\nhave my leg pulled. It has been said by one: beware the left, the cult\nof Shakti. _(With a cry of stormbirds)_ Shakti Shiva, darkhidden Father!\n_(He smites with his bicycle pump the crayfish in his left hand. On its\ncooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the zodiac. He wails with\nthe vehemence of the ocean.)_ Aum! Baum! Pyjaum! I am the light of the\nhomestead! I am the dreamery creamery butter.\n\n_(A skeleton judashand strangles the light. The green light wanes to\nmauve. The gasjet wails whistling.)_\n\nTHE GASJET: Pooah! Pfuiiiiiii!\n\n_(Zoe runs to the chandelier and, crooking her leg, adjusts the\nmantle.)_\n\nZOE: Who has a fag as I'm here?\n\nLYNCH: _(Tossing a cigarette on to the table)_ Here.\n\nZOE: _(Her head perched aside in mock pride)_ Is that the way to hand\nthe _pot_ to a lady? _(She stretches up to light the cigarette over the\nflame, twirling it slowly, showing the brown tufts of her armpits. Lynch\nwith his poker lifts boldly a side of her slip. Bare from her garters up\nher flesh appears under the sapphire a nixie's green. She puffs calmly\nat her cigarette.)_ Can you see the beautyspot of my behind?\n\nLYNCH: I'm not looking\n\nZOE: _(Makes sheep's eyes)_ No? You wouldn't do a less thing. Would you\nsuck a lemon?\n\n_(Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom,\nthen twists round towards him, pulling her slip free of the poker. Blue\nfluid again flows over her flesh. Bloom stands, smiling desirously,\ntwirling his thumbs. Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her\nspittle and, gazing in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Lipoti Virag,\nbasilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the chimneyflue and struts\ntwo steps to the left on gawky pink stilts. He is sausaged into several\novercoats and wears a brown macintosh under which he holds a roll of\nparchment. In his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor\nFitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. On his head is perched an Egyptian pshent.\nTwo quills project over his ears.)_\n\nVIRAG: _(Heels together, bows)_ My name is Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely.\n_(He coughs thoughtfully, drily)_ Promiscuous nakedness is much in\nevidence hereabouts, eh? Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact\nthat she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you\nare a particular devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I hope you\nperceived? Good.\n\nBLOOM: Granpapachi. But...\n\nVIRAG: Number two on the other hand, she of the cherry rouge and\ncoiffeuse white, whose hair owes not a little to our tribal elixir of\ngopherwood, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit, I\nshould opine. Backbone in front, so to say. Correct me but I always\nunderstood that the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses of\nlingerie appealed to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. In a\nword. Hippogriff. Am I right?\n\nBLOOM: She is rather lean.\n\nVIRAG: _(Not unpleasantly)_ Absolutely! Well observed and those pannier\npockets of the skirt and slightly pegtop effect are devised to suggest\nbunchiness of hip. A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull\nhas been mulcted. Meretricious finery to deceive the eye. Observe the\nattention to details of dustspecks. Never put on you tomorrow what you\ncan wear today. Parallax! _(With a nervous twitch of his head)_ Did you\nhear my brain go snap? Pollysyllabax!\n\nBLOOM: _(An elbow resting in a hand, a forefinger against his cheek)_\nShe seems sad.\n\nVIRAG: _(Cynically, his weasel teeth bared yellow, draws down his left\neye with a finger and barks hoarsely)_ Hoax! Beware of the flapper\nand bogus mournful. Lily of the alley. All possess bachelor's button\ndiscovered by Rualdus Columbus. Tumble her. Columble her. Chameleon.\n_(More genially)_ Well then, permit me to draw your attention to item\nnumber three. There is plenty of her visible to the naked eye. Observe\nthe mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull. What ho, she\nbumps! The ugly duckling of the party, longcasted and deep in keel.\n\nBLOOM: _(Regretfully)_ When you come out without your gun.\n\nVIRAG: We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong. Pay your\nmoney, take your choice. How happy could you be with either...\n\nBLOOM: With...?\n\nVIRAG: _(His tongue upcurling)_ Lyum! Look. Her beam is broad. She\nis coated with quite a considerable layer of fat. Obviously mammal in\nweight of bosom you remark that she has in front well to the fore two\nprotuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the\nnoonday soupplate, while on her rere lower down are two additional\nprotuberances, suggestive of potent rectum and tumescent for palpation,\nwhich leave nothing to be desired save compactness. Such fleshy parts\nare the product of careful nurture. When coopfattened their livers\nreach an elephantine size. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and\ngumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green tea endow them during their\nbrief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. That\nsuits your book, eh? Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after. Wallow in\nit. Lycopodium. _(His throat twitches)_ Slapbang! There he goes again.\n\nBLOOM: The stye I dislike.\n\nVIRAG: _(Arches his eyebrows)_ Contact with a goldring, they say.\n_Argumentum ad feminam_, as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece\nin the consulship of Diplodocus and Ichthyosauros. For the rest Eve's\nsovereign remedy. Not for sale. Hire only. Huguenot. _(He twitches)_ It\nis a funny sound. _(He coughs encouragingly)_ But possibly it is only a\nwart. I presume you shall have remembered what I will have taught you on\nthat head? Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg.\n\nBLOOM: _(Reflecting)_ Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax. This\nsearching ordeal. It has been an unusually fatiguing day, a chapter of\naccidents. Wait. I mean, wartsblood spreads warts, you said...\n\nVIRAG: _(Severely, his nose hardhumped, his side eye winking)_ Stop\ntwirling your thumbs and have a good old thunk. See, you have forgotten.\nExercise your mnemotechnic. _La causa è santa_. Tara. Tara. _(Aside)_ He\nwill surely remember.\n\nBLOOM: Rosemary also did I understand you to say or willpower over\nparasitic tissues. Then nay no I have an inkling. The touch of a\ndeadhand cures. Mnemo?\n\nVIRAG: _(Excitedly)_ I say so. I say so. E'en so. Technic. _(He taps his\nparchmentroll energetically)_ This book tells you how to act with all\ndescriptive particulars. Consult index for agitated fear of aconite,\nmelancholy of muriatic, priapic pulsatilla. Virag is going to talk about\namputation. Our old friend caustic. They must be starved. Snip off with\nhorsehair under the denned neck. But, to change the venue to the Bulgar\nand the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike\nwomen in male habiliments? _(With a dry snigger)_ You intended to devote\nan entire year to the study of the religious problem and the summer\nmonths of 1886 to square the circle and win that million. Pomegranate!\nFrom the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step. Pyjamas, let us say?\nOr stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? Or, put we the case,\nthose complicated combinations, camiknickers? _(He crows derisively)_\nKeekeereekee!\n\n_(Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whores then gazes at the veiled\nmauve light, hearing the everflying moth.)_\n\nBLOOM: I wanted then to have now concluded. Nightdress was never. Hence\nthis. But tomorrow is a new day will be. Past was is today. What now is\nwill then morrow as now was be past yester.\n\nVIRAG: _(Prompts in a pig's whisper)_ Insects of the day spend their\nbrief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smell of the\ninferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified pudendal nerve\nin dorsal region. Pretty Poll! _(His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally)_\nThey had a proverb in the Carpathians in or about the year five thousand\nfive hundred and fifty of our era. One tablespoonful of honey will\nattract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt\nvinegar. Bear's buzz bothers bees. But of this apart. At another time\nwe may resume. We were very pleased, we others. _(He coughs and, bending\nhis brow, rubs his nose thoughtfully with a scooping hand)_ You shall\nfind that these night insects follow the light. An illusion for remember\ntheir complex unadjustable eye. For all these knotty points see the\nseventeenth book of my Fundamentals of Sexology or the Love Passion\nwhich Doctor L.B. says is the book sensation of the year. Some, to\nexample, there are again whose movements are automatic. Perceive. That\nis his appropriate sun. Nightbird nightsun nighttown. Chase me, Charley!\n_(He blows into bloom's ear)_ Buzz!\n\nBLOOM: Bee or bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed self\nthen me wandered dazed down shirt good job I...\n\nVIRAG: _(His face impassive, laughs in a rich feminine key)_ Splendid!\nSpanish fly in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble. _(He gobbles\ngluttonously with turkey wattles)_ Bubbly jock! Bubbly jock! Where are\nwe? Open Sesame! Cometh forth! _(He unrolls his parchment rapidly and\nreads, his glowworm's nose running backwards over the letters which he\nclaws)_ Stay, good friend. I bring thee thy answer. Redbank oysters will\nshortly be upon us. I'm the best o'cook. Those succulent bivalves may\nhelp us and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through mister\nomnivorous porker, were unsurpassed in cases of nervous debility or\nviragitis. Though they stink yet they sting. _(He wags his head with\ncackling raillery)_ Jocular. With my eyeglass in my ocular. _(He\nsneezes)_ Amen!\n\nBLOOM: _(Absently)_ Ocularly woman's bivalve case is worse. Always open\nsesame. The cloven sex. Why they fear vermin, creeping things. Yet Eve\nand the serpent contradicts. Not a historical fact. Obvious analogy\nto my idea. Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. Wind their way\nthrough miles of omnivorous forest to sucksucculent her breast dry. Like\nthose bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis.\n\nVIRAG: _(His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes stonily forlornly\nclosed, psalms in outlandish monotone)_ That the cows with their those\ndistended udders that they have been the the known...\n\nBLOOM: I am going to scream. I beg your pardon. Ah? So. _(He repeats)_\nSpontaneously to seek out the saurian's lair in order to entrust their\nteats to his avid suction. Ant milks aphis. _(Profoundly)_ Instinct\nrules the world. In life. In death.\n\nVIRAG: _(Head askew, arches his back and hunched wingshoulders, peers\nat the moth out of blear bulged eyes, points a horning claw and cries)_\nWho's moth moth? Who's dear Gerald? Dear Ger, that you? O dear, he is\nGerald. O, I much fear he shall be most badly burned. Will some pleashe\npershon not now impediment so catastrophics mit agitation of firstclass\ntablenumpkin? _(He mews)_ Puss puss puss puss! _(He sighs, draws back\nand stares sideways down with dropping underjaw)_ Well, well. He doth\nrest anon. (He snaps his jaws suddenly on the air)\n\nTHE MOTH:\n\n     I'm a tiny tiny thing\n     Ever flying in the spring\n     Round and round a ringaring.\n     Long ago I was a king\n     Now I do this kind of thing\n     On the wing, on the wing!\n     Bing!\n\n_(He rushes against the mauve shade, flapping noisily)_ Pretty pretty\npretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.\n\n_(From left upper entrance with two gliding steps Henry Flower comes\nforward to left front centre. He wears a dark mantle and drooping plumed\nsombrero. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a longstemmed\nbamboo Jacob's pipe, its clay bowl fashioned as a female head. He wears\ndark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps. He has the romantic Saviour's\nface with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache. His spindlelegs and\nsparrow feet are those of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia. He settles\ndown his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips with a passage of his\namorous tongue.)_\n\nHENRY: _(In a low dulcet voice, touching the strings of his guitar)_\nThere is a flower that bloometh.\n\n_(Virag truculent, his jowl set, stares at the lamp. Grave Bloom regards\nZoe's neck. Henry gallant turns with pendant dewlap to the piano.)_\n\nSTEPHEN: _(To himself)_ Play with your eyes shut. Imitate pa. Filling my\nbelly with husks of swine. Too much of this. I will arise and go to my.\nExpect this is the. Steve, thou art in a parlous way. Must visit old\nDeasy or telegraph. Our interview of this morning has left on me a deep\nimpression. Though our ages. Will write fully tomorrow. I'm partially\ndrunk, by the way. _(He touches the keys again)_ Minor chord comes now.\nYes. Not much however.\n\n_(Almidano Artifoni holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous\nmoustachework.)_\n\nARTIFONI: _Ci rifletta. Lei rovina tutto._\n\nFLORRY: Sing us something. Love's old sweet song.\n\nSTEPHEN: No voice. I am a most finished artist. Lynch, did I show you\nthe letter about the lute?\n\nFLORRY: _(Smirking)_ The bird that can sing and won't sing.\n\n_(The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two Oxford dons with\nlawnmowers, appear in the window embrasure. Both are masked with Matthew\nArnold's face.)_\n\nPHILIP SOBER: Take a fool's advice. All is not well. Work it out with\nthe buttend of a pencil, like a good young idiot. Three pounds twelve\nyou got, two notes, one sovereign, two crowns, if youth but knew.\nMooney's en ville, Mooney's sur mer, the Moira, Larchet's, Holles street\nhospital, Burke's. Eh? I am watching you.\n\nPHILIP DRUNK: _(Impatiently)_ Ah, bosh, man. Go to hell! I paid my way.\nIf I could only find out about octaves. Reduplication of personality.\nWho was it told me his name? _(His lawnmower begins to purr)_ Aha, yes.\n_Zoe mou sas agapo_. Have a notion I was here before. When was it not\nAtkinson his card I have somewhere. Mac Somebody. Unmack I have it. He\ntold me about, hold on, Swinburne, was it, no?\n\nFLORRY: And the song?\n\nSTEPHEN: Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.\n\nFLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth? You're like someone I knew once.\n\nSTEPHEN: Out of it now. _(To himself)_ Clever.\n\nPHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: _(Their lawnmowers purring with a\nrigadoon of grasshalms)_ Clever ever. Out of it out of it. By the\nbye have you the book, the thing, the ashplant? Yes, there it, yes.\nCleverever outofitnow. Keep in condition. Do like us.\n\nZOE: There was a priest down here two nights ago to do his bit of\nbusiness with his coat buttoned up. You needn't try to hide, I says to\nhim. I know you've a Roman collar.\n\nVIRAG: Perfectly logical from his standpoint. Fall of man. _(Harshly,\nhis pupils waxing)_ To hell with the pope! Nothing new under the sun. I\nam the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. Why\nI left the church of Rome. Read the Priest, the Woman and the\nConfessional. Penrose. Flipperty Jippert. _(He wriggles)_ Woman, undoing\nwith sweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man's\nlingam. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat.\nWoman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins. Man loves her yoni\nfiercely with big lingam, the stiff one. _(He cries) Coactus volui._\nThen giddy woman will run about. Strong man grapses woman's wrist.\nWoman squeals, bites, spucks. Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat\nyadgana. _(He chases his tail)_ Piffpaff! Popo! _(He stops, sneezes)_\nPchp! _(He worries his butt)_ Prrrrrht!\n\nLYNCH: I hope you gave the good father a penance. Nine glorias for\nshooting a bishop.\n\nZOE: _(Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils)_ He couldn't get a\nconnection. Only, you know, sensation. A dry rush.\n\nBLOOM: Poor man!\n\nZOE: _(Lightly)_ Only for what happened him.\n\nBLOOM: How?\n\nVIRAG: _(A diabolic rictus of black luminosity contracting his visage,\ncranes his scraggy neck forward. He lifts a mooncalf nozzle and howls.)\nVerfluchte Goim!_ He had a father, forty fathers. He never existed. Pig\nGod! He had two left feet. He was Judas Iacchia, a Libyan eunuch, the\npope's bastard. _(He leans out on tortured forepaws, elbows bent rigid,\nhis eye agonising in his flat skullneck and yelps over the mute world)_\nA son of a whore. Apocalypse.\n\nKITTY: And Mary Shortall that was in the lock with the pox she got from\nJimmy Pidgeon in the blue caps had a child off him that couldn't swallow\nand was smothered with the convulsions in the mattress and we all\nsubscribed for the funeral.\n\nPHILIP DRUNK: _(Gravely) Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position,\nPhilippe?_\n\nPHILIP SOBER: _(Gaily) c'était le sacré pigeon, Philippe._\n\n_(Kitty unpins her hat and sets it down calmly, patting her henna hair.\nAnd a prettier, a daintier head of winsome curls was never seen on a\nwhore's shoulders. Lynch puts on her hat. She whips it off.)_\n\nLYNCH: _(Laughs)_ And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated\nanthropoid apes.\n\nFLORRY: _(Nods)_ Locomotor ataxy.\n\nZOE: _(Gaily)_ O, my dictionary.\n\nLYNCH: Three wise virgins.\n\nVIRAG: _(Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his bony\nepileptic lips)_ She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower. Panther,\nthe Roman centurion, polluted her with his genitories. _(He sticks out\na flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his hand on his fork)_\nMessiah! He burst her tympanum. _(With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks\nhis hips in the cynical spasm)_ Hik! Hek! Hak! Hok! Huk! Kok! Kuk!\n\n_(Ben Jumbo Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled,\nhugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat-papped, stands\nforth, his loins and genitals tightened into a pair of black bathing\nbagslops.)_\n\nBEN DOLLARD: _(Nakkering castanet bones in his huge padded paws, yodels\njovially in base barreltone)_ When love absorbs my ardent soul.\n\n_(The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the\nringkeepers and the ropes and mob him with open arms.)_\n\nTHE VIRGINS: _(Gushingly)_ Big Ben! Ben my Chree!\n\nA VOICE: Hold that fellow with the bad breeches.\n\nBEN DOLLARD: _(Smites his thigh in abundant laughter)_ Hold him now.\n\nHENRY: _(Caressing on his breast a severed female head, murmurs)_ Thine\nheart, mine love. _(He plucks his lutestrings)_ When first I saw...\n\nVIRAG: _(Sloughing his skins, his multitudinous plumage moulting)_ Rats!\n_(He yawns, showing a coalblack throat, and closes his jaws by an upward\npush of his parchmentroll)_ After having said which I took my departure.\nFarewell. Fare thee well. _Dreck!_\n\n_(Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a pocketcomb\nand gives a cow's lick to his hair. Steered by his rapier, he glides to\nthe door, his wild harp slung behind him. Virag reaches the door in two\nungainly stilthops, his tail cocked, and deftly claps sideways on the\nwall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with his head.)_\n\nTHE FLYBILL: K. II. Post No Bills. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks.\n\nHENRY: All is lost now.\n\n_(Virag unscrews his head in a trice and holds it under his arm.)_\n\nVIRAG'S HEAD: Quack!\n\n_(Exeunt severally.)_\n\nSTEPHEN: _(Over his shoulder to zoe)_ You would have preferred\nthe fighting parson who founded the protestant error. But beware\nAntisthenes, the dog sage, and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. The\nagony in the closet.\n\nLYNCH: All one and the same God to her.\n\nSTEPHEN: _(Devoutly)_ And sovereign Lord of all things.\n\nFLORRY: _(To Stephen)_ I'm sure you're a spoiled priest. Or a monk.\n\nLYNCH: He is. A cardinal's son.\n\nSTEPHEN: Cardinal sin. Monks of the screw.\n\n_(His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland,\nappears in the doorway, dressed in red soutane, sandals and socks. Seven\ndwarf simian acolytes, also in red, cardinal sins, uphold his train,\npeeping under it. He wears a battered silk hat sideways on his head. His\nthumbs are stuck in his armpits and his palms outspread. Round his\nneck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his breast in a corkscrew cross.\nReleasing his thumbs, he invokes grace from on high with large wave\ngestures and proclaims with bloated pomp:)_\n\nTHE CARDINAL:\n\n     Conservio lies captured\n     He lies in the lowest dungeon\n     With manacles and chains around his limbs\n     Weighing upwards of three tons.\n\n_(He looks at all for a moment, his right eye closed tight, his left\ncheek puffed out. Then, unable to repress his merriment, he rocks to and\nfro, arms akimbo, and sings with broad rollicking humour:)_\n\n     O, the poor little fellow\n     Hihihihihis legs they were yellow\n     He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a snake\n     But some bloody savage\n     To graize his white cabbage\n     He murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake.\n\n_(A multitude of midges swarms white over his robe. He scratches himself\nwith crossed arms at his ribs, grimacing, and exclaims:)_\n\nI'm suffering the agony of the damned. By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to\nJesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous. If they were they'd\nwalk me off the face of the bloody globe.\n\n_(His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers,\nimparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying\nhis hat from side to side, shrinking quickly to the size of his\ntrainbearers. The dwarf acolytes, giggling, peeping, nudging, ogling,\nEasterkissing, zigzag behind him. His voice is heard mellow from afar,\nmerciful male, melodious:)_\n\n     Shall carry my heart to thee,\n     Shall carry my heart to thee,\n     And the breath of the balmy night\n     Shall carry my heart to thee!\n     _(The trick doorhandle turns.)_\n\n\nTHE DO