docx PART I - University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

PART I - University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill   Author:Colleen McEnaney | Size:0 | View:340 | Page:3

ULYSSESJames Joyce             Tableof Contents[1]PART I................................................................................ 4PART II...................................................  
  ULYSSESJames Joyce             Tableof Contents[1]PART I................................................................................ 4PART II............................................................................ 89PART III...................................................................... 898[2]        PART IStately, plump Buck Mulligan came from thestairhead, bearing a bowl oflather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. Ayellow dressinggown,ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mildmorning air. Heheld the bowl aloft and intoned:--_Introibo ad altare Dei_.Halted, he peered down the dark windingstairs and called out coarsely:--Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearfuljesuit!Solemnly he came forward and mounted theround gunrest. He faced aboutand blessed gravely thrice the tower, thesurrounding land and theawaking mountains. Then, catching sight of StephenDedalus, he benttowards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in histhroatand shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leanedhisarms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shakinggurgling facethat blessed him, equine in its length, and at the lightuntonsured hair,grained and hued like pale oak.Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under themirror and then covered thebowl smartly.--Back to barracks! he saidsternly.He added in a preachers tone:--For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuineChristine: body and souland blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes,gents. Onemoment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.He peered sideways up and gave a long slowwhistle of call, then pausedawhile in rapt attention, his even white teethglistening here and therewith gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrillwhistles answeredthrough the calm.--Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. Thatwill do nicely. Switch offthe current, will you?He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravelyat his watcher, gatheringabout his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plumpshadowed face andsullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in themiddle ages.A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.--The mockery of it! he said gaily. Yourabsurd name, an ancient Greek!He pointed his finger in friendly jest andwent over to the parapet,laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up,followed him wearilyhalfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watchinghim still ashe propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowlandlathered cheeks and neck.Buck Mulligans gay voice went on.--My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan,two dactyls. But it has aHellenic ring, hasnt it? Tripping and sunny like thebuck himself.We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to forkouttwenty quid?He laid the brush aside and, laughing withdelight, cried:--Will he come? The jejune jesuit!Ceasing, he began to shave with care.--Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.--Yes, my love?--How long is Haines going to stay in thistower?Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over hisright shoulder.--God, isnt he dreadful? he said frankly. Aponderous Saxon. He thinks[3]yourenot a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with moneyand indigestion.Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, youhave the real Oxfordmanner. He cant make you out. O, my name for youis the best: Kinch, theknife-blade.He shaved warily over his chin.--He was raving all night about a blackpanther, Stephen said. Where ishis guncase?--A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you ina funk?--I was, Stephen said with energy and growingfear. Out here in the darkwith a man I dont know raving and moaning to himselfabout shooting ablack panther. You saved men from drowning. Im not a hero, however.Ifhe stays on here I am off.Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on hisrazorblade. He hopped downfrom his perch and began to search his trouserpockets hastily.--Scutter! he cried thickly.He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting ahand into Stephens upperpocket, said:--Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe myrazor.Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold upon show by its corner adirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped therazorblade neatly.Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:--The bards noserag! A new art colour forour Irish poets: snotgreen.You can almost taste it, cant you?He mounted to the parapet again and gazed outover Dublin bay, his fairoakpale hair stirring slightly.--God! he said quietly. Isnt the sea whatAlgy calls it: a greysweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtighteningsea. _Epi oinopaponton_. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You mustread themin the original. _Thalatta! Thalatta_! She is our great sweetmother.Come and look.Stephen stood up and went over to theparapet. Leaning on it he lookeddown on the water and on the mailboat clearingthe harbourmouth ofKingstown.--Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.He turned abruptly his grey searching eyesfrom the sea to Stephensface.--The aunt thinks you killed your mother, hesaid. Thats why she wontlet me have anything to do with you.--Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.--You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch,when your dying motherasked you, Buck Mulligan said. Im hyperborean as much asyou. But tothink of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel downandpray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you...He broke off and lathered again lightly hisfarther cheek. A tolerantsmile curled his lips.--But a lovely mummer! he murmured tohimself. Kinch, the loveliestmummer of them all!He shaved evenly and with care, in silence,seriously.Stephen, an elbow rested on the jaggedgranite, leaned his palm againsthis brow and gazed at the fraying edge of hisshiny black coat-sleeve.Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted hisheart. Silently, ina dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted bodywithin itsloose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood,herbreath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour ofwettedashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as agreat sweetmother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bayand skyline held a dullgreen mass of liquid. A bowl of white china hadstood beside her deathbedholding the green sluggish bile which she hadtorn up from her rotting liver byfits of loud groaning vomiting.Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.--Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice.I must give you a shirtand a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?--They fit well enough, Stephen answered.Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath hisunderlip.--The mockery of it, he said contentedly.Secondleg they should be. Godknows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have alovely pair with a hairstripe, grey. Youll look spiffing in them. Im notjoking, Kinch. Youlook damn well when youre dressed.--Thanks, Stephen said. I cant wear them ifthey are grey.--He cant wear them, Buck Mulligan told hisface in the mirror.Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he cantwear greytrousers.He folded his razor neatly and with strokingpalps of fingers felt thesmooth skin.Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and tothe plump face with itssmokeblue mobile eyes.--That fellow I was with in theShip last night, said Buck Mulligan,says you have g.p.i. Hes up in Dottyvillewith Connolly Norman. Generalparalysis of the insane!He swept the mirror a half circle in the airto flash the tidings abroadin sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curlingshaven lips laughed andthe edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seizedall his strongwellknit trunk.--Look at yourself, he said, you dreadfulbard!Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirrorheld out to him, cleft bya crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me.Who chose thisface for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.--I pinched it out of the skivvys room, BuckMulligan said. It does herall right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servantsfor Malachi. Leadhim not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.Laughing again, he brought the mirror awayfrom Stephens peering eyes.--The rage of Caliban at not seeing his facein a mirror, he said. IfWilde were only alive to see you!Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said withbitterness:--It is a symbol of Irish art. The crackedlooking-glass of a servant.Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm inStephens and walked with himround the tower, his razor and mirror clacking inthe pocket where hehad thrust them.--Its not fair to tease you like that,Kinch, is it? he said kindly.God knows you have more spirit than any of them.Parried again. He fears the lancet of my artas I fear that of his. Thecold steelpen.--Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tellthat to the oxy chapdownstairs and touch him for a guinea. Hes stinking withmoney andthinks youre not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin bysellingjalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you andIcould only work together we might do something for the island. Helleniseit.Cranlys arm. His arm.--And to think of your having to beg fromthese swine. Im the only onethat knows what you are. Why dont you trust memore? What have youup your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noisehere Illbring down Seymour and well give him a ragging worse than theygaveClive Kempthorpe.Young shouts of moneyed voices in CliveKempthorpes rooms. Palefaces:they hold their ribs with laughter, one claspinganother. O, I shallexpire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die!With slitribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles roundthetable, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen withthetailors shears. A scared calfs face gilded with marmalade. I dontwant tobe debagged! Dont you play the giddy ox with me!Shouts from the open window startling eveningin the quadrangle. A deafgardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnolds face,pushes his moweron the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes ofgrasshalms.To ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.--Let him stay, Stephen said. Theres nothingwrong with him except atnight.--Then what is it? Buck Mulligan askedimpatiently. Cough it up. Imquite frank with you. What have you against menow?They halted, looking towards the blunt capeof Bray Head that lay on thewater like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephenfreed his arm quietly.--Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.--Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. Idont remember anything.He looked in Stephens face as he spoke. Alight wind passed his brow,fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirringsilver points ofanxiety in his eyes.Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:--Do you remember the first day I went toyour house after my mothersdeath?Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:--What? Where? I cant remember anything. Iremember only ideas andsensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?--You were making tea, Stephen said, and wentacross the landing toget more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came outof thedrawingroom. She asked you who was in your room.--Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? Iforget.--You said, Stephen answered, _O, its onlyDedalus whose mother isbeastly dead._A flush which made him seem younger and moreengaging rose to BuckMulligans cheek.--Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harmis that?He shook his constraint from him nervously.--And what is death, he asked, your mothersor yours or my own? Yousaw only your mother die. I see them pop off every dayin the Mater andRichmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. Its abeastlything and nothing else. It simply doesnt matter. You wouldnt kneeldownto pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why?Because youhave the cursed jesuit strain in you, only its injected thewrong way. To meits all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobesare not functioning. Shecalls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picksbuttercups off the quilt. Humour hertill its over. You crossed herlast wish in death and yet you sulk with mebecause I dont whinge likesome hired mute from Lalouettes. Absurd! I supposeI did say it. Ididnt mean to offend the memory of your mother.He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen,shielding the gapingwounds which the words had left in his heart, said verycoldly:--I am not thinking of the offence to mymother.--Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked.--Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.--O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.He walked off quickly round the parapet.Stephen stood at his post,gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Seaand headland now grewdim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight,and he feltthe fever of his cheeks.A voice within the tower called loudly:--Are you up there, Mulligan?--Im coming, Buck Mulligan answered.He turned towards Stephen and said:--Look at the sea. What does it care aboutoffences? Chuck Loyola,Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morningrashers.His head halted again for a moment at the topof the staircase, levelwith the roof:--Dont mope over it all day, he said. Iminconsequent. Give up themoody brooding.His head vanished but the drone of his descendingvoice boomed out ofthe stairhead:  _And no more turnaside and brood  Upon loves bittermystery  For Fergus rules the brazen cars._Woodshadows floated silently by through themorning peace from thestairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther outthe mirror ofwater whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breastofthe dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand pluckingtheharpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded wordsshimmeringon the dim tide.A cloud began to cover the sun slowly,wholly, shadowing the bay indeeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitterwaters. Fergus song:I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long darkchords. Herdoor was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe andpityI went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For thosewords,Stephen: loves bitter mystery.Where now?Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselleddancecards, powdered with musk,a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. Abirdcage hung in the sunnywindow of her house when she was a girl. She heardold Royce sing in thepantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with otherswhen he sang:  _I am theboy  That can enjoy Invisibility._Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed._And no more turn aside and brood._Folded away in the memory of nature with hertoys. Memories beset hisbrooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tapwhen she hadapproached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar,roastingfor her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapelyfingernails reddened bythe blood of squashed lice from the childrensshirts.In a dream, silently, she had come to him,her wasted body within itsloose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax androsewood, her breath,bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour ofwetted ashes.Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, toshake and bend my soul. On mealone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostlylight on the torturedface. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while allprayed ontheir knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. _Liliata rutilantiumteconfessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat._Ghoul! Chewer of corpses!No, mother! Let me be and let me live.--Kinch ahoy!Buck Mulligans voice sang from within thetower. It came nearer up thestaircase, calling again. Stephen, still tremblingat his souls cry,heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind himfriendly words.--Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey.Breakfast is ready. Haines isapologising for waking us last night. Its allright.--Im coming, Stephen said, turning.--Do, for Jesus sake, Buck Mulligan said.For my sake and for all oursakes.His head disappeared and reappeared.--I told him your symbol of Irish art. Hesays its very clever. Touchhim for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.--I get paid this morning, Stephen said.--The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. Howmuch? Four quid? Lend us one.--If you want it, Stephen said.--Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligancried with delight. Wellhave a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids.Four omnipotentsovereigns.He flung up his hands and tramped down thestone stairs, singing out oftune with a Cockney accent:  _O, wont we have amerry time,  Drinking whisky, beer andwine!  On coronation,  Coronationday!  O, wont we have a merrytime  On coronation day!_Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. Thenickel shavingbowl shone,forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down?Or leave it thereall day, forgotten friendship?He went over to it, held it in his handsawhile, feeling its coolness,smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in whichthe brush was stuck.So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I amanother now andyet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.In the gloomy domed livingroom of the towerBuck Mulligans gowned formmoved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hidingand revealing itsyellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across theflagged floorfrom the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloudofcoalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.--Well be choked, Buck Mulligan said.Haines, open that door, will you?Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. Atall figure rose from thehammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorwayand pulled openthe inner doors.--Have you the key? a voice asked.--Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. JaneyMack, Im choked!He howled, without looking up from the fire:--Kinch!--Its in the lock, Stephen said, comingforward.The key scraped round harshly twice and, whenthe heavy door had beenset ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Hainesstood at thedoorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the tableandsat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish besidehim.Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, setthem downheavily and sighed with relief.--Im melting, he said, as the candleremarked when... But, hush! Not aword more on that subject! Kinch, wake up!Bread, butter, honey. Haines,come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, andthese thy gifts.Wheres the sugar? O, jay, theres no milk.Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honeyand the buttercooler fromthe locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.--What sort of a kip is this? he said. I toldher to come after eight.--We can drink it black, Stephen saidthirstily. Theres a lemon in thelocker.--O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligansaid. I want Sandycovemilk.Haines came in from the doorway and saidquietly:--That woman is coming up with the milk.--The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligancried, jumping up from hischair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar isin the bag. Here,I cant go fumbling at the damned eggs.He hacked through the fry on the dish andslapped it out on threeplates, saying:--_In nomine Patris et Filii et SpiritusSancti._Haines sat down to pour out the tea.--Im giving you two lumps each, he said.But, I say, Mulligan, you domake strong tea, dont you?Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from theloaf, said in an old womanswheedling voice:--When I makes tea I makes tea, as old motherGrogan said. And when Imakes water I makes water.--By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:--_So I do, Mrs Cahill,_ says she. _Begob,maam,_ says Mrs Cahill, _Godsend you dont make them in the one pot._He lunged towards his messmates in turn athick slice of bread, impaledon his knife.--Thats folk, he said very earnestly, foryour book, Haines. Fivelines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk andthe fishgods ofDundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the bigwind.He turned to Stephen and asked in a finepuzzled voice, lifting hisbrows:--Can you recall, brother, is mother Groganstea and water pot spokenof in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?--I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.--Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the sametone. Your reasons, pray?--I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did notexist in or out of theMabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswomanof Mary Ann.Buck Mulligans face smiled with delight.--Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice,showing his white teethand blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was?Quite charming!Then, suddenly overclouding all his features,he growled in a hoarsenedrasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at theloaf:  _--For old MaryAnn  She doesnt care a damn.  But,hising up her petticoats..._He crammed his mouth with fry and munched anddroned.The doorway was darkened by an entering form.--The milk, sir!--Come in, maam, Mulligan said. Kinch, getthe jug.An old woman came forward and stood byStephens elbow.--Thats a lovely morning, sir, she said.Glory be to God.--To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her.Ah, to be sure!Stephen reached back and took the milkjugfrom the locker.--The islanders, Mulligan said to Hainescasually, speak frequently ofthe collector of prepuces.--How much, sir? asked the old woman.--A quart, Stephen said.He watched her pour into the measure andthence into the jug rich whitemilk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She pouredagain a measureful anda tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morningworld, maybea messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring itout.Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch onhertoadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowedabouther whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor oldwoman, namesgiven her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form ofan immortal serving herconqueror and her gay betrayer, their commoncuckquean, a messenger from thesecret morning. To serve or to upbraid,whether he could not tell: but scornedto beg her favour.--It is indeed, maam, Buck Mulligan said,pouring milk into their cups.--Taste it, sir, she said.He drank at her bidding.--If we could live on good food like that, hesaid to her somewhatloudly, we wouldnt have the country full of rotten teethand rottenguts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets pavedwithdust, horsedung and consumptives spits.--Are you a medical student, sir? the oldwoman asked.--I am, maam, Buck Mulligan answered.--Look at that now, she said.Stephen listened in scornful silence. Shebows her old head to a voicethat speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, hermedicineman: me sheslights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the graveall thereis of her but her womans unclean loins, of mans flesh made notinGods likeness, the serpents prey. And to the loud voice that now bidsher besilent with wondering unsteady eyes.--Do you understand what he says? Stephenasked her.--Is it French you are talking, sir? the oldwoman said to Haines.Haines spoke to her again a longer speech,confidently.--Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelicon you?--I thought it was Irish, she said, by thesound of it. Are you from thewest, sir?--I am an Englishman, Haines answered.--Hes English, Buck Mulligan said, and hethinks we ought to speakIrish in Ireland.--Sure we ought to, the old woman said, andIm ashamed I dont speakthe language myself. Im told its a grand language bythem that knows.--Grand is no name for it, said BuckMulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fillus out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like acup, maam?--No, thank you, sir, the old woman said,slipping the ring of themilkcan on her forearm and about to go.Haines said to her:--Have you your bill? We had better pay her,Mulligan, hadnt we?Stephen filled again the three cups.--Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, itsseven mornings a pint attwopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence overand these threemornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling.Thats ashilling and one and two is two and two, sir.Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled hismouth with a crust thicklybuttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs andbegan to search histrouser pockets.--Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said tohim, smiling.Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of teacolouring faintly thethick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin,twisted it round inhis fingers and cried:--A miracle!He passed it along the tabletowards the old woman, saying:--Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I cangive you I give.Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.--Well owe twopence, he said.--Time enough, sir, she said, taking thecoin. Time enough. Goodmorning, sir.She curtseyed and went out, followed by BuckMulligans tender chant:  _--Heart of myheart, were it more,  More would be laid at your feet._He turned to Stephen and said:--Seriously, Dedalus. Im stony. Hurry out toyour school kip and bringus back some money. Today the bards must drink andjunket. Irelandexpects that every man this day will do his duty.--That reminds me, Haines said, rising, thatI have to visit yournational library today.--Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.He turned to Stephen and asked blandly:--Is this the day for your monthly wash,Kinch?Then he said to Haines:--The unclean bard makes a point of washingonce a month.--All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream,Stephen said as he let honeytrickle over a slice of the loaf.Haines from the corner where he was knottingeasily a scarf about theloose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:--I intend to make a collection of yoursayings if you will let me.Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub.Agenbite of inwit.Conscience. Yet heres a spot.--That one about the cracked lookingglass ofa servant being the symbolof Irish art is deuced good.Buck Mulligan kicked Stephens foot under thetable and said with warmthof tone:--Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.--Well, I mean it, Haines said, stillspeaking to Stephen. I was justthinking of it when that poor old creature camein.--Would I make any money by it? Stephenasked.Haines laughed and, as he took his soft greyhat from the holdfast ofthe hammock, said:--I dont know, Im sure.He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulliganbent across to Stephen andsaid with coarse vigour:--You put your hoof in it now. What did yousay that for?--Well? Stephen said. The problem is to getmoney. From whom? From themilkwoman or from him. Its a toss up, I think.--I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligansaid, and then you come alongwith your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.--I see little hope, Stephen said, from heror from him.Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid hishand on Stephens arm.--From me, Kinch, he said.In a suddenly changed tone he added:--To tell you the Gods truth I think youreright. Damn all else theyare good for. Why dont you play them as I do? To hellwith them all.Let us get out of the kip.He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobedhimself of his gown, sayingresignedly:--Mulligan is stripped of his garments.He emptied his pockets on to the table.--Theres your snotrag, he said.And putting on his stiff collar andrebellious tie he spoke to them,chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain.His hands plunged andrummaged in his trunk while he called for a cleanhandkerchief. God,well simply have to dress the character. I want puce glovesandgreen boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then,Icontradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out ofhistalking hands.--And theres your Latin quarter hat, hesaid.Stephen picked it up and put it on. Hainescalled to them from thedoorway:--Are you coming, you fellows?--Im ready, Buck Mulligan answered, goingtowards the door. Come out,Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose.Resigned he passed outwith grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:--And going forth he met Butterly.Stephen, taking his ashplant from itsleaningplace, followed them outand, as they went down the ladder, pulled to theslow iron door andlocked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulliganasked:--Did you bring the key?--I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.He walked on. Behind him he heard BuckMulligan club with his heavybathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.--Down, sir! How dare you, sir!Haines asked:--Do you pay rent for this tower?--Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.--To the secretary of state for war, Stephenadded over his shoulder.They halted while Haines surveyed the towerand said at last:--Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say.Martello you call it?--Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligansaid, when the French were onthe sea. But ours is the _omphalos_.--What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines askedStephen.--No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. Imnot equal to Thomas Aquinasand the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop itup. Wait till Ihave a few pints in me first.He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulleddown neatly the peaks of hisprimrose waistcoat:--You couldnt manage it under three pints,Kinch, could you?--It has waited so long, Stephen saidlistlessly, it can wait longer.--You pique my curiosity, Haines saidamiably. Is it some paradox?--Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown outof Wilde and paradoxes.Its quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamletsgrandson isShakespeares grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of hisownfather.--What? Haines said, beginning to point atStephen. He himself?Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise roundhis neck and, bending inloose laughter, said to Stephens ear:--O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet insearch of a father!--Were always tired in the morning, Stephensaid to Haines. And it israther long to tell.Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raisedhis hands.--The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongueof Dedalus, he said.--I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephenas they followed, thistower and these cliffs here remind me somehow ofElsinore. _That beetlesoer his base into the sea,_ isnt it?Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instanttowards Stephen but didnot speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw hisown image incheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.--Its a wonderful tale, Haines said,bringing them to halt again.Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened,paler, firm and prudent.The seas ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, emptysave for thesmokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and asailtacking by the Muglins.--I read a theological interpretation of itsomewhere, he said bemused.The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to beatoned with theFather.Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadlysmiling face. He lookedat them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes,from which he hadsuddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety.He moveda dolls head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering,andbegan to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice:  _--Im the queerestyoung fellow that ever you heard.  My mothers a jew, myfathers a bird.  With Joseph the joiner I cannotagree.  So heres to disciples and Calvary._He held up a forefinger of warning.  _--If anyone thinksthat I amnt divine  Hell get no free drinks when Immaking the wine  But have to drink water and wish itwere plain  That i make when the wine becomes wateragain._He tugged swiftly at Stephens ashplant infarewell and, running forwardto a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at hissides like fins orwings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:  _--Goodbye, now,goodbye! Write down all I said  And tell Tom, Dick andHarry I rose from the dead.   Whats bred in the bonecannot fail me to fly  And Olivets breezy... Goodbye,now, goodbye!_He capered before them down towards thefortyfoot hole, fluttering hiswinglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercurys hatquivering in the freshwind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.Haines, who had been laughing guardedly,walked on beside Stephen andsaid:--We oughtnt to laugh, I suppose. Hesrather blasphemous. Im not abeliever myself, that is to say. Still his gaietytakes the harm out ofit somehow, doesnt it? What did he call it? Joseph theJoiner?--The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephenanswered.--O, Haines said, you have heard it before?--Three times a day, after meals, Stephensaid drily.--Youre not a believer, are you? Hainesasked. I mean, a believer inthe narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothingand miracles and apersonal God.--Theres only one sense of the word, itseems to me, Stephen said.Haines stopped to take out a smooth silvercase in which twinkled agreen stone. He sprang it open with his thumb andoffered it.--Thank you, Stephen said, taking acigarette.Haines helped himself and snapped the caseto. He put it back in hissidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickeltinderbox, sprangit open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flamingspunktowards Stephen in the shell of his hands.--Yes, of course, he said, as they went onagain. Either you believeor you dont, isnt it? Personally I couldnt stomachthat idea of apersonal God. You dont stand for that, I suppose?--You behold in me, Stephen said with grimdispleasure, a horribleexample of free thought.He walked on, waiting to be spoken to,trailing his ashplant by hisside. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path,squealing at his heels.My familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! Awavering linealong the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in thedark.He wants that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his saltbread.Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in hiseyes.--After all, Haines began...Stephen turned and saw that the cold gazewhich had measured him was notall unkind.--After all, I should think you are able tofree yourself. You are yourown master, it seems to me.--I am a servant of two masters, Stephensaid, an English and anItalian.--Italian? Haines said.A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel downbefore me.--And a third, Stephen said, there is whowants me for odd jobs.--Italian? Haines said again. What do youmean?--The imperial British state, Stephenanswered, his colour rising, andthe holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.Haines detached from his underlip some fibresof tobacco before hespoke.--I can quite understand that, he saidcalmly. An Irishman must thinklike that, I daresay. We feel in England that wehave treated you ratherunfairly. It seems history is to blame.The proud potent titles clanged overStephens memory the triumphof their brazen bells: _et unam sanctam catholicamet apostolicamecclesiam:_ the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like hisownrare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in themass forpope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud inaffirmation: andbehind their chant the vigilant angel of the churchmilitant disarmed and menacedher heresiarchs. A horde of heresiesfleeing with mitres awry: Photius and thebrood of mockers ofwhom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upontheconsubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine,spurningChrists terrene body, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabelliuswhoheld that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan had spokenamoment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The voidawaits surelyall them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and aworsting from thoseembattled angels of the church, Michaels host,who defend her ever in the hourof conflict with their lances and theirshields.Hear, hear! Prolonged applause. _Zut! Nom deDieu!_--Of course Im a Britisher, Hainess voicesaid, and I feel as one. Idont want to see my country fall into the hands ofGerman jews either.Thats our national problem, Im afraid, just now.Two men stood at the verge of the cliff,watching: businessman, boatman.--Shes making for Bullock harbour.The boatman nodded towards the north of thebay with some disdain.--Theres five fathoms out there, he said.Itll be swept up that waywhen the tide comes in about one. Its nine daystoday.The man that was drowned. A sail veeringabout the blank bay waitingfor a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the suna puffy face,saltwhite. Here I am.They followed the winding path down to thecreek. Buck Mulligan stood ona stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tierippling over his shoulder.A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him,moved slowly frogwisehis green legs in the deep jelly of the water.--Is the brother with you, Malachi?--Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.--Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Sayshe found a sweet youngthing down there. Photo girl he calls her.--Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots.An elderly man shot up nearthe spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled upby the stones,water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair,waterrilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of hisblacksagging loincloth.Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramblepast and, glancing at Hainesand Stephen, crossed himself piously with histhumbnail at brow and lipsand breastbone.--Seymours back in town, the young man said,grasping again his spur ofrock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.--Ah, go to God! Buck Mulligan said.--Going over next week to stew. You know thatred Carlisle girl, Lily?--Yes.--Spooning with him last night on the pier.The father is rotto withmoney.--Is she up the pole?--Better ask Seymour that.--Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligansaid.He nodded to himself as he drew off histrousers and stood up, sayingtritely:--Redheaded women buck like goats.He broke off in alarm, feeling his side underhis flapping shirt.--My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. Im the_Uebermensch._ ToothlessKinch and I, the supermen.He struggled out of his shirt and flung itbehind him to where hisclothes lay.--Are you going in here, Malachi?--Yes. Make room in the bed.The young man shoved himself backward throughthe water and reachedthe middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Hainessat down on astone, smoking.--Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked.--Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast.Stephen turned away.--Im going, Mulligan, he said.--Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligansaid, to keep my chemise flat.Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulliganlaid it across his heapedclothes.--And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw itthere.Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap.Dressing, undressing. BuckMulligan erect, with joined hands before him, saidsolemnly:--He who stealeth from the poor lendeth tothe Lord. Thus spakeZarathustra.His plump body plunged.--Well see you again, Haines said, turningas Stephen walked up thepath and smiling at wild Irish.Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of aSaxon.--The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.--Good, Stephen said.He walked along the upwardcurving path.  _Liliatarutilantium.  Turma circumdet. Iubilantium te virginum._The priests grey nimbus in a niche where hedressed discreetly. I willnot sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to himfrom the sea. Turningthe curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleekbrown head, aseals, far out on the water, round.Usurper. --You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?--Tarentum, sir.--Very good. Well?--There was a battle, sir.--Very good. Where?The boys blank face asked the blank window.Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet itwas in some way if not asmemory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thudof Blakes wingsof excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and topplingmasonry,and time one livid final flame. Whats left us then?--I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C.--Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the nameand date in thegorescarred book.--Yes, sir. And he said: _Another victorylike that and we are donefor._That phrase the world had remembered. A dullease of the mind. Froma hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking tohis officers,leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.--You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was theend of Pyrrhus?--End of Pyrrhus, sir?--I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.--Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anythingabout Pyrrhus?A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrongssatchel. He curled thembetween his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbsadhered tothe tissue of his lips. A sweetened boys breath. Welloff people,proudthat their eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey.--Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.All laughed. Mirthless high maliciouslaughter. Armstrong looked roundat his classmates, silly glee in profile. In amoment they will laughmore loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the feestheir papas pay.--Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boysshoulder with the book,what is a pier.--A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out inthe water. A kind of abridge. Kingstown pier, sir.Some laughed again: mirthless but withmeaning. Two in the back benchwhispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned norever been innocent.All. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily.Theirlikes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, theirbraceletstittering in the struggle.--Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, adisappointed bridge.The words troubled their gaze.--How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across ariver.For Hainess chapbook. No-one here to hear.Tonight deftly amid wilddrink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of hismind. What then? Ajester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed,winning aclement masters praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Notwhollyfor the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any othertoooften heard, their land a pawnshop.Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldams hand inArgos or Julius Caesar notbeen knifed to death. They are not to be thoughtaway. Time hasbranded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of theinfinitepossibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possibleseeingthat they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass?Weave,weaver of the wind.--Tell us a story, sir.--O, do, sir. A ghoststory.--Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked,opening another book.-_-Weep no more,_ Comyn said.--Go on then, Talbot.--And the story, sir?--After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimblyunder the breastworkof his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glancesat the text:  _--Weep no more,woful shepherds, weep no more  For Lycidas, your sorrow,is not dead,  Sunk though he be beneath the wateryfloor..._It must be a movement then, an actuality ofthe possible as possible.Aristotles phrase formed itself within the gabbledverses and floatedout into the studious silence of the library of SaintGenevieve where hehad read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. Byhis elbowa delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feedingbrainsabout me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: andinmy minds darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy ofbrightness,shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought ofthought. Tranquilbrightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: thesoul is the form of forms.Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form offorms.Talbot repeated:  _--Through the dearmight of Him that walked the waves,  Through the dearmight..._--Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I dontsee anything.--What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bendingforward.His hand turned the page over. He leaned backand went on again, havingjust remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Herealso over thesecraven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffers heart andlips andon mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin ofthetribute. To Caesar what is Caesars, to God what is Gods. A longlook fromdark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on thechurchs looms. Ay.  _Riddle me, riddleme, randy ro.  My father gave me seeds to sow._Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.--Have I heard all? Stephen asked.--Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.--Half day, sir. Thursday.--Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.They bundled their books away, pencilsclacking, pages rustling.Crowding together they strapped and buckled theirsatchels, all gabblinggaily:--A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.--O, ask me, sir.--A hard one, sir.--This is the riddle, Stephen said:  _The cockcrew,  The sky was blue:  Thebells in heaven  Were strikingeleven.  Tis time for this poorsoul  To go to heaven._What is that?--What, sir?--Again, sir. We didnt hear.Their eyes grew bigger as the lines wererepeated. After a silenceCochrane said:--What is it, sir? We give it up.Stephen, his throat itching, answered:--The fox burying his grandmother under ahollybush.He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughterto which their criesechoed dismay.A stick struck the door and a voice in thecorridor called:--Hockey!They broke asunder, sidling out of theirbenches, leaping them. Quicklythey were gone and from the lumberroom came therattle of sticks andclamour of their boots and tongues.Sargent who alone had lingered came forwardslowly, showing an opencopybook. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witnessof unreadinessand through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. Onhischeek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recentanddamp as a snails bed.He held out his copybook. The word _Sums_ waswritten on the headline.Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crookedsignature withblind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.--Mr Deasy told me to write them out allagain, he said, and show themto you, sir.Stephen touched the edges of the book.Futility.--Do you understand how to do them now? heasked.--Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargentanswered. Mr Deasy said I was tocopy them off the board, sir.--Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked.--No, sir.Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair anda stain of ink, a snailsbed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her armsand in her heart.But for her the race of the world would have trampled himunderfoot,a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blooddrainedfrom her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life?Hismothers prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode.She wasno more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire,an odour ofrosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from beingtrampled underfoot andhad gone, scarcely having been. A poor soulgone to heaven: and on a heathbeneath winking stars a fox, red reekof rapine in his fur, with mercilessbright eyes scraped in the earth,listened, scraped up the earth, listened,scraped and scraped.Sitting at his side Stephen solved out theproblem. He proves by algebrathat Shakespeares ghost is Hamlets grandfather.Sargent peered askancethrough his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in thelumberroom: thehollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.Across the page the symbols moved in gravemorrice, in the mummery oftheir letters, wearing quaint caps of squares andcubes. Give hands,traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors.Gone too fromthe world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien andmovement,flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world,adarkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.--Do you understand now? Can you work thesecond for yourself?--Yes, sir.In long shaky strokes Sargent copied thedata. Waiting always for a wordof help his hand moved faithfully the unsteadysymbols, a faint hue ofshame flickering behind his dull skin. _Amor matris:_subjective andobjective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she hadfedhim and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, thisgracelessness. Mychildhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand thereonce orlightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent,stonysit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of theirtyranny:tyrants, willing to be dethroned.The sum was done.--It is very simple, Stephen said as he stoodup.--Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.He dried the page with a sheet of thinblottingpaper and carried hiscopybook back to his bench.--You had better get your stick and go out tothe others, Stephen saidas he followed towards the door the boys gracelessform.--Yes, sir.In the corridor his name was heard, calledfrom the playfield.--Sargent!--Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is callingyou.He stood in the porch and watched the laggardhurry towards the scrappyfield where sharp voices were in strife. They weresorted in teams andMr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass withgaitered feet. Whenhe had reached the schoolhouse voices again contendingcalled to him. Heturned his angry white moustache.--What is it now? he cried continuallywithout listening.--Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side,sir, Stephen said.--Will you wait in my study for a moment, MrDeasy said, till I restoreorder here.And as he stepped fussily back across thefield his old mans voicecried sternly:--What is the matter? What is it now?Their sharp voices cried about him on allsides: their many forms closedround him, the garish sunshine bleaching thehoney of his illdyed head.Stale smoky air hung in the study with thesmell of drab abraded leatherof its chairs. As on the first day he bargainedwith me here. As it wasin the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray ofStuart coins,base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncaseofpurple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all thegentiles:world without end.A hasty step over the stone porch and in thecorridor. Blowing out hisrare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.--First, our little financial settlement, hesaid.He brought out of his coat a pocketbook boundby a leather thong. Itslapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joinedhalves, andlaid them carefully on the table.--Two, he said, strapping and stowing hispocketbook away.And now his strongroom for the gold.Stephens embarrassed hand movedover the shells heaped in the cold stonemortar: whelks and moneycowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as anemirs turban, andthis, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrims hoard, deadtreasure,hollow shells.A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the softpile of the tablecloth.--Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his littlesavingsbox about in his hand.These are handy things to have. See. This is forsovereigns. This is forshillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.--Three twelve, he said. I think youll findthats right.--Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering themoney together with shyhaste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.--No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You haveearned it.Stephens hand, free again, went back to thehollow shells. Symbols tooof beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbolssoiled by greed andmisery.--Dont carry it like that, Mr Deasy said.Youll pull it out somewhereand lose it. You just buy one of these machines.Youll find them veryhandy.Answer something.--Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.The same room and hour, the same wisdom: andI the same. Three timesnow. Three nooses round me here. Well? I can break themin this instantif I will.--Because you dont save, Mr Deasy said,pointing his finger. You dontknow yet what money is. Money is power. When youhave lived as long as Ihave. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what doesShakespeare say?_Put but money in thy purse._--Iago, Stephen murmured.He lifted his gaze from the idle shells tothe old mans stare.--He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. Hemade money. A poet, yes, butan Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride ofthe English? Do youknow what is the proudest word you will ever hear from anEnglishmansmouth?The seas ruler. His seacold eyes looked onthe empty bay: it seemshistory is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.--That on his empire, Stephen said, the sunnever sets.--Ba! Mr Deasy cried. Thats not English. AFrench Celt said that. Hetapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.--I will tell you, he said solemnly, what ishis proudest boast. _I paidmy way._Good man, good man._--I paid my way. I never borrowed a shillingin my life._ Can you feelthat? _I owe nothing._ Can you?Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks,one pair brogues, ties.Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, twoshillings.Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings,BobReynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, fiveweeksboard. The lump I have is useless.--For the moment, no, Stephen answered.Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, puttingback his savingsbox.--I knew you couldnt, he said joyously. Butone day you must feel it.We are a generous people but we must also be just.--I fear those big words, Stephen said, whichmake us so unhappy.Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments overthe mantelpiece at theshapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward,prince ofWales.--You think me an old fogey and an old tory,his thoughtful voice said.I saw three generations since OConnells time. Iremember the famine in46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated forrepeal of theunion twenty years before OConnell did or before the prelates ofyourcommunion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.Glorious, pious and immortal memory. Thelodge of Diamond in Armagh thesplendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse,masked and armed, theplanters covenant. The black north and true blue bible.Croppies liedown.Stephen sketched a brief gesture.--I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasysaid. On the spindle side. ButI am descended from sir John Blackwood who votedfor the union. We areall Irish, all kings sons.--Alas, Stephen said.--_Per vias rectas_, Mr Deasy said firmly,was his motto. He voted forit and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin fromthe Ards of Down to doso.  _Lal the ral thera  The rocky road to Dublin._A gruff squire on horseback with shinytopboots. Soft day, sir John!Soft day, your honour!... Day!... Day!... Twotopboots jog danglingon to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.--That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can dome a favour, Mr Dedalus,with some of your literary friends. I have a letterhere for the press.Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.He went to the desk near the window, pulledin his chair twice and readoff some words from the sheet on the drum of histypewriter.--Sit down. Excuse me, he said over hisshoulder, _the dictates ofcommon sense._ Just a moment.He peered from under his shaggy brows at themanuscript by his elbowand, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of thekeyboard slowly,sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.Stephen seated himself noiselessly before theprincely presence. Framedaround the walls images of vanished horses stood inhomage, their meekheads poised in air: lord Hastings Repulse, the duke ofWestminstersShotover, the duke of Beauforts Ceylon, _prix de Paris_, 1866.Elfinriders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backingkingscolours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds.--Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. Butprompt ventilation of thisallimportant question...Where Cranly led me to get rich quick,hunting his winners among themudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies ontheir pitches and reekof the canteen, over the motley slush. Fair Rebel! FairRebel! Evenmoney the favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers andthimbleriggerswe hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets andpastthe meatfaced woman, a butchers dame, nuzzling thirstily her cloveoforange.Shouts rang shrill from the boys playfieldand a whirring whistle.Again: a goal. I am among them, among theirbattling bodies in a medley,the joust of life. You mean that knockkneedmothers darling who seemsto be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds,shock by shock.Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of theslain,a shout of spearspikes baited with mens bloodied guts.--Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.He came to the table, pinning together hissheets. Stephen stood up.--I have put the matter into a nutshell, MrDeasy said. Its aboutthe foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. Therecan be no twoopinions on the matter.May I trespass on your valuable space. Thatdoctrine of _laissez faire_which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. Theway of all our oldindustries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbourscheme.European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters ofthechannel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department ofagriculture. Pardoneda classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman whowas no better than she shouldbe. To come to the point at issue.--I dont mince words, do I? Mr Deasy askedas Stephen read on.Foot and mouth disease. Known as Kochspreparation. Serum and virus.Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperorshorses at Murzsteg,lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry BlackwoodPrice. Courteousoffer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportantquestion. Inevery sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking youfor thehospitality of your columns.--I want that to be printed and read, MrDeasy said. You will see at thenext outbreak they will put an embargo on Irishcattle. And it canbe cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes tome it isregularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there.Theyoffer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence withthedepartment. Now Im going to try publicity. I am surrounded bydifficulties,by... intrigues by... backstairs influence by...He raised his forefinger and beat the airoldly before his voice spoke.--Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. Englandis in the hands of thejews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press.And they arethe signs of a nations decay. Wherever they gather they eat upthenations vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sureas we arestanding here the jew merchants are already at their work ofdestruction. OldEngland is dying.He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming toblue life as they passed abroad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.--Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.  _The harlots cryfrom street to street  Shall weave old Englandswindingsheet._His eyes open wide in vision stared sternlyacross the sunbeam in whichhe halted.--A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buyscheap and sells dear, jew orgentile, is he not?--They sinned against the light, Mr Deasysaid gravely. And you can seethe darkness in their eyes. And that is why theyare wanderers on theearth to this day.On the steps of the Paris stock exchange thegoldskinned men quotingprices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. Theyswarmed loud,uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting undermaladroit silkhats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures.Their fullslow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending,butknew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain.Vainpatience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoardheaped bythe roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew theiryears of wanderingand, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.--Who has not? Stephen said.--What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.He came forward a pace and stood by thetable. His underjaw fellsideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waitsto hear from me.--History, Stephen said, is a nightmare fromwhich I am trying to awake.From the playfield the boys raised a shout. Awhirring whistle: goal.What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?--The ways of the Creator are not our ways,Mr Deasy said. All humanhistory moves towards one great goal, the manifestationof God.Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window,saying:--That is God.Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!--What? Mr Deasy asked.--A shout in the street, Stephen answered,shrugging his shoulders.Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile thewings of his nose tweakedbetween his fingers. Looking up again he set themfree.--I am happier than you are, he said. We havecommitted many errors andmany sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For awoman who was nobetter than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus,tenyears the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first broughtthestrangers to our shore here, MacMurroughs wife and her leman,ORourke,prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors,manyfailures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of mydays.But I will fight for the right till the end.  _For Ulster willfight  And Ulster will be right._Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.--Well, sir, he began...--I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will notremain here very longat this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think.Perhaps I amwrong.--A learner rather, Stephen said.And here what will you learn more?Mr Deasy shook his head.--Who knows? he said. To learn one must behumble. But life is the greatteacher.Stephen rustled the sheets again.--As regards these, he began.--Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copiesthere. If you can have thempublished at once._ Telegraph. Irish Homestead._--I will try, Stephen said, and let you knowtomorrow. I know twoeditors slightly.--That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. Iwrote last night to Mr Field,M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletradersassociation today at theCity Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter beforethe meeting. Yousee if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?_--The Evening Telegraph..._--That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is notime to lose. Now I have toanswer that letter from my cousin.--Good morning, sir, Stephen said, puttingthe sheets in his pocket.Thank you.--Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searchedthe papers on his desk. Ilike to break a lance with you, old as I am.--Good morning, sir, Stephen said again,bowing to his bent back.He went out by the open porch and down thegravel path under the trees,hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticksfrom the playfield.The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out throughthe gate:toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan willdubme a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.--Mr Dedalus!Running after me. No more letters, I hope.--Just one moment.--Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at thegate.Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard andswallowing his breath.--I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland,they say, has the honour ofbeing the only country which never persecuted thejews. Do you knowthat? No. And do you know why?He frowned sternly on the bright air.--Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning tosmile.--Because she never let them in, Mr Deasysaid solemnly.A coughball of laughter leaped from histhroat dragging after it arattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly,coughing, laughing,his lifted arms waving to the air.--She never let them in, he cried againthrough his laughter as hestamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path.Thats why.On his wise shoulders through the checkerworkof leaves the sun flungspangles, dancing coins.Ineluctable modality of the visible: at leastthat if no more, thoughtthrough my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here toread, seaspawnand seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen,bluesilver,rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies.Thenhe was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? Byknocking his sconceagainst them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and amillionaire, _maestro di colorche sanno_. Limit of the diaphane in. Whyin? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you canput your five fingers through it itis a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes andsee.Stephen closed his eyes to hear his bootscrush crackling wrack andshells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, astride at a time.A very short space of time through very short times of space.Five, six:the _nacheinander_. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality oftheaudible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetlesoerhis base, fell through the _nebeneinander_ ineluctably! I amgetting on nicelyin the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap withit: they do. My two feet inhis boots are at the ends of his legs,_nebeneinander_. Sounds solid: made bythe mallet of _Los Demiurgos_.Am I walking into eternity along Sandymountstrand? Crush, crack, crick,crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a.Wont you come toSandymount, Madeline the mare?Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectictetrameter of iambsmarching. No, agallop: _deline the mare_.Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Hasall vanished since? If Iopen and am for ever in the black adiaphane. _Basta_! Iwill see if Ican see.See now. There all the time without you: andever shall be, worldwithout end.They came down the steps from Leahys terraceprudently, _Frauenzimmer_:and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayedfeet sinking inthe silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mightymother.Number one swung lourdily her midwifes bag, the others gamp pokedinthe beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe,relictof the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. Oneof hersisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing.What has she inthe bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushedin ruddy wool. The cordsof all link back, strandentwining cable ofall flesh. That is why mystic monks.Will you be as gods? Gaze in youromphalos. Hello! Kinch here. Put me on toEdenville. Aleph, alpha:nought, nought, one.Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva,naked Eve. She had no navel.Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a bucklerof taut vellum,no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing fromeverlasting toeverlasting. Womb of sin.Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made notbegotten. By them, the manwith my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with asheson her breath.They clasped and sundered, did the couplers will. From beforethe agesHe willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A _lex eterna_staysabout Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son areconsubstantial?Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warringhis life long upon thecontransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarredheresiarch In a Greekwatercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia.With beaded mitre and withcrozier, stalled upon his throne, widower ofa widowed see, with upstiffedomophorion, with clotted hinderparts.Airs romped round him, nipping and eagerairs. They are coming, waves.The whitemaned seahorses, champing,brightwindbridled, the steeds ofMananaan.I mustnt forget his letter for the press.And after? The Ship, halftwelve. By the way go easy with that money like a goodyoung imbecile.Yes, I must.His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to auntSaras or not? Myconsubstantial fathers voice. Did you see anything of your artistbrotherStephen lately? No? Sure hes not down in Strasburg terrace withhis aunt Sally?Couldnt he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and andand tell us, Stephen,how is uncle Si? O, weeping God, the things Imarried into! De boys up in dehayloft. The drunken little costdrawerand his brother, the cornet player.Highly respectable gondoliers! Andskeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less!Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir.Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ!I pull the wheezy bell of their shutteredcottage: and wait. They takeme for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.--Its Stephen, sir.--Let him in. Let Stephen in.A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.--We thought you were someone else.In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed andblanketed, extends over thehillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested.He has washed theupper moiety.--Morrow, nephew.He lays aside the lapboard whereon he draftshis bills of costs forthe eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filingconsents andcommon searches and a writ of _Duces Tecum_. A bogoak frame overhisbald head: Wildes _Requiescat_. The drone of his misleading whistlebringsWalter back.--Yes, sir?--Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother.Where is she?--Bathing Crissie, sir.Papas little bedpal. Lump of love.--No, uncle Richie...--Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. Itlowers. Whusky!--Uncle Richie, really...--Sit down or by the law Harry Ill knock youdown.Walter squints vainly for a chair.--He has nothing to sit down on, sir.--He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring inour chippendale chair.Would you like a bite of something? None of your damnedlawdeedaw airshere. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So muchthebetter. We have nothing in the house but backache pills._Allerta_!He drones bars of Ferrandos _aria disortita_. The grandest number,Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.His tuneful whistle sounds again, finelyshaded, with rushes of the air,his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.This wind is sweeter.Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You toldthe Clongowes gentry youhad an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in thearmy. Come out ofthem, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay ofMarshslibrary where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. Forwhom?The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kindranfrom them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon,his eyeballsstars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equinefaces, Temple, Buck Mulligan,Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbasfather,--furious dean, what offence laid fireto their brains? Paff!_Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris_. A garland ofgrey hairon his comminated head see him me clambering down to thefootpace(_descende_!), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down,baldpoll!A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altarshorns,the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsuredandoiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.And at the same instant perhaps a priestround the corner is elevatingit. Dringdring! And two streets off anotherlocking it into a pyx.Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking houselall to his owncheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought ofthat,invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickledhisbrain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with hissecond bellthe first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and,rising, heard (now I amlifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twangin diphthong.Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint.Isle of saints. You wereawfully holy, werent you? You prayed to the BlessedVirgin that youmight not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentineavenuethat the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more fromthewet street. _O si, certo_! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed ragspinnedround a squaw. More tell me, more still!! On the top of the Howthtramalone crying to the rain: Naked women! _naked women_! What about that,eh?What about what? What else were they inventedfor?Reading two pages apiece of seven books everynight, eh? I was young.You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward toapplauseearnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray!No-onesaw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters fortitles.Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful.Oyes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeplydeep,copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of theworld, includingAlexandria? Someone was to read them there after a fewthousand years, amahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, verylike a whale. When one readsthese strange pages of one long gone onefeels that one is at one with one whoonce...The grainy sand had gone from under his feet.His boots trod againa damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, thaton theunnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.Unwholesomesandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathingupward sewage breath, apocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under amidden of mans ashes. Hecoasted them, walking warily. A porterbottlestood up, stogged to its waist, inthe cakey sand dough. A sentinel:isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on theshore; at the land a mazeof dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawledbackdoors and on thehigher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts.Ringsend: wigwamsof brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.He halted. I have passed the way to auntSaras. Am I not going there?Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast andcrossed the firmer sandtowards the Pigeonhouse._--Qui vous a mis dans cette fichueposition?__--cest le pigeon, Joseph._Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milkwith me in the bar MacMahon.Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. Myfathers a bird, helapped the sweet _lait chaud_ with pink young tongue, plumpbunnysface. Lap, _lapin._ He hopes to win in the _gros lots_. About thenatureof women he read in Michelet. But he must send me _La Vie de Jesus_ byM.Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend._--Cest tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suissocialiste. Je ne crois pasen lexistence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire a monp-re.__--Il croit?__--Mon pere, oui.__Schluss_. He laps.My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply mustdress the character. I wantpuce gloves. You were a student, werent you? Ofwhat in the otherdevils name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: _physiques,chimiques etnaturelles_. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of _mou en civet_,fleshpotsof Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the mostnaturaltone: when I was in Paris; _boul Mich_, I used to. Yes, used tocarrypunched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murdersomewhere.Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 theprisoner was seenby two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me.Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. _Lui,cest moi_. You seem to have enjoyedyourself.Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walklike? Forget: adispossessed. With mothers money order, eight shillings, thebangingdoor of the post office slammed in your face by the usher.Hungertoothache. _Encore deux minutes_. Look clock. Must get. _Ferme_. Hireddog!Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spatteredwalls all brassbuttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Nothurt? O, thats all right.Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, thatsall right. Shake a shake. O,thats all only all right.You were going to do wonders, what?Missionary to Europe after fieryColumbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on theircreepystools in heaven spilt fromtheir pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: _Euge!Euge_! Pretending to speakbroken English as you dragged your valise, porterthreepence, acrossthe slimy pier at Newhaven. _Comment?_ Rich booty you broughtback; _LeTutu_, five tattered numbers of _Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge_;ablue French telegram, curiosity to show:--Mother dying come home father.The aunt thinks you killed your mother.Thats why she wont.  _Then heres ahealth to Mulligans aunt  And Ill tell you the reasonwhy.  She always kept things decentin  The Hannigan famileye._His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm overthe sand furrows, along bythe boulders of the south wall. He stared at themproudly, piled stonemammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders.The sun isthere, the slender trees, the lemon houses.Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on herlemon streets. Moist pith offarls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matinincense, courtthe air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wifes lovers wife,thekerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand.InRodots Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shatteringwithgold teeth _chaussons_ of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the_pus_ of _flanbreton_. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleasedpleasers, curledconquistadores.Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowdercigarettes through fingerssmeared with printers ink, sipping his green fairyas Patrice hiswhite. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets._Un demisetier!_ A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She servesmeat his beck. _Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux irlandais,nous,Irlande, vous savez ah, oui!_ She thought you wanted a cheese_hollandais_. Yourpostprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial.There was a fellow I knewonce in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to callit his postprandial. Well:_slainte_! Around the slabbed tables thetangle of wined breaths and grumblinggorges. His breath hangs over oursaucestained plates, the green fairys fangthrusting between his lips.Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies,of Arthur Griffithnow, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. To yoke me as hisyokefellow,our crimes our common cause. Youre your fathers son. I know thevoice.His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels athissecrets. M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he calledqueenVictoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. _Vieille ogresse_with the _dentsjaunes_. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, _La Patrie_, M.Millevoye, Felix Faure,know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken,_bonne a tout faire_, who rubsmale nakedness in the bath at Upsala._Moi faire_, she said, _Tous lesmessieurs_. Not this _Monsieur_, Isaid. Most licentious custom. Bath a mostprivate thing. I wouldnt letmy brother, not even my own brother, mostlascivious thing. Green eyes,I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.The blue fuse burns deadly between hands andburns clear. Loosetobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light ourcorner. Rawfacebones under his peep of day boys hat. How the head centre gotaway,authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil,orangeblossoms,drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders,thebetrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.Spurned lover. I was a strapping younggossoon at that time, I tell you.Ill show you my likeness one day. I was,faith. Lover, for her love heprowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of hissept, under the wallsof Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeancehurl them upwardin the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Pareehe hides,Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his daysstations,the dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair hesleepsshort night in, rue de la Goutte-dOr, damascened with flyblown facesofthe gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfywithout heroutcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and twobuck lodgers. Peachycheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young things.Spurned and undespairing. TellPat you saw me, wont you? I wanted toget poor Pat a job one time. _Mon fils_,soldier of France. I taught himto sing _The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaringblades_. Know that oldlay? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice,Strongbowscastle on the Nore. Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy,bythe hand.  _O, O THE BOYSOF  KILKENNY..._Weak wasting hand on mine. They haveforgotten Kevin Egan, not he them.Remembering thee, O Sion.He had come nearer the edge of the sea andwet sand slapped his boots.The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves,wind of wild air ofseeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kishlightship,am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly inthequaking soil. Turn back.Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feetsinking again slowlyin new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits.Through thebarbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as myfeetare sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk,nightfall, deepblue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait,their pushedback chairs, myobelisk valise, around a board of abandonedplatters. Who to clear it? He hasthe key. I will not sleep there whenthis night comes. A shut door of a silenttower, entombing their--blindbodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: noanswer. He lifted hisfeet up from the suck and turned back by the mole ofboulders. Takeall, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in themoonsmidwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered,hearingElsinores tempting flood.The flood is following me. I can watch itflow past from here. Get backthen by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. Heclimbed over the sedgeand eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting hisashplant in agrike.A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled onbladderwrack. Before him thegunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. _Un cocheensabl√©_ Louis Veuillotcalled Gautiers prose. These heavy sands are languagetide and windhave silted here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, awarrenof weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands andstones.Heavy of the past. Sir Louts toys. Mind you dont get onebang on the ear. Imthe bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody wellboulders, bones for my steppingstones.Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloodz odzan Iridzman.A point, live dog, grew into sight runningacross the sweep of sand.Lord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty.You will notbe master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. Fromfartheraway, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures,two. The twomaries. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes.Peekaboo. I see you. No,the dog. He is running back to them. Who?Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach,in quest of prey, theirbloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf.Dane vikings,torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi worethecollar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon,spouting,hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework citya horde ofjerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers knives, running,scaling, hacking ingreen blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague andslaughters. Their blood is in me,their lusts my waves. I moved amongthem on the frozen Liffey, that I, achangeling, among the splutteringresin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to me.The dogs bark ran towards him, stopped, ranback. Dog of my enemy. Ijust simply stood pale, silent, bayed about._Terribilia meditans_. Aprimrose doublet, fortunes knave, smiled on my fear.For that are youpining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live theirlives. TheBruces brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, PerkinWarbeck,Yorks false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder ofaday, and Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullioncrowned.All kings sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He savedmen from drowningand you shake at a curs yelping. But the courtierswho mocked Guido in Or sanMichele were in their own house. House of...We dont want any of your medievalabstrusiosities. Would you do what hedid? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy._Nat√ºrlich_, put there for you.Would you or would you not? The man that wasdrowned nine days ago offMaidens rock. They are waiting for him now. Thetruth, spit it out. Iwould want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer.Water cold soft.When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Cantsee! Whosbehind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing quicklyinon all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured? IfI hadland under my feet. I want his life still to be his, mine to bemine. A drowningman. His human eyes scream to me out of horror of hisdeath. I... With himtogether down... I could not save her. Waters:bitter death: lost.A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinnedup, I bet.Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindlingsand, trotting, sniffing onall sides. Looking for something lost in a pastlife. Suddenly he madeoff like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing theshadow of alowskimming gull. The mans shrieked whistle struck his limp ears.Heturned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On afieldtenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe ofthe tide hehalted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Hissnout lifted barked at thewavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpentedtowards his feet, curling,unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking,plashing, from far, from fartherout, waves and waves.Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in thewater and, stooping,soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. Thedog yelpedrunning to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours,againreared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by themasthey came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolfs tongue redpanting fromhisjaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at acalfsgallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalkedround it, brother,nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly likea dog all over the deaddogs bedraggled fell. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyeson the ground, moves to onegreat goal. Ah, poor dogsbody! Here liespoor dogsbodys body.--Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel!The cry brought him skulking back to hismaster and a blunt bootlesskick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand,crouched in flight. Heslunk back in a curve. Doesnt see me. Along by the edgeof the mole helolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindlegpissedagainst it. He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg,pissedquick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor.Hishindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled anddelved.Something he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in thesand,dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up thesandagain with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, gotinspousebreach, vulturing the dead.After he woke me last night same dream or wasit? Wait. Open hallway.Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I amalmosting it. Thatman led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he heldagainst myface. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come.Redcarpet spread. You will see who.Shouldering their bags they trudged, the redEgyptians. His blued feetout of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, adull brick mufflerstrangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed:theruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sandandshellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hair trailed.Behindher lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. When night hidesher bodysflaws calling under her brown shawl from an archwaywhere dogs have mired. Herfancyman is treating two Royal Dublins inOLoughlins of Blackpitts. Buss her,wap in rogues rum lingo, for, O,my dimber wapping dell! A shefiends whitenessunder her rancid rags.Fumballys lane that night: the tanyard smells.  _White thy fambles,red thy gan  And thy quarrons daintyis.  Couch a hogshead with methen.  In the darkmans clip and kiss._Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly callsthis, _frate porcospino_.Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him:_thy quarronsdainty is_. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeadsjabberon their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.Passing now.A side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I weresuddenly naked here as I sit? Iam not. Across the sands of all the world,followed by the suns flamingsword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. Shetrudges, schlepps,trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering,moondrawn, inher wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine,_oinopaponton_, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon. In sleepthewet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed ofdeath,ghostcandled. _Omnis caro ad te veniet_. He comes, pale vampire,through stormhis eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to hermouths kiss.Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? Mytablets. Mouth to her kiss.No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth toher mouths kiss.His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips ofair: mouth to her moomb.Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuingbreath, unspeeched:ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing,roaringwayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. OldDeasysletter. Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank endoff.Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rockandscribbled words. Thats twice I forgot to take slips from thelibrarycounter.His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent,ending. Why not endless tillthe farthest star? Darkly they are there behindthis light, darknessshining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Mesits therewith his augurs rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside alividsea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars.Ithrow this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back.Endless,would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Whoever anywhere willread these written words? Signs on a white field.Somewhere to someone in yourflutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloynetook the veil of the temple out of hisshovel hat: veil of space withcoloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard.Coloured on a flat:yes, thats right. Flat I see, then think distance, near,far, flatI see, east, back. Ah, see now! Falls back suddenly, frozen instereoscope.Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness isin our souls do younot think? Flutier. Our souls, shamewounded by oursins, cling to us yet more, awoman to her lover clinging, the more themore.She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashedeyes. Now where the bluehell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into theineluctable modality ofthe ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? Thevirgin at HodgesFiggis window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabetbooks youwere going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist throughthebraided jesse of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with a griefandkickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: apickmeup. Betshe wears those curse of God stays suspenders andyellow stockings, darned withlumpy wool. Talk about apple dumplings,_piuttosto_. Where are your wits?Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. Iam lonely here. O, touch mesoon, now. What is that word known to all men? I amquiet here alone.Sad too. Touch, touch me.He lay back at full stretch over the sharprocks, cramming the scribblednote and pencil into a pock his hat. His hat downon his eyes. That isKevin Egans movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbathsleep. _Etvidit Deus. Et erant valde bona_. Alo! _Bonjour_. Welcome as theflowersin May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashesthesouthing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pans hour, the faunalnoon.Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on thetawny watersleaves lie wide. Pain is far.  _And no more turnaside and brood._His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, abucks castoffs,_nebeneinander_. He counted the creases of rucked leatherwhereinanothers foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the groundintripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvaltsshoewent on you: girl I knew in Paris. _Tiens, quel petit pied!_Staunch friend, abrother soul: Wildes love that dare not speak itsname. His arm: Cranlys arm.He now will leave me. And the blame? As Iam. As I am. All or not at all.In long lassoes from the Cock lake the waterflowed full, coveringgreengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. Myashplant will floataway. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing, chafingagainst thelow rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick.Listen: afourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breathofwaters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops:flop,slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. Itflows purling,widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhingweeds lift languidly andsway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, inwhispering waterswaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night bynight:lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary; and, whisperedto,they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves,waiting,awaiting the fullness of their times, _diebus ac noctibus iniuriaspatiensingemiscit_. To no end gathered; vainly then released,forthflowing, wendingback: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight oflovers, lascivious men, a nakedwoman shining in her courts, she draws atoil of waters.Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thyfather lies. At one, hesaid. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Drivingbefore it a loosedrift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpserisingsaltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoiselandward.There he is. Hook it quick. Pull. Sunk though he be beneath thewateryfloor. We have him. Easy now.Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Aquiver of minnows, fat of aspongy titbit, flash through the slits of hisbuttoned trouserfly.God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomesfeatherbedmountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devouraurinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathesupwardthe stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring tothe sun.A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue.Seadeath, mildest of all deathsknown to man. Old Father Ocean. _Prix de paris_:beware of imitations.Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselvesimmensely.Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No blackclouds anywhere, are there?Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning ofthe intellect,_Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum_. No. My cockle hat and staffandhismy sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging withit softly, dallyingstill. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. Alldays maketheir end. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longestday.Of all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. LawnTennyson,gentleman poet. _Gi√†_. For the old hag with the yellow teeth.And MonsieurDrumont, gentleman journalist. _Gi√†_. My teeth are verybad. Why, I wonder.Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to adentist, I wonder, withthat money? That one. This. Toothless Kinch, thesuperman. Why is that, Iwonder, or does it mean something perhaps?My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. DidI not take it up?His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, Ididnt. Better buy one.He laid the dry snot picked from his nostrilon a ledge of rock,carefully. For the rest let look who will.Behind. Perhaps there is someone.He turned his face over a shoulder, rereregardant. Moving through theair high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailedup on the crosstrees,homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.     PART IIMr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the innerorgans of beasts and fowls.He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, astuffed roast heart,liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods roes.Most of allhe liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tangoffaintly scented urine.Kidneys were in his mind as he moved aboutthe kitchen softly, rightingher breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid lightand air were in thekitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere.Made him feela bit peckish.The coals were reddening.Another slice of bread and butter: three,four: right. She didnt likeher plate full. Right. He turned from the tray,lifted the kettle offthe hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there,dull and squat,its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The catwalkedstiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.--Mkgnao!--O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turningfrom the fire.The cat mewed in answer and stalked againstiffly round a leg of thetable, mewing. Just how she stalks over mywritingtable. Prr. Scratch myhead. Prr.Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the litheblack form. Clean to see:the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button underthe butt of hertail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands onhisknees.--Milk for the pussens, he said.--Mrkgnao! the cat cried.They call them stupid. They understand whatwe say better than weunderstand them. She understands all she wants to.Vindictive too.Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.Wonderwhat I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.--Afraid of the chickens she is, he saidmockingly. Afraid of thechookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as thepussens.Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal.Seem to like it.--Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.She blinked up out of her avid shameclosingeyes, mewing plaintivelyand long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watchedthe dark eyeslitsnarrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then hewent tothe dresser, took the jug Hanlons milkman had just filled forhim,poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.--Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.He watched the bristles shining wirily in theweak light as she tippedthree times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true ifyou clip them theycant mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, thetips. Orkind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs,no. No good eggs with thisdrouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a goodday either for amutton kidney at Buckleys. Fried with butter, a shake ofpepper. Bettera pork kidney at Dlugaczs. While the kettle is boiling. Shelappedslower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough?Tolap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced roundhim. No.On quietly creaky boots he went up thestaircase to the hall, paused bythe bedroom door. She might like somethingtasty. Thin bread and buttershe likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in away.He said softly in the bare hall:--Im going round the corner. Be back in aminute.And when he had heard his voice say it headded:--You dont want anything for breakfast?A sleepy soft grunt answered:--Mn.No. She didnt want anything. He heard then awarm heavy sigh, softer,as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of thebedstead jingled.Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way fromGibraltar.Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gaveforit. Old style. Ah yes! of course. Bought it at the governors auction.Got ashort knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. AtPlevna thatwas. I rose from the ranks, sir, and Im proud of it.Still he had brains enoughto make that corner in stamps. Now that wasfarseeing.His hand took his hat from the peg over hisinitialled heavy overcoatand his lost property office secondhand waterproof.Stamps: stickybackpictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too.Course they do.The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely:Plastoshigh grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. Whiteslipof paper. Quite safe.On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket forthe latchkey. Not there.In the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have.Creaky wardrobe.No use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. Hepulledthe halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleafdroppedgently over the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut. All right till Icomeback anyhow.He crossed to the bright side, avoiding theloose cellarflap of numberseventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple ofGeorges church. Be awarm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel itmore. Blackconducts, reflects, (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldnt gointhat light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often ashewalked in happy warmth. Bolands breadvan delivering with trays ourdaily butshe prefers yesterdays loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot.Makes you feel young.Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off atdawn. Travel round in front ofthe sun, steal a days march on him. Keepit up for ever never grow a day oldertechnically. Walk along a strand,strange land, come to a city gate, sentrythere, old ranker too, oldTweedys big moustaches, leaning on a long kind of aspear. Wanderthrough awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves ofcarpetshops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking acoiledpipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented withfennel,sherbet. Dander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well,meethim. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques among thepillars: priestwith a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal,the evening wind. I passon. Fading gold sky. A mother watches me fromher doorway. She calls herchildren home in their dark language. Highwall: beyond strings twanged. Nightsky, moon, violet, colour of Mollysnew garters. Strings. Listen. A girlplaying one of those instrumentswhat do you call them: dulcimers. I pass.Probably not a bit like it really. Kind ofstuff you read: in the trackof the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled,pleasing himself. WhatArthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the_Freeman_ leader: ahomerule sun rising up in the northwest from the lanewaybehind the bankof Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that:homerulesun rising up in the north-west.He approached Larry ORourkes. From thecellar grating floated up theflabby gush of porter. Through the open doorwaythe bar squirted outwhiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house,however: just theend of the city traffic. For instance MAuleys down there: n.g. asposition. Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circularfromthe cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot.Baldhead over the blind. Cute old codger. Nouse canvassing him for anad. Still he knows his own business best. There he is,sure enough, mybold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeveswatchingthe aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedalus takeshimoff to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do you know what Im going totell you?Whats that, Mr ORourke? Do you know what? The Russians,theyd only be aneight oclock breakfast for the Japanese.Stop and say a word: about the funeralperhaps. Sad thing about poorDignam, Mr ORourke.Turning into Dorset street he said freshly ingreeting through thedoorway:--Good day, Mr ORourke.--Good day to you.--Lovely weather, sir.--Tis all that.Where do they get the money? Coming upredheaded curates from the countyLeitrim, rinsing empties and old man in thecellar. Then, lo and behold,they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons.Then thin of thecompetition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublinwithoutpassing a pub. Save it they cant. Off the drunks perhaps. Put downthreeand carry five. What is that, a bob here and there, dribs anddrabs. On thewholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with thetown travellers.Square it you with the boss and well split the job,see?How much would that tot to off the porter inthe month? Say ten barrelsof stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more.Fifteen. He passed SaintJosephs National school. Brats clamour. Windows open.Fresh airhelps memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecuerustyouveedoubleyou. Boys are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin.Attheir joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.He halted before Dlugaczs window, staring atthe hanks of sausages,polonies, black and white. Fifteen multiplied by. Thefigures whitenedin his mind, unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shinylinks,packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquillythelukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs blood.A kidney oozed bloodgouts on thewillowpatterned dish: the last. Hestood by the nextdoor girl at the counter.Would she buy it too, callingthe items from a slip in her hand? Chapped:washingsoda. And a pound anda half of Dennys sausages. His eyes rested on hervigorous hips.Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. Newblood.No followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on theclothesline.She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirtswings at each whack.The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded thesausages he had snipped off withblotchy fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there:like a stallfed heifer.He took a page up from the pile of cutsheets: the model farm atKinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Can becomeideal wintersanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wallroundit, blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting:readit nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the pagerustling. A youngwhite heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket, thebeasts lowing in theirpens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, thebreeders in hobnailed bootstrudging through the litter, slapping a palmon a ripemeated hindquarter,theres a prime one, unpeeled switches intheir hands. He held the page aslantpatiently, bending his senses andhis will, his soft subject gaze at rest. Thecrooked skirt swinging,whack by whack by whack.The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from thepile, wrapped up her primesausages and made a red grimace.--Now, my miss, he said.She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holdingher thick wrist out.--Thank you, my miss. And one shillingthreepence change. For you,please?Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up andwalk behind her if she wentslowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to seefirst thing in themorning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines.She stoodoutside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right.Hesighed down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands.Crustedtoenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways.Thesting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. Foranother: aconstable off duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. They likethem sizeable. Primesausage. O please, Mr Policeman, Im lost in thewood.--Threepence, please.His hand accepted the moist tender gland andslid it into a sidepocket.Then it fetched up three coins from his trouserspocket and laid themon the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly andquickly slid,disc by disc, into the till.--Thank you, sir. Another time.A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thankedhim. He withdrew his gazeafter an instant. No: better not: another time.--Good morning, he said, moving away.--Good morning, sir.No sign. Gone. What matter?He walked back along Dorset street, readinggravely. Agendath Netaim:planters company. To purchase waste sandy tracts fromTurkishgovernment and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuelandconstruction. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa.You payeighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives,oranges,almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificialirrigation. Every yearyou get a sending of the crop. Your name enteredfor life as owner in the bookof the union. Can pay ten down and thebalance in yearly instalments.Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it.He looked at the cattle, blurred in silverheat. Silverpowderedolivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Olives arepacked injars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out.Knowsthe taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates.Citronstoo. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevins parade. AndMastianskywith the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly inCitronsbasketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, liftitto the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wildperfume.Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too,Moisel told me.Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times.Must be without a flaw, hesaid. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar,Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates linedup on the quayside at Jaffa,chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handlingthem barefoot insoiled dungarees. Theres whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you?Doesntsee. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is likethatNorwegian captains. Wonder if Ill meet him today. Watering cart.Toprovoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven.A cloud began to cover the sun slowly,wholly. Grey. Far.No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste.Vulcanic lake, the deadsea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No windcould lift thosewaves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone theycalled itraining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. Alldeadnames. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore theoldest,the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidys, clutching anaggin bottle bythe neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away overall the earth, captivity tocaptivity, multiplying, dying, being borneverywhere. It lay there now. Now itcould bear no more. Dead: an oldwomans: the grey sunken cunt of the world.Desolation.Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding thepage into his pocket he turnedinto Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oilsslid along his veins,chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak.Well, I am herenow. Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrongside ofthe bed. Must begin again those Sandows exercises. On the handsdown.Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why isthat?Valuation is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North,MacArthur:parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. Tosmellthe gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be nearherample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeleyroad, swiftly, in slimsandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runsto meet me, agirl with gold hair on the wind.Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor.He stooped and gatheredthem. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once.Bold hand.Mrs Marion.--Poldy!Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyesand walked through warmyellow twilight towards her tousled head.--Who are the letters for?He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly.--A letter for me from Milly, he saidcarefully, and a card to you. Anda letter for you.He laid her card and letter on the twillbedspread near the curve of herknees.--Do you want the blind up?Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfwayhis backward eye saw herglance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.--That do? he asked, turning.She was reading the card, propped on herelbow.--She got the things, she said.He waited till she had laid the card asideand curled herself backslowly with a snug sigh.--Hurry up with that tea, she said. Im parched.--The kettle is boiling, he said.But he delayed to clear the chair: herstriped petticoat, tossed soiledlinen: and lifted all in an armful on to thefoot of the bed.As he went down the kitchen stairs shecalled:--Poldy!--What?--Scald the teapot.On the boil sure enough: a plume of steamfrom the spout. He scalded andrinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoonsof tea, tilting thekettle then to let the water flow in. Having set it to drawhe took offthe kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched thelumpof butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the catmewedhungrily against him. Give her too much meat she wont mouse. Saytheywont eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall toher anddropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. Hesprinkled itthrough his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup.Then he slit open his letter, glancing downthe page and over. Thanks:new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: youngstudent: Blazes Boylansseaside girls.The tea was drawn. He filled his ownmoustachecup, sham crownDerby, smiling. Silly Millys birthday gift.Only five she was then. No,wait: four. I gave her the amberoid necklace shebroke. Putting piecesof folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled,pouring.  _O, Milly Bloom, youare my darling.  You are my lookingglass from night tomorning.  Id rather have you without afarthing  Than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden._Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case.Still he was a courteousold chap. Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off theplatform. Andthe little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought itintothe parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwins hat! Allwelaughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was.He prodded a fork into the kidney and slappedit over: then fitted theteapot on the tray. Its hump bumped as he took it up.Everything onit? Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. Hecarried itupstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.Nudging the door openwith his knee he carried the tray in and set it onthe chair by the bedhead.--What a time you were! she said.She set the brasses jingling as she raisedherself briskly, an elbow onthe pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk andbetween her large softbubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoatsudder. The warmthof her couched body rose on the air, mingling with thefragrance of thetea she poured.A strip of torn envelope peeped from underthe dimpled pillow. In theact of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.--Who was the letter from? he asked.Bold hand. Marion.--O, Boylan, she said. Hes bringing theprogramme.--What are you singing?--_La ci darem_ with J. C. Doyle, she said,and _Loves Old Sweet Song_.Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stalesmell that incense leavesnext day. Like foul flowerwater.--Would you like the window open a little?She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth,asking:--What time is the funeral?--Eleven, I think, he answered. I didnt seethe paper.Following the pointing of her finger he tookup a leg of her soileddrawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garterlooped round astocking: rumpled, shiny sole.--No: that book.Other stocking. Her petticoat.--It must have fell down, she said.He felt here and there. _Voglio e nonvorrei_. Wonder if she pronouncesthat right: _voglio_. Not in the bed. Musthave slid down. He stoopedand lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawledagainst the bulge ofthe orangekeyed chamberpot.--Show here, she said. I put a mark in it.Theres a word I wanted toask you.She swallowed a draught of tea from her cupheld by nothandle and,having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, beganto search thetext with the hairpin till she reached the word.--Met him what? he asked.--Here, she said. What does that mean?He leaned downward and read near her polishedthumbnail.--Metempsychosis?--Yes. Whos he when hes at home?--Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. ItsGreek: from the Greek. Thatmeans the transmigration of souls.--O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words.He smiled, glancing askance at her mockingeyes. The same young eyes.The first night after the charades. Dolphins Barn.He turned overthe smudged pages. _Ruby: the Pride of the Ring_. Hello.Illustration.Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on thefloornaked. Sheet kindly lent. _The monster Maffei desisted and flung hisvictimfrom him with an oath_. Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals.Trapeze atHenglers. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break yourneck and wellbreak our sides. Families of them. Bone them young sothey metamspychosis. Thatwe live after death. Our souls. That a manssoul after he dies. Dignamssoul...--Did you finish it? he asked.--Yes, she said. Theres nothing smutty init. Is she in love with thefirst fellow all the time?--Never read it. Do you want another?--Yes. Get another of Paul de Kocks. Nicename he has.She poured more tea into her cup, watching itflow sideways.Must get that Capel street library bookrenewed or theyll write toKearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: thats theword.--Some people believe, he said, that we go onliving in another bodyafter death, that we lived before. They call itreincarnation. Thatwe all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago orsome otherplanet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember theirpastlives.The sluggish cream wound curdling spiralsthrough her tea. Bette remindher of the word: metempsychosis. An example wouldbe better. An example?The _Bath of the Nymph_ over the bed. Givenaway with the Easter numberof _Photo Bits_: Splendid masterpiece in artcolours. Tea before youput milk in. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer.Three and sixI gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed.Nakednymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people that lived then.He turned the pages back.--Metempsychosis, he said, is what theancient Greeks called it. Theyused to believe you could be changed into ananimal or a tree, forinstance. What they called nymphs, for example.Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. Shegazed straight before her,inhaling through her arched nostrils.--Theres a smell of burn, she said. Did youleave anything on the fire?--The kidney! he cried suddenly.He fitted the book roughly into his innerpocket and, stubbing his toesagainst the broken commode, hurried out towardsthe smell, steppinghastily down the stairs with a flurried storks legs.Pungent smoke shotup in an angry jet from a side of the pan. By prodding aprong of thefork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on itsback.Only a little burnt. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and letthescanty brown gravy trickle over it.Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttereda slice of the loaf.He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Thenhe put aforkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsomepliantmeat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies ofbread,sopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that aboutsomeyoung student and a picnic? He creased out the letter at his side,reading itslowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in thegravy and raising it tohis mouth.Dearest PapliThanks ever so much for the lovely birthdaypresent. It suits mesplendid. Everyone says I am quite the belle in my new tam.I gotmummys Iovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I amgettingon swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of meand Mrs. Willsend when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair dayand all the beef tothe heels were in. We are going to lough Owel onMonday with a few friends tomake a scrap picnic. Give my love tomummy and to yourself a big kiss andthanks. I hear them at the pianodownstairs. There is to be a concert in theGreville Arms on Saturday.There is a young student comes here some eveningsnamed Bannon hiscousins or something are big swells and he sings Boylans (Iwas on thepop of writing Blazes Boylans) song about those seaside girls. Tellhimsilly Milly sends my best respects. I must now close with fondest loveYour fond daughter, MILLY.P. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Byby.M.Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of themonth too. Her firstbirthday away from home. Separation. Remember the summermorning shewas born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jollyoldwoman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew fromthe firstpoor little Rudy wouldnt live. Well, God is good, sir. Sheknew at once. Hewould be eleven now if he had lived.His vacant face stared pityingly at thepostscript. Excuse bad writing.Hurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of hershell. Row with her in theXL Cafe about the bracelet. Wouldnt eat her cakes orspeak or look.Saucebox. He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and atepiece afterpiece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she mightdoworse. Music hall stage. Young student. He drank a draught of cooler teatowash down his meal. Then he read the letter again: twice.O, well: she knows how to mind herself. Butif not? No, nothing hashappened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till itdoes. A wildpiece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase.Destiny.Ripening now.Vain: very.He smiled with troubled affection at thekitchen window. Day I caughther in the street pinching her cheeks to make themred. Anemic a little.Was given milk too long. On the ERINS KING that day roundthe Kish.Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale bluescarfloose in the wind with her hair. _All dimpled cheeks and curls, Yourheadit simply swirls._Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck inhis trousers pockets,jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family.Swurls, he says.Pier with lamps, summer evening, band,  _Those girls, thosegirls,  Those lovely seaside girls._Milly too. Young kisses: the first. Far awaynow past. Mrs Marion.Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her hair,smiling,braiding.A soft qualm, regret, flowed down hisbackbone, increasing. Will happen,yes. Prevent. Useless: cant move. Girlssweet light lips. Will happentoo. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him.Useless to move now.Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey womans lips.Better where she is down there: away. Occupyher. Wanted a dog to passthe time. Might take a trip down there. August bankholiday, only twoand six return. Six weeks off, however. Might work a presspass. Orthrough MCoy.The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returnedto the meatstained paper,nosed at it and stalked to the door. She looked backat him, mewing.Wants to go out. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Lether wait.Has the fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at herearwith her back to the fire too.He felt heavy, full: then a gentle looseningof his bowels. He stood up,undoing the waistband of his trousers. The cat mewedto him.--Miaow! he said in answer. Wait till Imready.Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much troubleto fag up the stairs to thelanding.A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope noape comes knocking just asIm.In the tabledrawer he found an old number of_Titbits_. He folded itunder his armpit, went to the door and opened it. Thecat went up insoft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on thebed.Listening, he heard her voice:--Come, come, pussy. Come.He went out through the backdoor into thegarden: stood to listentowards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps hangingclothes out to dry.The maid was in the garden. Fine morning.He bent down to regard a lean file ofspearmint growing by the wall.Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners.Virginia creepers. Want tomanure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat ofliver of sulphur.All soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, whatis thisthat is? The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very goodtopdressing. Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they arefed onthose oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies kidgloves. Dirtycleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas inthat corner there.Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still gardenshave their drawbacks. Thatbee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way?Must have put it back on thepeg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I dontremember that. Hallstandtoo full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up theletters.Dragos shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment.Brownbrillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. WonderhaveI time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the payboxthere got awayJames Stephens, they say. OBrien.Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendathwhat is it? Now, my miss.Enthusiast.He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes.Better be careful not to getthese trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in,bowing his headunder the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench ofmouldylimewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting downhepeered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was inhiscountinghouse. Nobody.Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out hispaper, turning its pages overon his bared knees. Something new and easy. Nogreat hurry. Keep it abit. Our prize titbit: _Matchams Masterstroke_. Writtenby Mr PhilipBeaufoy, Playgoers Club, London. Payment at the rate of oneguineaa column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Threepoundsthree. Three pounds, thirteen and six.Quietly he read, restraining himself, thefirst column and, yielding butresisting, began the second. Midway, his lastresistance yielding, heallowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as heread, reading stillpatiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone.Hope itsnot too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive.Onetabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touchhimbut it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Sillyseason. He readon, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neatcertainly. _Matcham oftenthinks of the masterstroke by which he won thelaughing witch who now_. Beginsand ends morally. _Hand in hand_. Smart.He glanced back through what he hadread and, while feeling his waterflow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy whohad written it andreceived payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M.Bloom. Invent a story forsome proverb. Which? Time I used to try jotting downon my cuff what shesaid dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myselfshaving. Bitingher nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her.9.l5.Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23.Whatpossessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. Im swelled after that cabbage. Aspeckof dust on the patent leather of her boot.Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against herstockinged calf. Morningafter the bazaar dance when Mays band playedPonchiellis dance of thehours. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then eveningcoming on, thennight hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Herheaddancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money.Why?I noticed he had a good rich smell off his breath dancing. No usehumming then.Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night. Themirror was in shadow.She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollenvest against her full waggingbub. Peering into it. Lines in her eyes.It wouldnt pan out somehow.Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Nighthours then: black with daggersand eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then golden,then grey, then black.Still, true to life also. Day: then the night.He tore away half the prize story sharply andwiped himself with it.Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttonedhimself. He pulledback the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth fromthe gloominto the air.In the bright light, lightened and cooled inlimb, he eyed carefully hisblack trousers: the ends, the knees, the houghs ofthe knees. What timeis the funeral? Better find out in the paper.A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up.The bells of Georgeschurch. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron.  _Heigho!Heigho!  Heigho! Heigho!  Heigho!Heigho!_Quarter to. There again: the overtonefollowing through the air, third.Poor Dignam!By lorries along sir John Rogersons quay MrBloom walked soberly, pastWindmill lane, Leasks the linseed crusher, thepostal telegraph office.Could have given that address too. And past the sailorshome. He turnedfrom the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Limestreet.By Bradys cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket ofoffallinked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczemaonher forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tellhim if hesmokes he wont grow. O let him! His life isnt such a bed ofroses. Waitingoutside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da.Slack hour: wont be manythere. He crossed Townsend street, passedthe frowning face of Bethel. El, yes:house of: Aleph, Beth. And pastNichols the undertaker. At eleven it is. Timeenough. Daresay CornyKelleher bagged the job for ONeills. Singing with hiseyes shut.Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Policetout.Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay.O,surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With mytooraloom,tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.In Westland row he halted before the windowof the Belfast and OrientalTea Company and read the legends of leadpaperedpackets: choice blend,finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must getsome from TomKernan. Couldnt ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyesstill readblandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and senthisright hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning.Undertheir dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leatherheadband insidehis high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came downinto the bowl of his hat.His fingers found quickly a card behind theheadband and transferred it to hiswaistcoat pocket.So warm. His right hand once more more slowlywent over his brow andhair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and readagain: choiceblend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spotitmust be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on,cactuses,flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it likethat. ThoseCinghalese lobbing about in the sun in _dolce far niente_,not doing a handsturn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hotto quarrel. Influence ofthe climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. Theair feeds most. Azotes. Hothousein Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants.Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleepingsickness in the air. Walk onroseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe andcowheel. Where was the chapI saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the deadsea floating on hisback, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldnt sink ifyou tried: sothick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weightofthe body in the water is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it thevolumeis equal to the weight? Its a law something like that. Vance inHigh schoolcracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum.Crackingcurriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight?Thirtytwo feet persecond per second. Law of falling bodies: per secondper second. They all fallto the ground. The earth. Its the force ofgravity of the earth is the weight.He turned away and sauntered across the road.How did she walk with hersausages? Like that something. As he walked he tookthe folded _Freeman_from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in abaton andtapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Carelessair:just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every seconditmeans. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door ofthepostoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.He handed the card through the brass grill.--Are there any letters for me? he asked.While the postmistress searched a pigeonholehe gazed at the recruitingposter with soldiers of all arms on parade: and heldthe tip of hisbaton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answerprobably.Went too far last time.The postmistress handed him back through thegrill his card with aletter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typedenvelope.Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row,City.Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letterinto his sidepocket,reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Wheres oldTweedys regiment?Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No,hes agrenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers.Redcoats.Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easiertoenlist and drill. Maud Gonnes letter about taking them off OConnellstreetat night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffiths paper is onthe same tacknow: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas orhalfseasover empire. Halfbaked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front.Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed.The Kings own. Never see him dressedup as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.He strolled out of the postoffice and turnedto the right. Talk: as ifthat would mend matters. His hand went into his pocketand a forefingerfelt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open injerks.Women will pay a lot of heed, I dont think. His fingers drew forththeletter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Somethingpinnedon: photo perhaps. Hair? No.MCoy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out ofmy way. Hate company whenyou.--Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?--Hello, MCoy. Nowhere in particular.--Hows the body?--Fine. How are you?--Just keeping alive, MCoy said.His eyes on the black tie and clothes heasked with low respect:--Is there any... no trouble I hope? I seeyoure...--O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, youknow. The funeral is today.--To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. Whattime?A photo it isnt. A badge maybe.--E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.--I must try to get out there, MCoy said.Eleven, is it? I only heardit last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You knowHoppy?--I know.Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsiderdrawn up before the doorof the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up onthe well. Shestood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, likeher,searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that rollcollar,warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Carelessstand of her withher hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughtycreature at the polo match.Women all for caste till you touch the spot.Handsome is and handsome does.Reserved about to yield. The honourableMrs and Brutus is an honourable man.Possess her once take the starchout of her.--I was with Bob Doran, hes on one of hisperiodical bends, and what doyou call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there inConways we were.Doran Lyons in Conways. She raised a gloved handto her hair. In cameHoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing farfrom beneathhis vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare,thebraided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives longsightperhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Ladys hand. Which side willsheget up?--And he said: _Sad thing about our poorfriend Paddy! What Paddy?_ Isaid. _Poor little Paddy Dignam_, he said.Off to the country: Broadstone probably. Highbrown boots with lacesdangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering overthat change for?Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Goodfallback. Twostrings to her bow.--_Why?_ I said. _Whats wrong with him?_ Isaid.Proud: rich: silk stockings.--Yes, Mr Bloom said.He moved a little to the side of MCoystalking head. Getting up in aminute.--_Whats wrong with him_? He said. _Hesdead_, he said. And, faith,he filled up. _Is it Paddy Dignam_? I said. Icouldnt believe it when Iheard it. I was with him no later than Friday last orThursday was it inthe Arch. _Yes,_ he said. _Hes gone. He died on Monday, poorfellow_.Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewedbetween.Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feelslocked out of it. Paradise andthe peri. Always happening like that. The verymoment. Girl in Eustacestreet hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Herfriend coveringthe display of _esprit de corps_. Well, what are you gaping at?--Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh.Another gone.--One of the best, MCoy said.The tram passed. They drove off towards theLoop Line bridge, her richgloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: thelaceflare of herhat in the sun: flicker, flick.--Wife well, I suppose? MCoys changed voicesaid.--O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and readidly:_What is home without Plumtrees Potted Meat?Incomplete With it anabode of bliss._--My missus has just got an engagement. Atleast its not settled yet.Valise tack again. By the way no harm. Imoff that, thanks.Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes withunhasty friendliness.--My wife too, he said. Shes going to singat a swagger affair in theUlster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth.--That so? MCoy said. Glad to hear that, oldman. Whos getting it up?Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was inher bedroom eating bread and.No book. Blackened court cards laid along herthigh by sevens. Dark ladyand fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Tornstrip of envelope. _Loves  Old Sweet  Song  Comes lo-ovesold..._--Its a kind of a tour, dont you see, MrBloom said thoughtfully._Sweeeet song_. Theres a committee formed. Part sharesand partprofits.MCoy nodded, picking at his moustachestubble.--O, well, he said. Thats good news.He moved to go.--Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said.Meet you knocking around.--Yes, Mr Bloom said.--Tell you what, MCoy said. You might putdown my name at the funeral,will you? Id like to go but I mightnt be able,you see. Theres adrowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coronerand myselfwould have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my nameifIm not there, will you?--Ill do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to getoff. Thatll be all right.--Right, MCoy said brightly. Thanks, oldman. Id go if I possiblycould. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. MCoy will do.--That will be done, Mr Bloom answeredfirmly.Didnt catch me napping that wheeze. Thequick touch. Soft mark. Idlike my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for.Leather. Cappedcorners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowleylent himhis for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidingsofit from that good day to this.Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street,smiled. My missus has justgot an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose.Nice enough in itsway: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, dontyou know:in the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Canthehear the difference? Think hes that way inclined a bit. Againstmy grainsomehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope thatsmallpox up theredoesnt get worse. Suppose she wouldnt let herself bevaccinated again. Yourwife and my wife.Wonder is he pimping after me?Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyeswandering over the multicolouredhoardings. Cantrell and Cochranes Ginger Ale(Aromatic). Clerys SummerSale. No, hes going on straight. Hello. _Leah_tonight. Mrs BandmannPalmer. Like to see her again in that. _Hamlet_ she playedlast night.Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Opheliacommittedsuicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that.Outsidethe Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year beforeIwas born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this theright nameis? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he wasalways talking aboutwhere the old blind Abraham recognises the voiceand puts his fingers on hisface.Nathans voice! His sons voice! I hear thevoice of Nathan who left hisfather to die of grief and misery in my arms, wholeft the house of hisfather and left the God of his father.Every word is so deep, Leopold.Poor papa! Poor man! Im glad I didnt go intothe room to look at hisface. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps itwas best forhim.Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed thedrooping nags of thehazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. WishI hadnt metthat MCoy fellow.He came nearer and heard a crunching ofgilded oats, the gently champingteeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as hewent by, amid the sweetoaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses!Damn all theyknow or care about anything with their long noses stuck innosebags.Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and theirdoss.Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp betweentheirhaunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes theylook.Still their neigh can be very irritating.He drew the letter from his pocket and foldedit into the newspaper hecarried. Might just walk into her here. The lane issafer.He passed the cabmans shelter. Curious thelife of drifting cabbies.All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will oftheir own. _Voglioe non_. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout afew flyingsyllables as they pass. He hummed:  _La ci darem lamano  La la lala la la._He turned into Cumberland street and, goingon some paces, halted in thelee of the station wall. No-one. Meadestimberyard. Piled balks. Ruinsand tenements. With careful tread he passed overa hopscotch court withits forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near thetimberyard a squattedchild at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with acunnythumb. A wisetabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity todisturbthem. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Openit.And once I played marbles when I went to that old dames school. Shelikedmignonette. Mrs Elliss. And Mr? He opened the letter within thenewspaper.A flower. I think its a. A yellow flowerwith flattened petals. Notannoyed then? What does she say?Dear HenryI got your last letter to me and thank youvery much for it. I am sorryyou did not like my last letter. Why did youenclose the stamps? I amawfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish youfor that. I calledyou naughty boy because I do not like that other world.Please tell mewhat is the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in yourhomeyou poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you.Pleasetell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautifulname you have.Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so oftenyou have no idea. I havenever felt myself so much drawn to a man asyou. I feel so bad about. Pleasewrite me a long letter and tell memore. Remember if you do not I will punishyou. So now you know what Iwill do to you, you naughty boy, if you do notwrote. O how I long tomeet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before mypatience areexhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling,Ihave such a bad headache. today. and write _by return_ to your longingMarthaP. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume doesyour wife use. I want toknow.He tore the flower gravely from its pinholdsmelt its almost no smelland placed it in his heart pocket. Language offlowers. They like itbecause no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike himdown. Thenwalking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring hereandthere a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactusifyou dont please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roseswhen we soonanemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Marthas perfume.Having read it all hetook it from the newspaper and put it back in hissidepocket.Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since thefirst letter. Wonder did shewrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl ofgood family like me,respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after therosary. Thankyou: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running roundcorners.Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic.Gofurther next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course.Brutal,why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.Fingering still the letter in his pocket hedrew the pin out of it.Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of herclothes somewhere:pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have.No roseswithout thorns.Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Thosetwo sluts that night in theCoombe, linked together in the rain.  _O, Mary lost thepin of her drawers.  She didnt know what todo  To keep it up  To keep itup._It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her rosesprobably. Or sitting allday typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. Whatperfume does your wifeuse. Now could you make out a thing like that?  _To keep it up._Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere Iforget now old master orfaked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking.Mysterious. Alsothe two sluts in the Coombe would listen.  _To keep it up._Nice kind of evening feeling. No morewandering about. Just loll there:quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tellabout places you have been,strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, wasgetting the supper:fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecoldlike the holein the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I goto thetrottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: moreandmore: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.Going under the railway arch he took out theenvelope, tore it swiftlyin shreds and scattered them towards the road. Theshreds flutteredaway, sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank.Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque fora hundred pounds in thesame way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed asevenfigurecheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money tobemade out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to changehisshirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. Amillion pounds,wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart,eightpence a gallon ofporter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter.One and four into twenty:fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millionsof barrels of porter.What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About amillion barrels all the same.An incoming train clanked heavily above hishead, coach after coach.Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped andchurned inside.The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out,flowingtogether, winding through mudflats all over the level land, alazypooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.He had reached the open backdoor of AllHallows. Stepping into the porchhe doffed his hat, took the card from hispocket and tucked it againbehind the leather headband. Damn it. I might havetried to work MCoyfor a pass to Mullingar.Same notice on the door. Sermon by the veryreverend John Conmee S.J.on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the African Mission.Prayers for theconversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almostunconscious. Theprotestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. tothe truereligion. Save Chinas millions. Wonder how they explain it totheheathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy forthem.Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easywith hand underhis cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crownof thorns and cross.Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks?Conmee: Martin Cunninghamknows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry Ididnt work him about getting Mollyinto the choir instead of thatFather Farley who looked a fool but wasnt.Theyre taught that. Hesnot going out in bluey specs with the sweat rollingoff him to baptiseblacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing.Like to seethem sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening.Stilllife. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.The cold smell of sacred stone called him. Hetrod the worn steps,pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.Something going on: some sodality. Pity soempty. Nice discreet placeto be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed bythe hour to slowmusic. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women kneltin thebenches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batchkneltat the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring,holding the thingin his hands. He stopped at each, took out acommunion, shook a drop or two (arethey in water?) off it and put itneatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank.Then the next one. Her hatsank at once. Then the next one: a small old woman.The priest bent downto put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin.The next one.Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? _Corpus:_ body. Corpse.Goodidea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. Theydont seemto chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of acorpse. Why thecannibals cotton to it.He stood aside watching their blind maskspass down the aisle, one byone, and seek their places. He approached a benchand seated himself inits corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots wehave to wear.We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about himhereand there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting foritto melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: its thatsort ofbread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makesthem feel happy.Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels its called.Theres a big idea behindit, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel.First communicants. Hokypokypenny a lump. Then feel all like one familyparty, same in the theatre, all inthe same swim. They do. Im sure ofthat. Not so lonely. In our confraternity.Then come out a bit spreeish.Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe init. Lourdes cure,waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding.Oldfellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith.Safein the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time nextyear.He saw the priest stow the communion cupaway, well in, and kneel aninstant before it, showing a large grey bootsolefrom under the laceaffair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. Hewouldnt know whatto do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No:I.H.S.Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I havesuffered,it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not denymy request. Turn up witha veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her.She might be herewith a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all thesame on thesly. Their character. That fellow that turned queens evidence ontheinvincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communioneverymorning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I amthinking of.Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six childrenat home. And plottingthat murder all the time. Those crawthumpers,now thats a good name for them,theres always something shiftylookingabout them. Theyre not straight men ofbusiness either. O, no, shesnot here: the flower: no, no. By the way, did Itear up that envelope?Yes: under the bridge.The priest was rinsing out the chalice: thenhe tossed off the dregssmartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than forexample if he drankwhat they are used to Guinnesss porter or some temperancebeverageWheatleys Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochranes gingerale(aromatic). Doesnt give them any of it: shew wine: only the other.Coldcomfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise theyd have one oldbooser worsethan another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer thewhole atmosphere ofthe. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Notgoing to be any music. Pity.Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knewhow to make thatinstrument talk, the _vibrato_: fifty pounds a year they say hehad inGardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the _Stabat Mater_ofRossini. Father Bernard Vaughans sermon first. Christ or Pilate?Christ, butdont keep us all night over it. Music they wanted.Footdrill stopped. Couldhear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voiceagainst that corner. I could feelthe thrill in the air, the full, thepeople looking up:_Quis est homo._Some of that old sacred music splendid.Mercadante: seven last words.Mozarts twelfth mass: _Gloria_ in that. Those oldpopes keen on music,on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrinafor exampletoo. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too,chanting,regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse.Still,having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kindofvoice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own strongbasses.Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldnt feel anything after. Kind ofaplacid. No worry. Fall into flesh, dont they? Gluttons, tall, longlegs. Whoknows? Eunuch. One way out of it.He saw the priest bend down and kiss thealtar and then face about andbless all the people. All crossed themselves andstood up. Mr Bloomglanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats.Standup at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees againandhe sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from thealtar, holdingthe thing out from him, and he and the massboy answeredeach other in Latin.Then the priest knelt down and began to read off acard:--O God, our refuge and our strength...Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch thewords. English. Throw themthe bone. I remember slightly. How long since yourlast mass? Gloriousand immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul.Moreinteresting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderfulorganisationcertainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wantsto. Then I will tellyou all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weaponin their hands. More than doctoror solicitor. Woman dying to. And Ischschschschschsch. And did youchachachachacha? And why did you? Lookdown at her ring to find an excuse.Whispering gallery walls have ears.Husband learn to his surprise. Gods littlejoke. Then out she comes.Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar.Hail Mary and HolyMary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes.Salvationarmy blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address themeeting.How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome:theywork the whole show. And dont they rake in the money too? Bequestsalso: tothe P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion.Masses for the repose ofmy soul to be said publicly with open doors.Monasteries and convents. Thepriest in that Fermanagh will case in thewitnessbox. No browbeating him. He hadhis answer pat for everything.Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother thechurch. The doctors of thechurch: they mapped out the whole theology of it.The priest prayed:--Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us inthe hour of conflict. Beour safeguard against the wickedness and snares of thedevil (may Godrestrain him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of theheavenlyhost, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him thoseotherwicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.The priest and the massboy stood up andwalked off. All over. The womenremained behind: thanksgiving.Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Comearound with the plateperhaps. Pay your Easter duty.He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons ofmy waistcoat open all thetime? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse,miss, theres a(whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placketunhooked.Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you dont. Why didnt you tellmebefore. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasnt farther south.Hepassed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the maindoor intothe light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marblebowl while beforehim and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands inthe low tide of holywater. Trams: a car of Prescotts dyeworks: a widowin her weeds. Notice becauseIm in mourning myself. He covered himself.How goes the time? Quarter past.Time enough yet. Better get that lotionmade up. Where is this? Ah yes, the lasttime. Swenys in Lincoln place.Chemists rarely move. Their green and goldbeaconjars too heavy to stir.Hamilton Longs, founded in the year of the flood.Huguenot churchyardnear there. Visit some day.He walked southward along Westland row. Butthe recipe is in the othertrousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Borethis funeral affair.O well, poor fellow, its not his fault. When was it I gotit made uplast? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month itmusthave been or the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions book.The chemist turned back page after page.Sandy shrivelled smell he seemsto have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for thephilosophers stone. Thealchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement.Lethargy then. Why?Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes yourcharacter.Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. Allhisalabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid.Smellalmost cure you like the dentists doorbell. Doctor Whack. Heought to physichimself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellowthat picked an herb tocure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want tobe careful. Enough stuff hereto chloroform you. Test: turns bluelitmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose oflaudanum. Sleeping draughts.Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough.Clogs the pores or thephlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you leastexpect it. Cleverof nature.--About a fortnight ago, sir?--Yes, Mr Bloom said.He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly thekeen reek of drugs, thedusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of timetaken up tellingyour aches and pains.--Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin,Mr Bloom said, and thenorangeflower water...It certainly did make her skin so delicatewhite like wax.--And white wax also, he said.Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Lookingat me, the sheet up toher eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing thelinks in mycuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries fortheteeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped inbuttermilk.Skinfood. One of the old queens sons, duke of Albany was it? hadonlyone skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples tomake itworse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your? _PeaudEspagne_.That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soapshave. Pure curdsoap. Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam.Turkish. Massage. Dirt getsrolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nicegirl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Doit in the bath. Curious longingI. Water to water. Combine business withpleasure. Pity no time formassage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral berather glum.--Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was twoand nine. Have you brought abottle?--No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. Illcall later in the day andIll take one of these soaps. How much are they?--Fourpence, sir.Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweetlemony wax.--Ill take this one, he said. That makesthree and a penny.--Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay alltogether, sir, when youcome back.--Good, Mr Bloom said.He strolled out of the shop, the newspaperbaton under his armpit, thecoolwrappered soap in his left hand.At his armpit Bantam Lyons voice and handsaid:--Hello, Bloom. Whats the best news? Is thattodays? Show us a minute.Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Longcold upper lip. To lookyounger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.Bantam Lyonss yellow blacknailed fingersunrolled the baton. Wants awash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning,have you used Pearssoap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.--I want to see about that French horse thatsrunning today, BantamLyons said. Where the bugger is it?He rustled the pleated pages, jerking hischin on his high collar.Barbers itch. Tight collar hell lose his hair. Betterleave him thepaper and get shut of him.--You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.--Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyonsmuttered. Half a mo. Maximum thesecond.--I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloomsaid.Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly andleered weakly.--Whats that? his sharp voice said.--I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. Iwas going to throw it awaythat moment.Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering:then thrust the outspreadsheets back on Mr Blooms arms.--Ill risk it, he said. Here, thanks.He sped off towards Conways corner. Godspeed scut.Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neatsquare and lodged the soapin it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting.Regular hotbed of itlately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Rafflefor largetender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Flemingembezzlingto gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now.They never come back.Fleshpots of Egypt.He walked cheerfully towards the mosque ofthe baths. Remind you of amosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sportstoday I see. Heeyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclistdoubledup like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it roundlike awheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big:college.Something to catch the eye.Theres Hornblower standing at the porterslodge. Keep him on hands:might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do,Mr Hornblower? Howdo you do, sir?Heavenly weather really. If life was alwayslike that. Cricket weather.Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out.They cant play ithere. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke awindow in theKildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fairmorein their line. And the skulls we were acracking when MCarthy tookthefloor. Heatwave. Wont last. Always passing, the stream of life, whichin thestream of life we trace is dearer than them all.Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, coolenamel, the gentle tepidstream. This is my body.He foresaw his pale body reclined in it atfull, naked, in a womb ofwarmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved.He saw histrunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightlyupward,lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curlsofhis bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp fatherofthousands, a languid floating flower. Martin Cunningham, first, poked hissilkhatted head into the creakingcarriage and, entering deftly, seated himself.Mr Power stepped in afterhim, curving his height with care.--Come on, Simon.--After you, Mr Bloom said.Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and gotin, saying:Yes, yes.--Are we all here now? Martin Cunninghamasked. Come along, Bloom.Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place.He pulled the door toafter him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. Hepassed an armthrough the armstrap and looked seriously from the opencarriagewindowat the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an oldwomanpeeping. Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars shewas passedover. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Gladto see us go wegive them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them.Huggermugger in corners.Slop about in slipperslappers for fear hedwake. Then getting it ready. Layingit out. Molly and Mrs Fleming makingthe bed. Pull it more to your side. Ourwindingsheet. Never know whowill touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believethey clip the nails andthe hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grows all the sameafter. Uncleanjob.All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in thewreaths probably. I amsitting on something hard. Ah, that soap: in my hippocket. Better shiftit out of that. Wait for an opportunity.All waited. Then wheels were heard from infront, turning: then nearer:then horses hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began tomove, creaking andswaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. Theblinds ofthe avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar.Atwalking pace.They waited still, their knees jogging, tillthey had turned and werepassing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road.Quicker. The wheelsrattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazyglasses shookrattling in the doorframes.--What way is he taking us? Mr Power askedthrough both windows.--Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said.Ringsend. Brunswick street.Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.--Thats a fine old custom, he said. I amglad to see it has not diedout.All watched awhile through their windows capsand hats lifted bypassers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack tothesmoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man,cladin mourning, a wide hat.--Theres a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus,he said.--Who is that?--Your son and heir.--Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretchingover across.The carriage, passing the open drains andmounds of rippedup roadwaybefore the tenement houses, lurched round the cornerand, swerving backto the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels.Mr Dedalusfell back, saying:--Was that Mulligan cad with him? His _fidusAchates_!--No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.--Down withhis aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Gouldingfaction, the drunkenlittle costdrawer and Crissie, papas little lumpof dung, the wise child thatknows her own father.Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road.Wallace Bros: thebottleworks: Dodder bridge.Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding,Collis and Ward he callsthe firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great cardhe was. Waltzingin Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning,thelandladys two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage allnight.Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wifeironinghis back. Thinks hell cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs theyare.About six hundred per cent profit.--Hes in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalussnarled. That Mulligan is acontaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by allaccounts. His name stinksall over Dublin. But with the help of God and Hisblessed mother Illmake it my business to write a letter one of those days tohis motheror his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as agate.Ill tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.He cried above the clatter of the wheels:--I wont have her bastard of a nephew ruinmy son. A counterjumpersson. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter PaulMSwineys. Not likely.He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angrymoustache to Mr Powers mildface and Martin Cunninghams eyes and beard,gravely shaking. Noisyselfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Somethingto hand on. Iflittle Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in thehouse.Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes.Strangefeeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been thatmorningin Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two dogs at itbythe wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up. She hadthatcream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch,Poldy. God, Imdying for it. How life begins.Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystonesconcert. My son inside her.I could have helped him on in life. I could. Makehim independent. LearnGerman too.--Are we late? Mr Power asked.--Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said,looking at his watch.Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Hertomboy oaths. O jumpingJupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, shes a deargirl. Soon be awoman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: awoman too.Life, life.The carriage heeled over and back, their fourtrunks swaying.--Corny might have given us a more commodiousyoke, Mr Power said.--He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadntthat squint troubling him. Doyou follow me?He closed his left eye. Martin Cunninghambegan to brush awaycrustcrumbs from under his thighs.--What is this, he said, in the name of God?Crumbs?--Someone seems to have been making a picnicparty here lately, Mr Powersaid.All raised their thighs and eyed withdisfavour the mildewed buttonlessleather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting hisnose, frowned downwardand said:--Unless Im greatly mistaken. What do youthink, Martin?--It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took thatbath. Feel my feet quiteclean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socksbetter.Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.--After all, he said, its the most naturalthing in the world.--Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunninghamasked, twirling the peak ofhis beard gently.--Yes, Mr Bloom answered. Hes behind withNed Lambert and Hynes.--And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.--At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.--I met MCoy this morning, Mr Bloom said. Hesaid hed try to come.The carriage halted short.--Whats wrong?--Were stopped.--Where are we?Mr Bloom put his head out of the window.--The grand canal, he said.Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures.Good job Milly never gotit. Poor children! Doubles them up black and blue inconvulsions. Shamereally. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Onlymeasles. Flaxseedtea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death.Dont missthis chance. Dogs home over there. Poor old Athos! Be good toAthos,Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave.Adying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old mensdogsusually are.A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back andsaw an instant of showerspray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Likethrough a colander.I thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.--The weather is changing, he said quietly.--A pity it did not keep up fine, MartinCunningham said.--Wanted for the country, Mr Power said.Theres the sun again comingout.Mr Dedalus, peering through his glassestowards the veiled sun, hurled amute curse at the sky.--Its as uncertain as a childs bottom, hesaid.--Were off again.The carriage turned again its stiff wheelsand their trunks swayedgently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peakof his beard.--Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said.And Paddy Leonard takinghim off to his face.--O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power saideagerly. Wait till you hearhim, Simon, on Ben Dollards singing of _The CroppyBoy_.--Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously._His singing of that simpleballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering Iever heard in thewhole course of my experience._--Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. Hesdead nuts on that. And theretrospective arrangement.--Did you read Dan Dawsons speech? MartinCunningham asked.--I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where isit?--In the paper this morning.Mr Bloom took the paper from his insidepocket. That book I must changefor her.--No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later onplease.Mr Blooms glance travelled down the edge of thepaper, scanning thedeaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann,Peake, whatPeake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleynes? no,Sexton,Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breakingpaper.Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible griefofhis. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Months mind: Quinlan. Onwhosesoul Sweet Jesus have mercy._It is now a month since dear Henry fled Tohis home up above in the skyWhile his family weeps and mourns his loss Hopingsome day to meet himon high._I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I puther letter after I read itin the bath? He patted his waistcoatpocket. There allright. Dear Henryfled. Before my patience are exhausted.National school. Meades yard. The hazard.Only two there now. Nodding.Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. Theother trotting roundwith a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarviesraised theirhats.A pointsmans back straightened itselfupright suddenly against atramway standard by Mr Blooms window. Couldnt theyinvent somethingautomatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but thatfellowwould lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get ajobmaking the new invention?Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. Aman in a buff suit with acrape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning.People in lawperhaps.They went past the bleak pulpit of saintMarks, under the railwaybridge, past the Queens theatre: in silence.Hoardings: EugeneStratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Could I go to see LEAH tonight,I wonder.I said I. Or the _Lily of Killarney_? Elster Grimes Opera Company.Bigpowerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. _Fun on the Bristol_.MartinCunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety. Have to stand adrink or two. Asbroad as its long.Hes coming in the afternoon. Her songs.Plastos. Sir Philip Cramptons memorialfountain bust. Who was he?--How do you do? Martin Cunningham said,raising his palm to his brow insalute.--He doesnt see us, Mr Power said. Yes, hedoes. How do you do?--Who? Mr Dedalus asked.--Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he isairing his quiff.Just that moment I was thinking.Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From thedoor of the Red Bank thewhite disc of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure:passed.Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand,then those of his righthand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him thatthey she sees?Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. Theysometimesfeel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. Iamjust looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. Bodygetting a bitsofty. I would notice that: from remembering. What causesthat? I suppose theskin cant contract quickly enough when the fleshfalls off. But the shape isthere. The shape is there still. Shoulders.Hips. Plump. Night of the dancedressing. Shift stuck between the cheeksbehind.He clasped his hands between his knees and,satisfied, sent his vacantglance over their faces.Mr Power asked:--How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?--O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear greataccounts of it. Its a goodidea, you see...--Are you going yourself?--Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact Ihave to go down to thecounty Clare on some private business. You see the ideais to tour thechief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.--Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. MaryAnderson is up there now.Have you good artists?--Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said.O yes, well have alltopnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and.The best, infact.--And _Madame_, Mr Power said smiling. Lastbut not least.Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture ofsoft politeness and claspedthem. Smith OBrien. Someone has laid a bunch offlowers there. Woman.Must be his deathday. For many happy returns. The carriagewheeling byFarrells statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstonetendered his wares, hismouth opening: oot.--Four bootlaces for a penny.Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Hadhis office in Hume street.Same house as Mollys namesake, Tweedy, crownsolicitor for Waterford.Has that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency.Mourning too.Terrible comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at awake.OCallaghan on his last legs.And _Madame_. Twenty past eleven. Up. MrsFleming is in to clean. Doingher hair, humming. _voglio e non vorrei_. No._vorrei e non_. Looking atthe tips of her hairs to see if they are split. _Mitrema un pocoil_. Beautiful on that _tre_ her voice is: weeping tone. A thrush.Athrostle. There is a word throstle that expresses that.His eyes passed lightly over Mr Powersgoodlooking face. Greyish overthe ears. _Madame_: smiling. I smiled back. Asmile goes a long way.Only politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is thattrue about thewoman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who wasittold me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get playedoutpretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing hera pound ofrumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jurys. Or theMoira, was it?They passed under the hugecloaked Liberatorsform.Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.--Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick,stumping round the cornerof Elverys Elephant house, showed them a curved handopen on his spine.--In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure andsaid mildly:--The devil break the hasp of your back!Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded hisface from the window as thecarriage passed Grays statue.--We have all been there, Martin Cunninghamsaid broadly.His eyes met Mr Blooms eyes. He caressed hisbeard, adding:--Well, nearly all of us.Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagernessto his companions faces.--Thats an awfully good one thats going therounds about Reuben J andthe son.--About the boatman? Mr Power asked.--Yes. Isnt it awfully good?--What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didnthear it.--There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloombegan, and he determined tosend him to the Isle of Man out of harms way butwhen they were both...--What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmedbloody hobbledehoy is it?--Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on theway to the boat and he triedto drown...--Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish toChrist he did!Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shadednostrils.--No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself...Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely:--Reuben and the son were piking it down thequay next the river ontheir way to the Isle of Man boat and the young chisellersuddenly gotloose and over the wall with him into the Liffey.--For Gods sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed infright. Is he dead?--Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! Aboatman got a pole and fishedhim out by the slack of the breeches and he waslanded up to the fatheron the quay more dead than alive. Half the town wasthere.--Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny partis...--And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gavethe boatman a florin forsaving his sons life.A stifled sigh came from under Mr Powershand.--O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Likea hero. A silver florin.--Isnt it awfully good? Mr Bloom saideagerly.--One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalussaid drily.Mr Powers choked laugh burst quietly in thecarriage.Nelsons pillar.--Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!--We had better look a little serious, MartinCunningham said.Mr Dedalus sighed.--Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddywouldnt grudge us a laugh.Many a good one he told himself.--The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wipinghis wet eyes with hisfingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week ago when Isaw him last andhe was in his usual health that Id be driving after him likethis. Hesgone from us.--As decent a little man as ever wore a hat,Mr Dedalus said. He wentvery suddenly.--Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.He tapped his chest sadly.Blazing face: redhot. Too much JohnBarleycorn. Cure for a red nose.Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. Alot of money he spentcolouring it.Mr Power gazed at the passing houses withrueful apprehension.--He had a sudden death, poor fellow, hesaid.--The best death, Mr Bloom said.Their wide open eyes looked at him.--No suffering, he said. A moment and all isover. Like dying in sleep.No-one spoke.Dead side of the street this. Dull businessby day, land agents,temperance hotel, Falconers railway guide, civil servicecollege,Gills, catholic club, the industrious blind. Why? Some reason. Sunorwind. At night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of thelateFather Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.White horses with white frontlet plumes cameround the Rotunda corner,galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In a hurry tobury. A mourningcoach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors.Dun fora nun.--Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.A dwarfs face, mauve and wrinkled likelittle Rudys was. Dwarfs body,weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burialfriendly societypays. Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar.Baby. Meantnothing. Mistake of nature. If its healthy its from the mother. Ifnotfrom the man. Better luck next time.--Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. Itswell out of it.The carriage climbed more slowly the hill ofRutland square. Rattle hisbones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.--In the midst of life, Martin Cunninghamsaid.--But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is theman who takes his ownlife.Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly,coughed and put it back.--The greatest disgrace to have in thefamily, Mr Power added.--Temporary insanity, of course, MartinCunningham said decisively. Wemust take a charitable view of it.--They say a man who does it is a coward, MrDedalus said.--It is not for us to judge, MartinCunningham said.Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lipsagain. Martin Cunninghamslarge eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human manhe is. Intelligent.Like Shakespeares face. Always a good word to say. Theyhave no mercyon that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used todrivea stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasntbrokenalready. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in theriverbedclutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wifeofhis. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning thefurniture onhim every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of thedamned. Wear the heartout of a stone, that. Monday morning. Startafresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord,she must have looked a sightthat night Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunkabout the place andcapering with Martins umbrella.  _And they call methe jewel of Asia,  Of Asia,  TheGeisha._He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle hisbones.That afternoon of the inquest. Theredlabelled bottle on the table. Theroom in the hotel with hunting pictures.Stuffy it was. Sunlight throughthe slats of the Venetian blind. The coronerssunlit ears, big andhairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first.Then saw likeyellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of thebed.Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my sonLeopold.No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.The carriage rattled swiftly alongBlessington street. Over the stones.--We are going the pace, I think, MartinCunningham said.--God grant he doesnt upset us on the road,Mr Power said.--I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. Thatwill be a great race tomorrowin Germany. The Gordon Bennett.--Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will beworth seeing, faith.As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgannear the Basin sentover and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls.Has anybodyhere seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead March from _Saul._Hesas bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The_MaterMisericordiae_. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Wardforincurables there. Very encouraging. Our Ladys Hospice for thedying.Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They lookterriblethe women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with thespoon. Then the screenround her bed for her to die. Nice young studentthat was dressed that bite thebee gave me. Hes gone over to thelying-in hospital they told me. From oneextreme to the other. Thecarriage galloped round a corner: stopped.--Whats wrong now?A divided drove of branded cattle passed thewindows, lowing, slouchingby on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly ontheir clotted bonycroups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheepbleating theirfear.--Emigrants, Mr Power said.--Huuuh! the drovers voice cried, his switchsounding on their flanks.Huuuh! out of that!Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day.Springers. Cuffe sold themabout twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably.Roastbeef for oldEngland. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifthquarterlost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing inayear. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries,soap,margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat offthe train at Clonsilla.The carriage moved on through the drove.--I cant make out why the corporationdoesnt run a tramline from theparkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All thoseanimals could be takenin trucks down to the boats.--Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare,Martin Cunningham said. Quiteright. They ought to.--Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing Ioften thought, is to havemunicipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, youknow. Run the lineout to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse andcarriageand all. Dont you see what I mean?--O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalussaid. Pullman car and saloondiningroom.--A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.--Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus.Wouldnt it be more decentthan galloping two abreast?--Well, theres something in that, Mr Dedalusgranted.--And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldnthave scenes like that whenthe hearse capsized round Dunphys and upset thecoffin on to the road.--That was terrible, Mr Powers shocked facesaid, and the corpse fellabout the road. Terrible!--First round Dunphys, Mr Dedalus said,nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.--Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham saidpiously.Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to theroad. Burst open. Paddy Dignamshot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in abrown habit too largefor him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Askingwhats up now.Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insidesdecomposequickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. Withwax.The sphincter loose. Seal up all.--Dunphys, Mr Power announced as thecarriage turned right.Dunphys corner. Mourning coaches drawn up,drowning their grief. Apause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expectwell pull uphere on the way back to drink his health. Pass round theconsolation.Elixir of life.But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleedif a nail say cut himin the knocking about? He would and he wouldnt, Isuppose. Depends onwhere. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out ofan artery. Itwould be better to bury them in red: a dark red.In silence they drove along Phibsboroughroad. An empty hearse trottedby, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.Water rushed roaring through the sluices. Aman stood on hisdropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by thelock aslacktethered horse. Aboard of the _Bugabu._Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedywaterway he had floated on hisraft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulagerope past beds ofreeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone,Mullingar,Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal.Orcycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day attheauction but a ladys. Developing waterways. James MCanns hobbyto row me oerthe ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats.Camping out. Alsohearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will withoutwriting. Come as a surprise,Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock bylock to Dublin. With turf from themidland bogs. Salute. He lifted hisbrown straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam.They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Nearit now.--I wonder how is our friend Fogarty gettingon, Mr Power said.--Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.--How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Lefthim weeping, I suppose?--Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, tomemory dear.The carriage steered left for Finglas road.The stonecutters yard on the right. Lastlap. Crowded on the spit ofland silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful,holding out calm hands,knelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. Inwhite silence:appealing. The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumentalbuilder andsculptor.Passed.On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, thesextons, an old tramp sat,grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of hishuge dustbrownyawning boot. After lifes journey.Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one:gloomy houses.Mr Power pointed.--That is where Childs was murdered, he said.The last house.--So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case.Seymour Bushe got him off.Murdered his brother. Or so they said.--The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said.--Only circumstantial, Martin Cunninghamadded. Thats the maxim of thelaw. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape thanfor one innocent personto be wrongfully condemned.They looked. Murderers ground. It passeddarkly. Shuttered, tenantless,unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell.Wrongfully condemned. Murder.The murderers image in the eye of the murdered.They love reading aboutit. Mans head found in a garden. Her clothing consistedof. How she mether death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still atlarge.Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed. Murder will out.Cramped in this carriage. She mightnt likeme to come that way withoutletting her know. Must be careful about women. Catchthem once withtheir pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.The high railings of Prospect rippled pasttheir gaze. Dark poplars,rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapesthronged amid thetrees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely,sustaining vaingestures on the air.The felly harshed against the curbstone:stopped. Martin Cunningham putout his arm and, wrenching back the handle,shoved the door open withhis knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalusfollowed.Change that soap now. Mr Blooms handunbuttoned his hip pocket swiftlyand transferred the paperstuck soap to hisinner handkerchief pocket.He stepped out of the carriage, replacing thenewspaper his other handstill held.Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages.Its all the same.Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pompof death.Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakesandfruit. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for thedead.Dogbiscuits. Who ate them? Mourners coming out.He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and NedLambert followed, Hyneswalking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the openedhearse and tookout the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.Where is that childs funeral disappeared to?A team of horses passed from Finglas withtoiling plodding tread,dragging through the funereal silence a creaking waggonon which lay agranite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted.Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as heis. Horse looking round at itwith his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tighton his neck, pressingon a bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cartout hereevery day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. ThenMountJerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhereeveryminute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousandseveryhour. Too many in the world.Mourners came out through the gates: womanand a girl. Leanjawed harpy,hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girlsface stained with dirtand tears, holding the womans arm, looking up at her fora sign to cry.Fishs face, bloodless and livid.The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore itin through the gates. Somuch dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out ofthat bath. Firstthe stiff: then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher andtheboy followed with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah,thebrother-in-law.All walked after.Martin Cunningham whispered:--I was in mortal agony with you talking ofsuicide before Bloom.--What? Mr Power whispered. How so?--His father poisoned himself, MartinCunningham whispered. Had theQueens hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he wasgoing to Clare.Anniversary.--O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard ofit. Poisoned himself?He glanced behind him to where a face withdark thinking eyes followedtowards the cardinals mausoleum. Speaking.--Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.--I believe so, Mr Kernan answered. But thepolicy was heavilymortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.--How many children did he leave?--Five. Ned Lambert says hell try to get oneof the girls into Todds.--A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Fiveyoung children.--A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernanadded.--Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.Has the laugh at him now.He looked down at the boots he had blackedand polished. She hadoutlived him. Lost her husband. More dead for her than forme. One mustoutlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men intheworld. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope youll soon followhim.For Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet whoknows after.Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn ona guncarriage.Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. Butin the end she put a fewviolets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart ofhearts. All for a shadow. Consortnot even a king. Her son was thesubstance. Something new to hope for not likethe past she wanted back,waiting. It never comes. One must go first: alone,under the ground: andlie no more in her warm bed.--How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert saidsoftly, clasping hands. Haventseen you for a month of Sundays.--Never better. How are all in Corks owntown?--I was down there for the Cork park races onEaster Monday, Ned Lambertsaid. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with DickTivy.--And how is Dick, the solid man?--Nothing between himself and heaven, NedLambert answered.--By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said insubdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?--Martin is going to get up a whip for theyoungsters, Ned Lambert said,pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keepthem going till theinsurance is cleared up.--Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Isthat the eldest boy in front?--Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wifesbrother. John Henry Menton isbehind. He put down his name for a quid.--Ill engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. Ioften told poor Paddy he oughtto mind that job. John Henry is not the worst inthe world.--How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked.Liquor, what?--Many a good mans fault, Mr Dedalus saidwith a sigh.They halted about the door of the mortuarychapel. Mr Bloom stood behindthe boy with the wreath looking down at hissleekcombed hair and at theslender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar.Poor boy! Was he therewhen the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the lastmomentand recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe threeshillingsto OGrady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffininto the chapel.Which end is his head?After a moment he followed the others in,blinking in the screenedlight. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel,four tall yellowcandles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher,laying awreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. Themournersknelt here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind nearthefont and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaperfromhis pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his blackhat gently onhis left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.A server bearing a brass bucket withsomething in it came out through adoor. The whitesmocked priest came after him,tidying his stole with onehand, balancing with the other a little book againsthis toads belly.Wholl read the book? I, said the rook.They halted by the bier and the priest beganto read out of his bookwith a fluent croak.Father Coffey. I knew his name was like acoffin. _Domine-namine._ Bullyabout the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show.Muscular christian. Woebetide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Thouart Peter. Burstsideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a bellyonhim like a poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn:burstsideways._--Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo,Domine._Makes them feel more important to be prayedover in Latin. Requiem mass.Crape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name onthe altarlist. Chillyplace this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all themorning in thegloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of atoad too.What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Airofthe place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lotof bad gasround the place. Butchers, for instance: they get like rawbeefsteaks. Who wastelling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults ofsaint Werburghs lovely oldorgan hundred and fifty they have to bore ahole in the coffins sometimes to letout the bad gas and burn it. Out itrushes: blue. One whiff of that and youre agoner.My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. Thats better.The priest took a stick with a knob at theend of it out of the boysbucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walkedto the other end andshook it again. Then he came back and put it back in thebucket. As youwere before you rested. Its all written down: he has to do it._--Et ne nos inducas in tentationem._The server piped the answers in the treble. Ioften thought it would bebetter to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so.After that, of course...Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleepout of it. He must be fedup with that job, shaking that thing over all thecorpses they trot up.What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over.Every mortalday a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women deadinchildbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girlswithlittle sparrows breasts. All the year round he prayed the samething over themall and shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignamnow._--In paradisum._Said he was going to paradise or is inparadise. Says that overeverybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to saysomething.The priest closed his book and went off,followed by the server. CornyKelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggerscame in, hoisted thecoffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart.Corny Kellehergave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. Allfollowedthem out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom camelastfolding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the groundtillthe coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground thegravel witha sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed thetrundled barrowalong a lane of sepulchres.The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord,I mustnt lilt here.--The OConnell circle, Mr Dedalus said abouthim.Mr Powers soft eyes went up to the apex ofthe lofty cone.--Hes at rest, he said, in the middle of hispeople, old Dan O. Buthis heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts areburied here,Simon!--Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalussaid. Ill soon be stretchedbeside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.Breaking down, he began to weep to himselfquietly, stumbling a littlein his walk. Mr Power took his arm.--Shes better where she is, he said kindly.--I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weakgasp. I suppose she is inheaven if there is a heaven.Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rankand allowed the mourners toplod by.--Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twicebowed his head.--The others are putting on their hats, MrKernan said. I suppose we cando so too. We are the last. This cemetery is atreacherous place.They covered their heads.--The reverend gentleman read the service tooquickly, dont you think?Mr Kernan said with reproof.Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quickbloodshot eyes. Secreteyes, secretsearching. Mason, I think: not sure. Besidehim again. Weare the last. In the same boat. Hope hell say something else.Mr Kernan added:--The service of the Irish church used inMount Jerome is simpler, moreimpressive I must say.Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language ofcourse was another thing.Mr Kernan said with solemnity:--_I am the resurrection and the life_. Thattouches a mans inmostheart.--It does, Mr Bloom said.Your heart perhaps but what price the fellowin the six feet by twowith his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat ofthe affections.Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons ofbloodevery day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots ofthemlying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damnthe thing else.The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you aredead. That last dayidea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Comeforth, Lazarus! And he camefifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day!Then every fellow mousing around forhis liver and his lights and therest of his traps. Find damn all of himselfthat morning. Pennyweight ofpowder in a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight.Troy measure.Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.--Everything went off A1, he said. What?He looked on them from his drawling eye.Policemans shoulders. Withyour tooraloom tooraloom.--As it should be, Mr Kernan said.--What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.Mr Kernan assured him.--Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan?John Henry Menton asked. Iknow his face.Ned Lambert glanced back.--Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy thatwas, is, I mean, thesoprano. Shes his wife.--O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. Ihavent seen her for sometime. He was a finelooking woman. I danced with her,wait, fifteenseventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillons in Roundtown. And agoodarmful she was.He looked behind through the others.--What is he? he asked. What does he do?Wasnt he in the stationeryline? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, atbowls.Ned Lambert smiled.--Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Helys. Atraveller for blottingpaper.--In Gods name, John Henry Menton said, whatdid she marry a coon likethat for? She had plenty of game in her then.--Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does somecanvassing for ads.John Henry Mentons large eyes stared ahead.The barrow turned into a side lane. A portlyman, ambushed among thegrasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggerstouched their caps.--John OConnell, Mr Power said pleased. Henever forgets a friend.Mr OConnell shook all their hands in silence. MrDedalus said:--I am come to pay you another visit.--My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in alow voice. I dont wantyour custom at all.Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton hewalked on at MartinCunninghams side puzzling two long keys at his back.--Did you hear that one, he asked them, aboutMulcahy from the Coombe?--I did not, Martin Cunningham said.They bent their silk hats in concert andHynes inclined his ear. Thecaretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his goldwatchchain and spokein a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.--They tell the story, he said, that twodrunks came out here one foggyevening to look for the grave of a friend oftheirs. They asked forMulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he wasburied. Aftertraipsing about in the fog they found the grave sure enough. Oneof thedrunks spelt out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk wasblinkingup at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.The caretaker blinked up at one of thesepulchres they passed. Heresumed:--And, after blinking up at the sacredfigure, _Not a bloody bit likethe man_, says he. _Thats not Mulcahy_, says he,_whoever done it_.Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spokewith Corny Kelleher, acceptingthe dockets given him, turning them over andscanning them as he walked.--Thats all done with a purpose, MartinCunningham explained to Hynes.--I know, Hynes said. I know that.--To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunninghamsaid. Its puregoodheartedness: damn the thing else.Mr Bloom admired the caretakers prosperousbulk. All want to be on goodterms with him. Decent fellow, John OConnell, realgood sort. Keys:like Keyess ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No passoutchecks._Habeas corpus_. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did IwriteBallsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed mewriting toMartha? Hope its not chucked in the dead letter office. Bethe better of ashave. Grey sprouting beard. Thats the first sign whenthe hairs come out grey.And temper getting cross. Silver threads amongthe grey. Fancy being his wife.Wonder he had the gumption to propose toany girl. Come out and live in thegraveyard. Dangle that before her. Itmight thrill her first. Courting death...Shades of night hoveringhere with all the dead stretched about. The shadows ofthe tombs whenchurchyards yawn and Daniel OConnell must be a descendant Isupposewho is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic allthesame like a big giant in the dark. Will o the wisp. Gas of graves.Want tokeep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women especially are sotouchy. Tellher a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you everseen a ghost? Well, Ihave. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was onthe stroke of twelve. Stilltheyd kiss all right if properly keyed up.Whores in Turkish graveyards. Learnanything if taken young. You mightpick up a young widow here. Men like that.Love among the tombstones.Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death weare in life. Bothends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of grilledbeefsteaks tothe starving. Gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Mollywantingto do it at the window. Eight children he has anyway.He has seen a fair share go under in histime, lying around him fieldafter field. Holy fields. More room if they buriedthem standing.Sitting or kneeling you couldnt. Standing? His head might comeup someday above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. Allhoneycombedthe ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too:trimgrass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well,so itis. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giantpoppies growingproduce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The BotanicGardens are just overthere. Its the blood sinking in the earth givesnew life. Same idea those jewsthey said killed the christian boy. Everyman his price. Well preserved fatcorpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluablefor fruit garden. A bargain. By carcassof William Wilkinson, auditorand accountant, lately deceased, three poundsthirteen and six. Withthanks.I daresay the soil would be quite fat withcorpsemanure, bones, flesh,nails. Charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green andpink decomposing. Rotquick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then akind of a tallowykind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, black treacleoozing out ofthem. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatevertheyare go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing tofeedon feed on themselves.But they must breed a devil of a lot ofmaggots. Soil must be simplyswirling with them. Your head it simply swurls.Those pretty littleseaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him asense ofpower seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks atlife.Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one aboutthebulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11 p.m.(closing time).Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the menanyhow would like to hear anodd joke or the women to know whats infashion. A juicy pear or ladies punch,hot, strong and sweet. Keepout the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better doit that way.Gravediggers in _Hamlet_. Shows the profound knowledge of thehumanheart. Darent joke about the dead for two years at least. _De mortuisnilnisi prius_. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral.Seems a sortof a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you livelonger. Gives yousecond wind. New lease of life.--How many have-you for tomorrow? thecaretaker asked.--Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten andeleven.The caretaker put the papers in his pocket.The barrow had ceased totrundle. The mourners split and moved to each side ofthe hole, steppingwith care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffinand set itsnose on the brink, looping the bands round it.Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His idesof March or June. Hedoesnt know who is here nor care. Now who is thatlankylooking galootover there in the macintosh? Now who is he Id like to know?Now Idgive a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you neverdreamtof. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, hecould. Still hedhave to get someone to sod him after he died though hecould dig his own grave.We all do. Only man buries. No, ants too. Firstthing strikes anybody. Bury thedead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true tolife. Well then Friday buried him. EveryFriday buries a Thursday if youcome to look at it.  _O, poor RobinsonCrusoe!  How could you possibly do so?_Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in hisbox. When you think ofthem all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawedthrough. They couldinvent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let itdown thatway. Ay but they might object to be buried out of anotherfellows.Theyre so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay fromtheholy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the onecoffin. I seewhat it means. I see. To protect him as long as possibleeven in the earth. TheIrishmans house is his coffin. Embalming incatacombs, mummies the same idea.Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand,counting the bared heads.Twelve. Im thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh isthirteen. Deathsnumber. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasnt in thechapel, thatIll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit.Tinge of purple. I hadone like that when we lived in Lombard street west.Dressy fellow he wasonce. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get thatgrey suitof mine turned by Mesias. Hello. Its dyed. His wife I forgot hesnotmarried or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.The coffin dived out of sight, eased down bythe men straddled on thegravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and alluncovered. Twenty.Pause.If we were all suddenly somebody else.Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Neversee a dead one, theysay. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.Gentle sweet air blew round the bared headsin a whisper. Whisper. Theboy by the gravehead held his wreath with both handsstaring quietly inthe black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindlycaretaker.Wellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will gonext.Well, it is a long rest. Feel no more. Its the moment you feel. Mustbedamned unpleasant. Cant believe it at first. Mistake must be: someoneelse.Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I havent yet. Thendarkeneddeathchamber. Light they want. Whispering around you. Would youlike to see apriest? Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you hidall your life. Thedeath struggle. His sleep is not natural. Press hislower eyelid. Watching ishis nose pointed is his jaw sinking are thesoles of his feet yellow. Pull thepillow away and finish it off on thefloor since hes doomed. Devil in thatpicture of sinners death showinghim a woman. Dying to embrace her in hisshirt. Last act of _Lucia.Shall i nevermore behold thee_? Bam! He expires. Goneat last. Peopletalk about you a bit: forget you. Dont forget to pray for him.Rememberhim in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then they follow:droppinginto a hole, one after the other.We are praying now for the repose of hissoul. Hoping youre well andnot in hell. Nice change of air. Out of thefryingpan of life into thefire of purgatory.Does he ever think of the hole waiting forhimself? They say you do whenyou shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it.Callboys warning. Nearyou. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought.Mamma, poormamma, and little Rudy.The gravediggers took up their spades andflung heavy clods of clay inon the coffin. Mr Bloom turned away his face. Andif he was alive allthe time? Whew! By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he isdead, ofcourse. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to havesomelaw to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock ora telephone in thecoffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag ofdistress. Three days. Ratherlong to keep them in summer. Just as wellto get shut of them as soon as you aresure theres no.The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten.Out of sight, out of mind.The caretaker moved away a few paces and puton his hat. Had enough ofit. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one,covering themselveswithout show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portlyfigure make itsway deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of hisground, hetraversed the dismal fields.Hynes jotting down something in his notebook.Ah, the names. But heknows them all. No: coming to me.--I am just taking thenames, Hynes said below his breath. What is yourchristian name? Im not sure.--L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you mightput down MCoys name too. Heasked me to.--Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He wason the _Freeman_ once.So he was before he got the job in the morgueunder Louis Byrne. Goodidea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what theyimagine they know.He died of a Tuesday. Got the run. Levanted with the cash ofa few ads.Charley, youre my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well,doesno harm. I saw to that, MCoy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged. Leavehimunder an obligation: costs nothing.--And tell us, Hynes said, do you know thatfellow in the, fellow wasover there in the...He looked around.--Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said.Where is he now?--MIntosh, Hynes said scribbling. I dont knowwho he is. Is that hisname?He moved away, looking about him.--No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. Isay, Hynes!Didnt hear. What? Where has he disappearedto? Not a sign. Well of allthe. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell.Become invisible. GoodLord, what became of him?A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom totake up an idle spade.--O, excuse me!He stepped aside nimbly.Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in thehole. It rose. Nearly over.A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and thegravediggers rested theirspades. All uncovered again for a few instants. Theboy proppedhis wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump.Thegravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy spades towardsthebarrow. Then knocked the blades lightly on the turf: clean. One bentto pluckfrom the haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates,walked slowly onwith shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing.Silently at the graveheadanother coiled the coffinband. His navelcord.The brother-in-law, turning away,placed something in his free hand.Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble.Headshake. I know that. Foryourselves just.The mourners moved away slowly without aim,by devious paths, staying atwhiles to read a name on a tomb.--Let us go round by the chiefs grave, Hynessaid. We have time.--Let us, Mr Power said.They turned to the right, following theirslow thoughts. With awe MrPowers blank voice spoke:--Some say he is not in that grave at all.That the coffin was filledwith stones. That one day he will come again.Hynes shook his head.--Parnell will never come again, he said.Hes there, all that wasmortal of him. Peace to his ashes.Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove bysaddened angels, crosses,broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes prayingwith upcast eyes,old Irelands hearts and hands. More sensible to spend themoney on somecharity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Doesanybodyreally? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot. Thenlumpthem together to save time. All souls day. Twentyseventh Ill beat his grave.Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds.Old man himself. Bentdown double with his shears clipping. Near deathsdoor. Who passed away. Whodeparted this life. As if they did it oftheir own accord. Got the shove, all ofthem. Who kicked thebucket. More interesting if they told you what they were.So and So,wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid five shillings inthepound. Or a womans with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish stew.Eulogy in acountry churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose is itWordsworth or ThomasCampbell. Entered into rest the protestants put it.Old Dr Murrens. The greatphysician called him home. Well its Godsacre for them. Nice countryresidence. Newly plastered and painted.Ideal spot to have a quiet smoke andread the _Church Times._ Marriageads they never try to beautify. Rusty wreathshung on knobs, garlands ofbronzefoil. Better value that for the money. Still,the flowers are morepoetical. The other gets rather tiresome, never withering.Expressesnothing. Immortelles.A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch.Like stuffed. Like thewedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Hoo! Not a budgeout of him.Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal evensadder.Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox,adaisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Hearton his sleeve. Ought to besideways and red it should be painted like a realheart. Ireland wasdedicated to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased.Why thisinfliction? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with thebasketof fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of theboy.Apollo that was.How many! All these here once walked roundDublin. Faithful departed. Asyou are now so once were we.Besides how could you remember everybody?Eyes, walk, voice. Well, thevoice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone in everygrave or keep it inthe house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor oldgreatgrandfather.Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraarkawfullygladaseeagainhellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind you of the voice like thephotographreminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldnt remember the faceafterfifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some fellow thatdiedwhen I was in Wisdom Helys.Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop!He looked down intently into a stone crypt.Some animal. Wait. There hegoes.An obese grey rat toddled along the side ofthe crypt, moving thepebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows theropes. The greyalive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself inunder it.Good hidingplace for treasure.Who lives there? Are laid the remains ofRobert Emery. Robert Emmet wasburied here by torchlight, wasnt he? Making hisrounds.Tail gone now.One of those chaps would make short work of afellow. Pick the bonesclean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. Acorpse is meatgone bad. Well and whats cheese? Corpse of milk. I read inthat_Voyages in China_ that the Chinese say a white man smells like acorpse.Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for theother firm.Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of theplague. Quicklimefeverpits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes.Or bury at sea. Where isthat Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds.Earth, fire, water. Drowning theysay is the pleasantest. See your wholelife in a flash. But being brought backto life no. Cant bury in theair however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder doesthe news go aboutwhenever a fresh one is let down. Underground communication.We learnedthat from them. Wouldnt be surprised. Regular square feed forthem.Flies come before hes well dead. Got wind of Dignam. They wouldntcareabout the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, tastelikeraw white turnips.The gates glimmered in front: still open.Back to the world again.Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer everytime. Last time Iwas here was Mrs Sinicos funeral. Poor papa too. The lovethat kills.And even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like thatcaseI read of to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied withrunninggravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to youafterdeath. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt youafterdeath. There is another world after death named hell. I do not likethatother world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feelyet.Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggotybeds. They arenot going to get me this innings. Warm beds: warmfullblooded life.Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath,talking gravely.Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton,John Henry, solicitor,commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to bein his office.Mat Dillons long ago. Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings. Cold fowl,cigars,the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his ragoutthat evening on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him. Pure flukeofmine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hateat first sight.Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree,laughing. Fellow always likethat, mortified if women are by.Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriageprobably.--Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.They stopped.--Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom saidpointing.John Henry Menton stared at him for aninstant without moving.--There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointingalso. John Henry Menton tookoff his hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed thenap with care on hiscoatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.--Its all right now, Martin Cunningham said.John Henry Menton jerked his head down inacknowledgment.--Thank you, he said shortly.They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom,chapfallen, drew behinda few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying downthe law. Martincould wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger,without hisseeing it.Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry afterperhaps when it dawns on him.Get the pull over him that way.Thank you. How grand we are this morning!IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLISBefore Nelsons pillar trams slowed, shunted,changed trolley, startedfor Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgarand Terenure,Palmerston Park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green,Rathmines,Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harolds Cross. The hoarse DublinUnitedTramway Companys timekeeper bawled them off:--Rathgar and Terenure!--Come on, Sandymount Green!Right and left parallel clanging ringing adoubledecker and a singledeckmoved from their railheads, swerved to the downline, glided parallel.--Start, Palmerston Park!THE WEARER OF THE CROWNUnder the porch of the general post officeshoeblacks called andpolished. Parked in North Princes street His Majestysvermilionmailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R.,receivedloudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels,insuredand paid, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESSGrossbooted draymen rolled barrelsdullthudding out of Princes storesand bumped them up on the brewery float. Onthe brewery float bumpeddullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen outof Princesstores.--There it is, Red Murray said. AlexanderKeyes.--Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said,and Ill take it round tothe _Telegraph_ office.The door of Ruttledges office creaked again.Davy Stephens, minute in alarge capecoat, a small felt hat crowning hisringlets, passed out witha roll of papers under his cape, a kings courier.Red Murrays long shears sliced out theadvertisement from the newspaperin four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.--Ill go through the printingworks, Mr Bloomsaid, taking the cutsquare.--Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murraysaid earnestly, a pen behindhis ear, we can do him one.--Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. Ill rubthat in.We.WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS,SANDYMOUNTRed Murray touched Mr Blooms arm with theshears and whispered:--Brayden.Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porterraise his lettered cap as astately figure entered between the newsboards of the_Weekly Freemanand National Press_ and the _Freemans Journal and NationalPress_.Dullthudding Guinnesss barrels. It passed statelily up thestaircase,steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadclothbackascended each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck,Simon Dedalussays. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck,fat, neck, fat, neck.--Dont you think his face is like OurSaviour? Red Murray whispered.The door of Ruttledges office whispered: ee:cree. They always buildone door opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Wayout.Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talkingin the dusk. Mary, Martha.Steered by an umbrella sword to the footlights: Mariothe tenor.--Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.--Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was saidto be the picture of OurSaviour.Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet andspindle legs. Hand on hisheart. In _Martha._  _Co-ome thou lostone,  Co-ome thou dear one!_THE CROZIER AND THE PEN--His grace phoned down twice this morning,Red Murray said gravely.They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish.Neck.A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw anenvelope on the counter andstepped off posthaste with a word:_--Freeman!_Mr Bloom said slowly:--Well, he is one of our saviours also.A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted thecounterflap, as he passedin through a sidedoor and along the warm dark stairsand passage,along the now reverberating boards. But will he save thecirculation?Thumping. Thumping.He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered,stepping over strewnpacking paper. Through a lane of clanking drums he made hisway towardsNannettis reading closet.WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS WE ANNOUNCE THEDISSOLUTION OF A MOSTRESPECTED DUBLIN BURGESSHynes here too: account of the funeralprobably. Thumping. Thump. Thismorning the remains of the late Mr PatrickDignam. Machines. Smash a manto atoms if they got him caught. Rule the worldtoday. His machineriesare pegging away too. Like these, got out of hand:fermenting. Workingaway, tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in.HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUTMr Bloom halted behind the foremans sparebody, admiring a glossycrown.Strange he never saw his real country.Ireland my country. Member forCollege green. He boomed that workaday workertack for all it was worth.Its the ads and side features sell a weekly, not thestale news in theofficial gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by authorityin the yearone thousand and. Demesne situate in the townland of Rosenallis,baronyof Tinnahinch. To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant tostatuteshowing return of number of mules and jennets exported fromBallina.Nature notes. Cartoons. Phil Blakes weekly Pat and Bull story.UncleTobys page for tiny tots. Country bumpkins queries. Dear Mr Editor,whatis a good cure for flatulence? Id like that part. Learn a lotteaching others.The personal note. M. A. P. Mainly all pictures.Shapely bathers on goldenstrand. Worlds biggest balloon. Doublemarriage of sisters celebrated. Twobridegrooms laughing heartily ateach other. Cuprani too, printer. More Irishthan the Irish.The machines clanked in threefour time.Thump, thump, thump. Now if hegot paralysed there and no-one knew how to stopthem theyd clank on andon the same, print it over and over and up and back.Monkeydoodle thewhole thing. Want a cool head.--Well, get it into the evening edition,councillor, Hynes said.Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long Johnis backing him, they say.The foreman, without answering, scribbledpress on a corner of the sheetand made a sign to a typesetter. He handed thesheet silently over thedirty glass screen.--Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.Mr Bloom stood in his way.--If you want to draw the cashier is justgoing to lunch, he said,pointing backward with his thumb.--Did you? Hynes asked.--Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and youllcatch him.--Thanks, old man, Hynes said. Ill tap himtoo.He hurried on eagerly towards the _FreemansJournal_.Three bob I lent him in Meaghers. Threeweeks. Third hint.WE SEE THE CANVASSER AT WORKMr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannettisdesk.--Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad,you see. Keyes, you remember?Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile andnodded.--He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said.The foreman moved his pencil towards it.--But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants itchanged. Keyes, you see. He wantstwo keys at the top.Hell of a racket they make. He doesnt hearit. Nannan. Iron nerves.Maybe he understands what I.The foreman turned round to hear patientlyand, lifting an elbow, beganto scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpacajacket.--Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing hisforefingers at the top.Let him take that in first.Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the crosshe had made, saw theforemans sallow face, think he has a touch of jaundice,and beyond theobedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper. Clank it. Clank it.Milesof it unreeled. What becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat, parcels:varioususes, thousand and one things.Slipping his words deftly into the pauses ofthe clanking he drewswiftly on the scarred woodwork.HOUSE OF KEY(E)S--Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. Acircle. Then here the name.Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. Soon.Better not teach him his own business.--You know yourself, councillor, just what hewants. Then round the topin leaded: the house of keys. You see? Do you thinkthats a good idea?The foreman moved his scratching hand to hislower ribs and scratchedthere quietly.--The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house ofkeys. You know, councillor,the Manx parliament. Innuendo of home rule.Tourists, you know, from theisle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you dothat?I could ask him perhaps about how topronounce that _voglio._ But thenif he didnt know only make it awkward forhim. Better not.--We can do that, the foreman said. Have youthe design?--I can get it, Mr Bloom said. It was in aKilkenny paper. He has ahouse there too. Ill just run out and ask him. Well,you can do thatand just a little par calling attention. You know the usual.Highclasslicensed premises. Longfelt want. So on.The foreman thought for an instant.--We can do that, he said. Let him give us athree months renewal.A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage.He began to check itsilently. Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs ofcranks, watchingthe silent typesetters at their cases.ORTHOGRAPHICALWant to be sure of his spelling. Proof fever.Martin Cunningham forgotto give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning. Itis amusing to viewthe unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? double essment of aharassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry with a y of a peeledpearunder a cemetery wall. Silly, isnt it? Cemetery put in of course onaccountof the symmetry.I should have said when he clapped on histopper. Thank you. I oughtto have said something about an old hat or something.No. I could havesaid. Looks as good as new now. See his phiz then.Sllt. The nethermost deck of the firstmachine jogged forward itsflyboard with sllt the first batch of quirefoldedpapers. Sllt. Almosthuman the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its levelbest to speak.That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaksin itsown way. Sllt.NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTORThe foreman handed back the galleypagesuddenly, saying:--Wait. Wheres the archbishops letter? Itsto be repeated in the_Telegraph._ Wheres whats his name?He looked about him round his loudunanswering machines.--Monks, sir? a voice asked from thecastingbox.--Ay. Wheres Monks?--Monks!Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to getout.--Then Ill get the design, Mr Nannetti, hesaid, and youll give it agood place I know.--Monks!--Yes, sir.Three months renewal. Want to get some windoff my chest first. Try itanyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month.Ballsbridge. Touristsover for the show.A DAYFATHERHe walked on through the caseroom passing anold man, bowed, spectacled,aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuffhe must have putthrough his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs ads,speeches,divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his tether now.Soberserious man with a bit in the savingsbank Id say. Wife a good cookandwasher. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, nodamnnonsense. AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVERHe stayed in his walk to watch a typesetterneatly distributing type.Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Mustrequire some practicethat. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah book,reading backwardswith his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear,O dear!All that long business about that brought us out of the land of Egyptandinto the house of bondage _Alleluia. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu_.No, thatsthe other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacobs sons. And thenthe lamb and the catand the dog and the stick and the water and thebutcher. And then the angel ofdeath kills the butcher and he kills theox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds abit silly till you come to lookinto it well. Justice it means but itseverybody eating everyone else.Thats what life is after all. How quickly hedoes that job. Practicemakes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers.Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noisesthrough the gallery on tothe landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the wayand then catchhim out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? Yes. SameasCitrons house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAPHe went down the house staircase. Who thedeuce scrawled all over thosewalls with matches? Looks as if they did it for abet. Heavy greasysmell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thomsnext doorwhen I was there.He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose.Citronlemon? Ah, the soapI put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting backhis handkerchiefhe took out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into the hippocketof his trousers.What perfume does your wife use? I could gohome still: tram: somethingI forgot. Just to see: before: dressing. No. Here.No.A sudden screech of laughter came from the_Evening Telegraph_ office.Know who that is. Whats up? Pop in a minute tophone. Ned Lambert itis.He entered softly.ERIN, GREEN GEM OF THE SILVER SEA--The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmuredsoftly, biscuitfully tothe dusty windowpane.Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplaceat Ned Lamberts quizzingface, asked of it sourly:--Agonising Christ, wouldnt it give you aheartburn on your arse?Ned Lambert, seated on the table, read on:--_Or again, note the meanderings of somepurling rill as it babbleson its way, tho quarrelling with the stonyobstacles, to the tumblingwaters of Neptunes blue domain, mid mossy banks,fanned by gentlestzephyrs, played on by the glorious sunlight or neath theshadows castoer its pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the giantsofthe forest_. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe ofhisnewspaper. Hows that for high?--Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaperon his knees, repeating:--_The pensive bosom and the overarsingleafage_. O boys! O boys!--And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, MrDedalus said, looking again onthe fireplace and to the window, and Marathonlooked on the sea.--That will do, professor MacHugh cried fromthe window. I dont want tohear any more of the stuff.He ate off the crescent of water biscuit hehad been nibbling and,hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his otherhand.High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambertis taking a day off I see.Rather upsets a mans day, a funeral does. He hasinfluence theysay. Old Chatterton, the vicechancellor, is his granduncle orhisgreatgranduncle. Close on ninety they say. Subleader for his deathwrittenthis long time perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go firsthimself. Johnny,make room for your uncle. The right honourable HedgesEyre Chatterton. Daresayhe writes him an odd shaky cheque or two ongale days. Windfall when he kicksout. Alleluia.--Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said.--What is it? Mr Bloom asked.--A recently discovered fragment of Cicero,professor MacHugh answeredwith pomp of tone. _Our lovely land_. SHORT BUT TOTHE POINT--Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.--Most pertinent question, the professor saidbetween his chews. With anaccent on the whose.--Dan Dawsons land Mr Dedalus said.--Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloomasked.Ned Lambert nodded.--But listen to this, he said.The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of theback as the door waspushed in.--Excuse me, J. J. OMolloy said, entering.Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.--I beg yours, he said.--Good day, Jack.--Come in. Come in.--Good day.--How are you, Dedalus?--Well. And yourself?J. J. OMolloy shook his head.SADCleverest fellow at the junior bar he used tobe. Decline, poor chap.That hectic flush spells finis for a man. Touch and gowith him. Whatsin the wind, I wonder. Money worry.--_Or again if we but climb the serriedmountain peaks._--Youre looking extra.--Is the editor to be seen? J. J. OMolloyasked, looking towards theinner door.--Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To beseen and heard. Hes inhis sanctum with Lenehan.J. J. OMolloy strolled to the sloping deskand began to turn back thepink pages of the file.Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losingheart. Gambling. Debts ofhonour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get goodretainers from D. and T.Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Brainson their sleevelike the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary workfor the_Express_ with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford beganonthe _Independent._ Funny the way those newspaper men veer about whenthey getwind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the samebreath. Wouldntknow which to believe. One story good till you hearthe next. Go for one anotherbaldheaded in the papers and then all blowsover. Hail fellow well met the nextmoment.--Ah, listen to this for God sake, NedLambert pleaded. _Or again if webut climb the serried mountain peaks..._--Bombast! the professor broke in testily.Enough of the inflatedwindbag!--_Peaks_, Ned Lambert went on, _toweringhigh on high, to bathe oursouls, as it were..._--Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessedand eternal God! Yes? Is hetaking anything for it?_--As twere, in the peerlesspanorama of Irelands portfolio,unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypesin other vaunted prizeregions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulatingplain andluscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in thetranscendenttranslucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight..._HIS NATIVE DORIC--The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgotHamlet._--That mantles the vista far and wide andwait till the glowing orb ofthe moon shine forth to irradiate her silvereffulgence..._--O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to ahopeless groan. Shite andonions! Thatll do, Ned. Life is too short.He took off his silk hat and, blowing outimpatiently his bushymoustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside,chuckling with delight. Aninstant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst overprofessor MacHughsunshaven blackspectacled face.--Doughy Daw! he cried.WHAT WETHERUP SAIDAll very fine to jeer at it now in cold printbut it goes down like hotcake that stuff. He was in the bakery line too, wasnthe? Why they callhim Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughterengaged to thatchap in the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked that nicely.Entertainments.Open house. Big blowout. Wetherup always said that. Geta grip of them by thestomach.The inner door was opened violently and ascarlet beaked face, crestedby a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. Thebold blue eyes staredabout them and the harsh voice asked:--What is it?--And here comes the sham squire himself!professor MacHugh saidgrandly.--Getonouthat, you bloody old pedagogue! theeditor said in recognition.--Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting on hishat. I must get a drinkafter that.--Drink! the editor cried. No drinks servedbefore mass.--Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, goingout. Come on, Ned.Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. Theeditors blue eyes rovedtowards Mr Blooms face, shadowed by a smile.--Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED--North Cork militia! the editor cried,striding to the mantelpiece. Wewon every time! North Cork and Spanish officers!--Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert askedwith a reflective glance athis toecaps.--In Ohio! the editor shouted.--So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.Passing out he whispered to J. J. OMolloy:--Incipient jigs. Sad case.--Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble fromhis uplifted scarlet face.My Ohio!--A perfect cretic! the professor said. Long,short and long.O, HARP EOLIAN!He took a reel of dental floss from hiswaistcoat pocket and, breakingoff a piece, twanged it smartly between two andtwo of his resonantunwashed teeth.--Bingbang, bangbang.Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made forthe inner door.--Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I justwant to phone about an ad.He went in.--What about that leader this evening?professor MacHugh asked, comingto the editor and laying a firm hand on hisshoulder.--Thatll be all right, Myles Crawford saidmore calmly. Never you fret.Hello, Jack. Thats all right.--Good day, Myles, J. J. OMolloy said,letting the pages he held sliplimply back on the file. Is that Canada swindlecase on today?The telephone whirred inside.--Twentyeight... No, twenty... Double four...Yes.SPOT THE WINNERLenehan came out of the inner office withSPORTS tissues.--Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? heasked. Sceptre with O.Madden up.He tossed the tissues on to the table.Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hallrushed near and the door wasflung open.--Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops.Professor MacHugh strode across the room andseized the cringing urchinby the collar as the others scampered out of the halland down thesteps. The tissues rustled up in the draught, floated softly in theairblue scrawls and under the table came to earth.--It wasnt me, sir. It was the big fellowshoved me, sir.--Throw him out and shut the door, the editorsaid. Theres a hurricaneblowing.Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from thefloor, grunting as hestooped twice.--Waiting for the racing special, sir, thenewsboy said. It was PatFarrell shoved me, sir.He pointed to two faces peering in round thedoorframe.--Him, sir.--Out of this with you, professor MacHughsaid gruffly.He hustled the boy out and banged the doorto.J. J. OMolloy turned the files crackinglyover, murmuring, seeking:--Continued on page six, column four.--Yes, _Evening Telegraph_ here, Mr Bloomphoned from the inner office.Is the boss...? Yes, _Telegraph_... To where? Aha!Which auction rooms?... Aha! I see... Right. Ill catch him.A COLLISION ENSUESThe bell whirred again as he rang off. Hecame in quickly and bumpedagainst Lenehan who was struggling up with the secondtissue.--_Pardon, monsieur_, Lenehan said, clutchinghim for an instant andmaking a grimace.--My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering hisgrip. Are you hurt? Im in ahurry.--Knee, Lenehan said.He made a comic face and whined, rubbing hisknee:--The accumulation of the _anno Domini_.--Sorry, Mr Bloom said.He went to the door and, holding it ajar,paused. J. J. OMolloy slappedthe heavy pages over. The noise of two shrillvoices, a mouthorgan,echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on thedoorsteps:  _--We are the boysof Wexford  Who fought with heart and hand._EXIT BLOOM--Im just running round to Bachelors walk,Mr Bloom said, about thisad of Keyess. Want to fix it up. They tell me hesround there inDillons.He looked indecisively for a moment at theirfaces. The editor who,leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head onhis hand,suddenly stretched forth an arm amply.--Begone! he said. The world is before you.--Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurryingout.J. J. OMolloy took the tissues fromLenehans hand and read them,blowing them apart gently, without comment.--Hell get that advertisement, the professorsaid, staring through hisblackrimmed spectacles over the crossblind. Look atthe young scampsafter him.--Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to thewindow.A STREET CORTEGEBoth smiled over the crossblind at the fileof capering newsboys in MrBlooms wake, the last zigzagging white on the breezea mocking kite, atail of white bowknots.--Look at the young guttersnipe behind himhue and cry, Lenehan said,and youll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off hisflat spaugs and thewalk. Small nines. Steal upon larks.He began to mazurka in swift caricatureacross the floor on slidingfeet past the fireplace to J. J. OMolloy who placedthe tissues in hisreceiving hands.--Whats that? Myles Crawford said with astart. Where are the other twogone?--Who? the professor said, turning. Theyregone round to the Oval for adrink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came overlast night.--Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Wheresmy hat?He walked jerkily into the office behind,parting the vent of hisjacket, jingling his keys in his back pocket. Theyjingled then in theair and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer.--Hes pretty well on, professor MacHugh saidin a low voice.--Seems to be, J. J. OMolloy said, takingout a cigarettecase inmurmuring meditation, but it is not always as it seems.Who has the mostmatches?THE CALUMET OF PEACEHe offered a cigarette to the professor andtook one himself. Lenehanpromptly struck a match for them and lit theircigarettes in turn. J. J.OMolloy opened his case again and offered it.--_Thanky vous_, Lenehan said, helpinghimself.The editor came from the inner office, a strawhat awry on his brow. Hedeclaimed in song, pointing sternly at professorMacHugh:_--Twas rank and fame that tempted thee,Twas empire charmed thyheart._The professor grinned, locking his long lips.--Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? MylesCrawford said.He took a cigarette from the open case.Lenehan, lighting it for himwith quick grace, said:--Silence for my brandnew riddle!--_Imperium romanum_, J. J. OMolloy saidgently. It sounds nobler thanBritish or Brixton. The word reminds one somehowof fat in the fire.Myles Crawford blew his first puff violentlytowards the ceiling.--Thats it, he said. We are the fat. You andI are the fat in the fire.We havent got the chance of a snowball in hell.THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME--Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said,raising two quiet claws. Wemustnt be led away by words, by sounds of words. Wethink of Rome,imperial, imperious, imperative.He extended elocutionary arms from frayedstained shirtcuffs, pausing:--What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow:but vile. Cloacae: sewers.The Jews in the wilderness and on the mountaintopsaid: _It is meetto be here. Let us build an altar to Jehovah_. The Roman, liketheEnglishman who follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore onwhichhe set his foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacalobsession. Hegazed about him in his toga and he said: _It is meet to behere. Let usconstruct a watercloset._--Which they accordingly did do, Lenehansaid. Our old ancientancestors, as we read in the first chapter of Guinnesss,were partialto the running stream.--They were natures gentlemen, J. J.OMolloy murmured. But we havealso Roman law.--And Pontius Pilate is its prophet,professor MacHugh responded.--Do you know that story about chief baronPalles? J. J. OMolloy asked.It was at the royal university dinner. Everythingwas going swimmingly...--First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are youready?Mr OMadden Burke, tall in copious grey ofDonegal tweed, came in fromthe hallway. Stephen Dedalus, behind him, uncoveredas he entered.--_Entrez, mes enfants!_ Lenehan cried.--I escort a suppliant, Mr OMadden Burkesaid melodiously. Youth led byExperience visits Notoriety.--How do you do? the editor said, holding outa hand. Come in. Yourgovernor is just gone.???Lenehan said to all:--Silence! What opera resembles arailwayline? Reflect, ponder,excogitate, reply.Stephen handed over the typed sheets,pointing to the title andsignature.--Who? the editor asked.Bit torn off.--Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said.--That old pelters, the editor said. Who toreit? Was he short taken?  _On swift sailflaming  From storm and south  Hecomes, pale vampire,  Mouth to my mouth._--Good day, Stephen, the professor said,coming to peer over theirshoulders. Foot and mouth? Are you turned...?Bullockbefriending bard.SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT--Good day, sir, Stephen answered blushing.The letter is not mine. MrGarrett Deasy asked me to...--O, I know him, Myles Crawford said, and Iknew his wife too. Thebloodiest old tartar God ever made. By Jesus, she had thefoot and mouthdisease and no mistake! The night she threw the soup in thewaitersface in the Star and Garter. Oho!A woman brought sin into the world. ForHelen, the runaway wife ofMenelaus, ten years the Greeks. ORourke, prince ofBreffni.--Is he a widower? Stephen asked.--Ay, a grass one, Myles Crawford said, hiseye running down thetypescript. Emperors horses. Habsburg. An Irishman savedhis life onthe ramparts of Vienna. Dont you forget! Maximilian KarlODonnell,graf von Tirconnell in Ireland. Sent his heir over to make the kinganAustrian fieldmarshal now. Going to be trouble there one day. Wildgeese. O yes,every time. Dont you forget that!--The moot point is did he forget it, J. J.OMolloy said quietly,turning a horseshoe paperweight. Saving princes is athank you job.Professor MacHugh turned on him.--And if not? he said.--Ill tell you how it was, Myles Crawfordbegan. A Hungarian it was oneday... LOST CAUSESNOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED--We were always loyal to lost causes, theprofessor said. Success forus is the death of the intellect and of theimagination. We were neverloyal to the successful. We serve them. I teach theblatant Latinlanguage. I speak the tongue of a race the acme of whose mentalityisthe maxim: time is money. Material domination. _Dominus!_ Lord! Where isthespirituality? Lord Jesus? Lord Salisbury? A sofa in a westend club.But theGreek!KYRIE ELEISON!A smile of light brightened his darkrimmedeyes, lengthened his longlips.--The Greek! he said again. _Kyrios!_ Shiningword! The vowels theSemite and the Saxon know not. _Kyrie!_ The radiance of theintellect.I ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind. _Kyrie eleison!_Theclosetmaker and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. Weareliege subjects of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered atTrafalgarand of the empire of the spirit, not an _imperium,_ thatwent under with theAthenian fleets at Aegospotami. Yes, yes. They wentunder. Pyrrhus, misled by anoracle, made a last attempt to retrieve thefortunes of Greece. Loyal to a lostcause.He strode away from them towards the window.--They went forth to battle, Mr OMaddenBurke said greyly, but theyalways fell.--Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise.Owing to a brick received inthe latter half of the _matin√©e_. Poor, poor, poorPyrrhus!He whispered then near Stephens ear:LENEHANS LIMERICK  _Theres a ponderouspundit MacHugh  Who wears goggles of ebonyhue.  As he mostly sees double To wear them why trouble?  I cant see the Joe Miller.Can you?_In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whosemother is beastly dead.Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into asidepocket.--Thatll be all right, he said. Ill readthe rest after. Thatll beall right.Lenehan extended his hands in protest.--But my riddle! he said. What opera is likea railwayline?--Opera? Mr OMadden Burkes sphinx facereriddled.Lenehan announced gladly:--_The Rose of Castile_. See the wheeze? Rowsof cast steel. Gee!He poked Mr OMadden Burke mildly in thespleen. Mr OMadden Burke fellback with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.--Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his facerapidly with the rustlingtissues.The professor, returning by way of the files,swept his hand acrossStephens and Mr OMadden Burkes loose ties.--Paris, past and present, he said. You looklike communards.--Like fellows who had blown up the Bastile,J. J. OMolloy said inquiet mockery. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant ofFinland betweenyou? You look as though you had done the deed. GeneralBobrikoff.OMNIUM GATHERUM--We were only thinking about it, Stephensaid.--All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law,the classics...--The turf, Lenehan put in.--Literature, the press.--If Bloom were here, the professor said. Thegentle art ofadvertisement.--And Madam Bloom, Mr OMadden Burke added.The vocal muse. Dublinsprime favourite.Lenehan gave a loud cough.--Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a freshof breath air! I caught acold in the park. The gate was open.YOU CAN DO IT!The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephensshoulder.--I want you to write something for me, hesaid. Something with a bitein it. You can do it. I see it in your face. _In thelexicon of youth_...See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazyidle little schemer.--Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried inscornful invective. Greatnationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. All balls!Bulldosing thepublic! Give them something with a bite in it. Put us all intoit, damnits soul. Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes MCarthy.--We can all supply mental pabulum, MrOMadden Burke said.Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheedingstare.--He wants you for the pressgang, J. J.OMolloy said.THE GREAT GALLAHER--You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated,clenching his hand inemphasis. Wait a minute. Well paralyse Europe as IgnatiusGallaherused to say when he was on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking intheClarence. Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. Youknow howhe made his mark? Ill tell you. That was the smartest piece ofjournalism everknown. That was in eightyone, sixth of May, time ofthe invincibles, murder inthe Phoenix park, before you were born, Isuppose. Ill show you.He pushed past them to the files.--Look at here, he said turning. The _NewYork World_ cabled for aspecial. Remember that time?Professor MacHugh nodded.--_New York World_, the editor said,excitedly pushing back his strawhat. Where it took place. Tim Kelly, orKavanagh I mean. Joe Brady andthe rest of them. Where Skin-the-Goat drove thecar. Whole route, see?--Skin-the-Goat, Mr OMadden Burke said.Fitzharris. He has thatcabmans shelter, they say, down there at Butt bridge.Holohan told me.You know Holohan?--Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawfordsaid.--And poor Gumley is down there too, so hetold me, minding stones forthe corporation. A night watchman.Stephen turned in surprise.--Gumley? he said. You dont say so? A friendof my fathers, is it?--Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford criedangrily. Let Gumley mindthe stones, see they dont run away. Look at here. Whatdid IgnatiusGallaher do? Ill tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled rightaway.Have you _Weekly Freeman_ of 17 March? Right. Have you got that?He flung back pages of the files and stuckhis finger on a point.--Take page four, advertisement forBransomes coffee, let us say. Haveyou got that? Right.The telephone whirred.A DISTANT VOICE--Ill answer it, the professor said, going.--B is parkgate. Good.His finger leaped and struck point afterpoint, vibrating.--T is viceregal lodge. C is where murdertook place. K is Knockmaroongate.The loose flesh of his neck shook like acocks wattles. An illstarcheddicky jutted up and with a rude gesture he thrustit back into hiswaistcoat.--Hello? _Evening Telegraph_ here...Hello?... Whos there?... Yes...Yes... Yes.--F to P is the route Skin-the-Goat drove thecar for an alibi,Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh.F.A.B.P.Got that? X is Davys publichouse in upper Leeson street.The professor came to the inner door.--Bloom is at the telephone, he said.--Tell him go to hell, the editor saidpromptly. X is Davyspublichouse, see? CLEVER, VERY--Clever, Lenehan said. Very.--Gave it to them on a hot plate, MylesCrawford said, the whole bloodyhistory.Nightmare from which you will never awake.--I saw it, the editor said proudly. I waspresent. Dick Adams, thebesthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the breathof life in, andmyself.Lenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing:--Madam, Im Adam. And Able was I ere I sawElba.--History! Myles Crawford cried. The OldWoman of Princes street wasthere first. There was weeping and gnashing ofteeth over that. Out ofan advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it.That gave him theleg up. Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on tothe _Star._Now hes got in with Blumenfeld. Thats press. Thats talent. Pyatt!Hewas all their daddies!--The father of scare journalism, Lenehanconfirmed, and thebrother-in-law of Chris Callinan.--Hello?... Are you there?... Yes, hes herestill. Come acrossyourself.--Where do you find a pressman like that now,eh? the editor cried. Heflung the pages down.--Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Mr OMaddenBurke.--Very smart, Mr OMadden Burke said.Professor MacHugh came from the inner office.--Talking about the invincibles, he said, didyou see that some hawkerswere up before the recorder?--O yes, J. J. OMolloy said eagerly. LadyDudley was walking homethrough the park to see all the trees that were blowndown by thatcyclone last year and thought shed buy a view of Dublin. Anditturned out to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number OneorSkin-the-Goat. Right outside the viceregal lodge, imagine!--Theyre only in the hook and eyedepartment, Myles Crawford said.Psha! Press and the bar! Where have you a mannow at the bar like thosefellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like silvertonguedOHagan.Eh? Ah, bloody nonsense. Psha! Only in the halfpenny place.His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking innervous curls of disdain.Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss?How do you know? Why did youwrite it then?RHYMES AND REASONSMouth, south. Is the mouth south someway? Orthe south a mouth? Must besome. South, pout, out, shout, drouth. Rhymes: twomen dressed the same,looking the same, two by two. _........................ la tua pace  .................. cheparlar ti piace  .... mentrech√© il vento, come fa, si tace._He saw them three by three, approachinggirls, in green, in rose, inrusset, entwining, _per laer perso_, in mauve, inpurple, _quellapacifica oriafiamma_, gold of oriflamme, _di rimirar fe piuardenti._But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night:mouthsouth: tomb womb.--Speak up for yourself, Mr OMadden Burkesaid.SUFFICIENT FOR THE DAY...J. J. OMolloy, smiling palely, took up thegage.--My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigaretteaside, you put a falseconstruction on my words. I hold no brief, as at presentadvised, forthe third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are runningawaywith you. Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and DemosthenesandEdmund Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizodboss,Harmsworth of the farthing press, and his American cousin of theBoweryguttersheet not to mention _Paddy Kellys Budget, Pues Occurrences_andour watchful friend _The Skibbereen Eagle_. Why bring in a masterof forensiceloquence like Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is thenewspaper thereof. LINKSWITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE--Grattan and Flood wrote for this verypaper, the editor cried in hisface. Irish volunteers. Where are you now?Established 1763. Dr Lucas.Who have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha!--Well, J. J. OMolloy said, Bushe K.C., forexample.--Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes: Bushe,yes. He has a strain of itin his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.--He would have been on the bench long ago,the professor said, only for... But no matter.J. J. OMolloy turned to Stephen and saidquietly and slowly:--One of the most polished periods I think Iever listened to in my lifefell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in thatcase of fratricide,the Childs murder case. Bushe defended him. _And in theporches of mineear did pour._By the way how did he find that out? He diedin his sleep. Or the otherstory, beast with two backs?--What was that? the professor asked.ITALIA, MAGISTRA ARTIUM--He spoke on the law of evidence, J. J.OMolloy said, of Roman justiceas contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the_lex talionis_. And hecited the Moses of Michelangelo in the vatican.--Ha.--A few wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced.Silence!Pause. J. J. OMolloy took out hiscigarettecase.False lull. Something quite ordinary.Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfullyand lit his cigar.I have often thought since on looking backover that strange time thatit was that small act, trivial in itself, thatstriking of that match,that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives.A POLISHEDPERIODJ. J. OMolloy resumed, moulding his words:--He said of it: _that stony effigy in frozenmusic, horned andterrible, of the human form divine, that eternal symbol ofwisdom andof prophecy which, if aught that the imagination or the hand ofsculptorhas wrought in marble of soultransfigured and ofsoultransfiguringdeserves to live, deserves to live._His slim hand with a wave graced echo andfall.--Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.--The divine afflatus, Mr OMadden Burkesaid.--You like it? J. J. OMolloy asked Stephen.Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of languageand gesture, blushed. Hetook a cigarette from the case. J. J. OMolloy offeredhis case to MylesCrawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and took histrophy,saying:--Muchibus thankibus.A MAN OF HIGH MORALE--Professor Magennis was speaking to me aboutyou, J. J. OMolloy saidto Stephen. What do you think really of that hermeticcrowd, the opalhush poets: A. E. the mastermystic? That Blavatsky woman startedit.She was a nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling someyankeeinterviewer that you came to him in the small hours of the morning toaskhim about planes of consciousness. Magennis thinks you must havebeen pulling A.E.s leg. He is a man of the very highest morale,Magennis.Speaking about me. What did he say? What didhe say? What did he sayabout me? Dont ask.--No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, wavingthe cigarettecase aside.Wait a moment. Let me say one thing. The finest displayof oratory Iever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at the collegehistoricalsociety. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal,hadspoken and the paper under debate was an essay (new for thosedays),advocating the revival of the Irish tongue.He turned towards Myles Crawford and said:--You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you canimagine the style of hisdiscourse.--He is sitting with Tim Healy, J. J.OMolloy said, rumour has it, onthe Trinity college estates commission.--He is sitting with a sweet thing, MylesCrawford said, in a childsfrock. Go on. Well?--It was the speech, mark you, the professorsaid, of a finished orator,full of courteous haughtiness and pouring inchastened diction I willnot say the vials of his wrath but pouring the proudmans contumelyupon the new movement. It was then a new movement. We wereweak,therefore worthless.He closed his long thin lips an instant but,eager to be on, raisedan outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with tremblingthumb andringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to anewfocus.IMPROMPTUIn ferial tone he addressed J. J. OMolloy:--Taylor had come there, you must know, froma sickbed. That hehad prepared his speech I do not believe for there was noteven oneshorthandwriter in the hall. His dark lean face had a growth ofshaggybeard round it. He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogetherhelooked (though he was not) a dying man.His gaze turned at once but slowly from J. J.OMolloys towardsStephens face and then bent at once to the ground, seeking.Hisunglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by hiswitheringhair. Still seeking, he said:--When Fitzgibbons speech had ended John FTaylor rose to reply.Briefly, as well as I can bring them to mind, his wordswere these.He raised his head firmly. His eyes bethoughtthemselves once more.Witless shellfish swam in the gross lenses to and fro,seeking outlet.He began:_--Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: Greatwas my admiration inlistening to the remarks addressed to the youth of Irelanda momentsince by my learned friend. It seemed to me that I had beentransportedinto a country far away from this country, into an age remotefromthis age, that I stood in ancient Egypt and that I was listening tothespeech of some highpriest of that land addressed to the youthful Moses._His listeners held their cigarettes poised tohear, their smokesascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. _Andlet ourcrooked smokes._ Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your handatit yourself?_--And it seemed to me that I heard the voiceof that Egyptianhighpriest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride.I heardhis words and their meaning was revealed to me._FROM THE FATHERSIt was revealed to me that those things aregood which yet are corruptedwhich neither if they were supremely good norunless they were goodcould be corrupted. Ah, curse you! Thats saint Augustine._--Why will you jews not accept our culture,our religion and ourlanguage? You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we are amighty people. Youhave no cities nor no wealth: our cities are hives ofhumanity andour galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all mannermerchandisefurrow the waters of the known globe. You have but emergedfromprimitive conditions: we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelonghistoryand a polity._Nile.Child, man, effigy.By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradleof bulrushes: a man supplein combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone._--You pray to a local and obscure idol: ourtemples, majestic andmysterious, are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horusand Ammon Ra.Yours serfdom, awe and humbleness: ours thunder and the seas.Israelis weak and few are her children: Egypt is an host and terrible areherarms. Vagrants and daylabourers are you called: the world trembles atourname._A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. Helifted his voice above itboldly:_--But, ladies and gentlemen, had theyouthful Moses listened to andaccepted that view of life, had he bowed his headand bowed his willand bowed his spirit before that arrogant admonition he wouldnever havebrought the chosen people out of their house of bondage, nor followedthepillar of the cloud by day. He would never have spoken with theEternal amidlightnings on Sinais mountaintop nor ever have come downwith the light ofinspiration shining in his countenance and bearing inhis arms the tables of thelaw, graven in the language of the outlaw._He ceased and looked at them, enjoying asilence.OMINOUS--FOR HIM!J. J. OMolloy said not without regret:--And yet he died without having entered theland of promise.--A sudden--at--the--moment--though--from--lingering--illness--often--previously--expectorated--demise,Lenehan added. And with a great futurebehind him.The troop of bare feet was heard rushingalong the hallway and patteringup the staircase.--That is oratory, the professor saiduncontradicted. Gone with thewind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the kings.Miles of ears ofporches. The tribunes words, howled and scattered to the fourwinds.A people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic records of allthatever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him: me no more.I have money.--Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motionon the agenda paper may Isuggest that the house do now adjourn?--You take my breath away. It is notperchance a French compliment?Mr OMadden Burke asked. Tis the hour, methinks,when the winejug,metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancienthostelry.--That it be and hereby is resolutelyresolved. All that are in favoursay ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. Ideclare it carried. Towhich particular boosing shed?... My casting vote is:Mooneys!He led the way, admonishing:--We will sternly refuse to partake of strongwaters, will we not? Yes,we will not. By no manner of means.Mr OMadden Burke, following close, said withan allys lunge of hisumbrella:--Lay on, Macduff!--Chip of the old block! the editor cried,clapping Stephen on theshoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys?He fumbled in his pocket pulling out thecrushed typesheets.--Foot and mouth. I know. Thatll be allright. Thatll go in. Where arethey? Thats all right.He thrust the sheets back and went into theinner office. LET US HOPEJ. J. OMolloy, about to follow him in, saidquietly to Stephen:--I hope you will live to see it published.Myles, one moment.He went into the inner office, closing thedoor behind him.--Come along, Stephen, the professor said.That is fine, isnt it? Ithas the prophetic vision. _Fuit Ilium!_ The sack ofwindy Troy. Kingdomsof this world. The masters of the Mediterranean arefellaheen today.The first newsboy came pattering down thestairs at their heels andrushed out into the street, yelling:--Racing special!Dublin. I have much, much to learn.They turned to the left along Abbey street.--I have a vision too, Stephen said.--Yes? the professor said, skipping to getinto step. Crawford willfollow.Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as heran:--Racing special!DEAR DIRTY DUBLINDubliners.--Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderlyand pious, have lived fiftyand fiftythree years in Fumballys lane.--Where is that? the professor asked.--Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Againstthe wall. Face glisteringtallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasicrecords. Quicker,darlint!On now. Dare it. Let there be life.--They want to see the views of Dublin fromthe top of Nelsons pillar.They save up three and tenpence in a red tinletterbox moneybox. Theyshake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coaxout the pennieswith the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one andsevenin coppers. They put on their bonnets and best clothes and taketheirumbrellas for fear it may come on to rain.--Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.LIFE ON THE RAW--They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawnand four slices of panloaf atthe north city diningrooms in Marlborough streetfrom Miss Kate Collins,proprietress... They purchase four and twenty ripe plumsfrom a girlat the foot of Nelsons pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn.Theygive two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begintowaddle slowly up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging eachother, afraidof the dark, panting, one asking the other have you thebrawn, praising God andthe Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down,peeping at the airslits. Glory beto God. They had no idea it was thathigh.Their names are Anne Kearns and FlorenceMacCabe. Anne Kearns has thelumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, givenher by a lady who gota bottleful from a passionist father. Florence MacCabetakes a crubeenand a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.--Antithesis, the professor said noddingtwice. Vestal virgins. I cansee them. Whats keeping our friend?He turned.A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down thesteps, scattering in alldirections, yelling, their white papers fluttering.Hard after themMyles Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling hisscarletface, talking with J. J. OMolloy.--Come along, the professor cried, waving hisarm.He set off again to walk by Stephens side.RETURN OF BLOOM--Yes, he said. I see them.Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl ofwild newsboys near theoffices of the _Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal_,called:--Mr Crawford! A moment!--_Telegraph_! Racing special!--What is it? Myles Crawford said, fallingback a pace.A newsboy cried in Mr Blooms face:--Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bitby a bellows!INTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR--Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushingthrough towards the steps,puffing, and taking the cutting from his pocket. Ispoke with Mr Keyesjust now. Hell give a renewal for two months, he says.After hellsee. But he wants a par to call attention in the _Telegraph_ too,theSaturday pink. And he wants it copied if its not too late I toldcouncillorNannetti from the _Kilkenny People_. I can have access toit in the nationallibrary. House of keys, dont you see? His name isKeyes. Its a play on thename. But he practically promised hed givethe renewal. But he wants just alittle puff. What will I tell him, MrCrawford? K.M.A.--Will you tell him he can kiss my arse?Myles Crawford said throwingout his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straightfrom the stable.A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All offfor a drink. Arm in arm.Lenehans yachting cap on the cadge beyond. Usualblarney. Wonder isthat young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a good pair ofboots on himtoday. Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walkinginmuck somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?--Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, ifI can get the design Isuppose its worth a short par. Hed give the ad, Ithink. Ill tell him... K.M.R.I.A.--He can kiss my royal Irish arse, MylesCrawford cried loudly over hisshoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point andabout to smile he strode onjerkily.RAISING THE WIND--_Nulla bona_, Jack, he said, raising hishand to his chin. Im up tohere. Ive been through the hoop myself. I waslooking for a fellow toback a bill for me no later than last week. Sorry, Jack.You must takethe will for the deed. With a heart and a half if I could raisethe windanyhow.J. J. OMolloy pulled a long face and walkedon silently. They caught upon the others and walked abreast.--When they have eaten the brawn and thebread and wiped their twentyfingers in the paper the bread was wrapped in theygo nearer to therailings.--Something for you, the professor explainedto Myles Crawford. Two oldDublin women on the top of Nelsons pillar.SOME COLUMN!--THATS WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID--Thats new, Myles Crawford said. Thatscopy. Out for the waxiesDargle. Two old trickies, what?--But they are afraid the pillar will fall,Stephen went on. They seethe roofs and argue about where the different churchesare: Rathminesblue dome, Adam and Eves, saint Laurence OTooles. But itmakes themgiddy to look so they pull up their skirts...THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES--Easy all, Myles Crawford said. No poeticlicence. Were in thearchdiocese here.--And settle down on their stripedpetticoats, peering up at the statueof the onehandled adulterer.--Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried.I like that. I see theidea. I see what you mean.DAMES DONATE DUBLINS CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUSAEROLITHS, BELIEF--It gives them a crick in their necks,Stephen said, and they are tootired to look up or down or to speak. They putthe bag of plums betweenthem and eat the plums out of it, one after another,wiping off withtheir handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of theirmouths andspitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings.He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close.Lenehan and Mr OMaddenBurke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on acrosstowards Mooneys.--Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long asthey do no worse.SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ONPROBOSCIS. SPARTANS GNASHMOLARS. ITHACANS VOW PEN IS CHAMP.--You remind me of Antisthenes, the professorsaid, a disciple ofGorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tellif he werebitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of anobleand a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palmofbeauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.They made ready to cross OConnell street.HELLO THERE, CENTRAL!At various points along the eight linestramcars with motionlesstrolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or fromRathmines,Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green,Ringsendand Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and UpperRathmines,all still, becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs,deliverywaggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floatswithrattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.WHAT?--AND LIKEWISE--WHERE?--But what do you call it? Myles Crawfordasked. Where did they get theplums?VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. SOPHOMORE PLUMPSFOR OLD MAN MOSES.--Call it, wait, the professor said, openinghis long lips wide toreflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: _deus nobis haecotia fecit._--No, Stephen said. I call it _A Pisgah Sightof Palestine or theParable of The Plums._--I see, the professor said.He laughed richly.--I see, he said again with new pleasure. Mosesand the promised land.We gave him that idea, he added to J. J. OMolloy.HORATIO IS CYNOSURE THIS FAIR JUNE DAYJ. J. OMolloy sent a weary sidelong glancetowards the statue and heldhis peace.--I see, the professor said.He halted on sir John Grays pavement islandand peered aloft at Nelsonthrough the meshes of his wry smile.DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FORFRISKY FRUMPS. ANNE WIMBLES,FLO WANGLES--YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?--Onehandled adulterer, he said smilinggrimly. That tickles me, I mustsay.--Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawfordsaid, if the God Almightystruth was known.Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. Asugarsticky girlshovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Someschooltreat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer toHisMajesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking redjujubeswhite.A sombre Y.M.C.A. young man, watchful amongthe warm sweet fumes ofGraham Lemons, placed a throwaway in a hand of MrBloom.Heart to heart talks.Bloo... Me? No.Blood of the Lamb.His slow feet walked him riverward, reading.Are you saved? All arewashed in the blood of the lamb. God wants blood victim.Birth, hymen,martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidneyburntoffering,druids altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowierestorer ofthe church in Zion is coming._Is coming! Is coming!! Is coming!!! Allheartily welcome._ Paying game.Torry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. Hiswife will put the stopperon that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm theluminous crucifix.Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on thewall,hanging. Peppers ghost idea. Iron nails ran in.Phosphorus it must be done with. If you leavea bit of codfish forinstance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night Iwent down to thepantry in the kitchen. Dont like all the smells in it waitingto rushout. What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking ofSpain.Before Rudy was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very goodforthe brain.From Butlers monument house corner heglanced along Bachelors walk.Dedalus daughter there still outside Dillonsauctionrooms. Must beselling off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once fromthe father.Lobbing about waiting for him. Home always breaks up when themothergoes. Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. Thats intheirtheology or the priest wont give the poor woman the confession,theabsolution. Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eatyouout of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on thefat of theland. Their butteries and larders. Id like to see them dothe black fast YomKippur. Crossbuns. One meal and a collation for fearhed collapse on the altar.A housekeeper of one of those fellows if youcould pick it out of her. Neverpick it out of her. Like getting l.s.d.out of him. Does himself well. Noguests. All for number one. Watchinghis water. Bring your own bread and butter.His reverence: mums theword.Good Lord, that poor childs dress is inflitters. Underfed she lookstoo. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. Itsafter they feel it.Proof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution.As he set foot on OConnell bridge a puffballof smoke plumed up fromthe parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England.Sea air sours it,I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock tosee thebrewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats getintoo. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk ontheporter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinkingthat! Rats:vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things.Looking down he saw flapping strongly,wheeling between the gauntquaywalls, gulls. Rough weather outside. If I threwmyself down? ReubenJs son must have swallowed a good bellyful of that sewage.One andeightpence too much. Hhhhm. Its the droll way he comes out withthethings. Knows how to tell a story too.They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.He threw down among them a crumpled paperball. Elijah thirtytwo feetper sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheededon the wake ofswells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn fools.Also theday I threw that stale cake out of the Erins King picked it up in thewakefifty yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.  _The hungry famishedgull  Flaps oer the waters dull._That is how poets write, the similar sounds.But then Shakespeare hasno rhymes: blank verse. The flow of the language it is.The thoughts.Solemn.  _Hamlet, I am thyfathers spirit  Doomed for a certain time to walk theearth._  --Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!His gaze passed over the glazed applesserried on her stand. Australiansthey must be this time of year. Shiny peels:polishes them up with a ragor a handkerchief.Wait. Those poor birds.He halted again and bought from the oldapplewoman two Banbury cakes fora penny and broke the brittle paste and threwits fragments down intothe Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently, two,then all fromtheir heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.Aware of their greed and cunning he shook thepowdery crumb from hishands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fish,fishy flesh theyhave, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffeyswim downhere sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes.Wonderwhat kind is swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.They wheeled flapping weakly. Im not goingto throw any more. Pennyquite enough. Lot of thanks I get. Not even a caw. Theyspread foot andmouth disease too. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal ittasteslike that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fisharenot salty? How is that?His eyes sought answer from the river and sawa rowboat rock at anchoron the treacly swells lazily its plastered board._Kinos_ 11/- _Trousers_Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to thecorporation. How can youown water really? Its always flowing in a stream,never the same, whichin the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream.All kinds ofplaces are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used to bestuckup in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential. DrHyFranks. Didnt cost him a red like Maginni the dancing masterselfadvertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himselfforthat matter on the q. t. running in to loosen a button. Flybynight.Just theplace too. POST NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. Some chap with a doseburning him.If he...?O!Eh?No... No.No, no. I dont believe it. He wouldntsurely?No, no.Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubledeyes. Think no more aboutthat. After one. Timeball on the ballastoffice isdown. Dunsink time.Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Balls.Parallax. I neverexactly understood. Theres a priest. Could ask him. Par itsGreek:parallel, parallax. Met him pike hoses she called it till I told heraboutthe transmigration. O rocks!Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of theballastoffice. Shes rightafter all. Only big words for ordinary things onaccount of the sound.Shes not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what Iwas thinking.Still, I dont know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a basebarreltonevoice. He has legs like barrels and youd think he was singing intoabarrel. Now, isnt that wit. They used to call him big Ben. Not half aswittyas calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross. Getoutside of abaron of beef. Powerful man he was at stowing away numberone Bass. Barrel ofBass. See? It all works out.A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmenmarched slowly towards himalong the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards.Bargains. Likethat priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we havesuffered. Heread the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y.S.Wisdom Helys. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from underhisforeboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Ourstaplefood. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street afterstreet. Just keepskin and bone together, bread and skilly. They arenot Boyl: no, M Glades men.Doesnt bring in any business either.I suggested to him about a transparentshowcart with two smart girlssitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes,blottingpaper. Ibet that would have caught on. Smart girls writing somethingcatch theeye at once. Everyone dying to know what shes writing. Get twentyofthem round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Womentoo.Curiosity. Pillar of salt. Wouldnt have it of course because hedidnt think ofit himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with afalse stain of blackcelluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtrees pottedunder the obituaries, coldmeat department. You cant lick em. What?Our envelopes. Hello, Jones, whereare you going? Cant stop, Robinson,I am hastening to purchase the onlyreliable inkeraser _Kansell,_ soldby Helys Ltd, 85 Dame street. Well out ofthat ruck I am. Devil of ajob it was collecting accounts of those convents.Tranquilla convent.That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suitedher smallhead. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by hereyes.Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her atherdevotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world.Ourgreat day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet nametoo: caramel.She knew I, I think she knew by the way she. If she hadmarried she would havechanged. I suppose they really were short ofmoney. Fried everything in the bestbutter all the same. No lard forthem. My hearts broke eating dripping. Theylike buttering themselvesin and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? PatClaffey, thepawnbrokers daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.He crossed Westmoreland street whenapostrophe S had plodded by. Rovercycleshop. Those races are on today. How longago is that? Year PhilGilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. Wait: wasin Thoms.Got the job in Wisdom Helys year we married. Six years. Ten yearsago:ninetyfour he died yes thats right the big fire at Arnotts. Val Dillonwaslord mayor. The Glencree dinner. Alderman Robert OReilly emptyingthe port intohis soup before the flag fell. Bobbob lapping it for theinner alderman.Couldnt hear what the band played. For what we havealready received may theLord make us. Milly was a kiddy then. Mollyhad that elephantgrey dress with thebraided frogs. Mantailored withselfcovered buttons. She didnt like it becauseI sprained my anklefirst day she wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. As ifthat. OldGoodwins tall hat done up with some sticky stuff. Flies picnictoo.Never put a dress on her back like it. Fitted her like a glove,shoulders andhips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbitpie wehad that day. Peoplelooking after her.Happy. Happier then. Snug little room thatwas with the red wallpaper.Dockrells, one and ninepence a dozen. Millystubbing night. Americansoap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater.Funny shelooked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poorpapasdaguerreotype atelier he told me of. Hereditary taste.He walked along the curbstone.Stream of life. What was the name of thatpriestylooking chap was alwayssquinting in when he passed? Weak eyes, woman.Stopped in Citrons saintKevins parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory isgetting. Pen...? Of course its years ago. Noise of the trams probably. Well,if hecouldnt remember the dayfathers name that he sees every day.Bartell dArcy was the tenor, just coming outthen. Seeing her homeafter practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedupmoustache. Gave herthat song _Winds that blow from the south_.Windy night that was I went to fetch herthere was that lodge meeting onabout those lottery tickets after Goodwinsconcert in the supperroom oroakroom of the Mansion house. He and I behind.Sheet of her music blewout of my hand against the High school railings. Luckyit didnt.Thing like that spoils the effect of a night for her. Professor Goodwinlinkingher in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot. His farewellconcerts. Positivelylast appearance on any stage. May be for months andmay be for never. Rememberher laughing at the wind, her blizzard collarup. Corner of Harcourt roadremember that gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all herskirts and her boa nearly smotheredold Goodwin. She did get flushedin the wind. Remember when we got home rakingup the fire and frying upthose pieces of lap of mutton for her supper with theChutney sauce sheliked. And the mulled rum. Could see her in the bedroom fromthe hearthunclamping the busk of her stays: white.Swish and soft flop her stays made on thebed. Always warm from her.Always liked to let her self out. Sitting there aftertill near twotaking out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy.Happy.That was the night...--O, Mr Bloom, how do you do?--O, how do you do, Mrs Breen?--No use complaining. How is Molly thosetimes? Havent seen her forages.--In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily. Milly hasa position down inMullingar, you know.--Go away! Isnt that grand for her?--Yes. In a photographers there. Getting onlike a house on fire. Howare all your charges?--All on the bakers list, Mrs Breen said.How many has she? No other in sight.--Youre in black, I see. You have no...--No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from afuneral.Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Whosdead, when and what did hedie of? Turn up like a bad penny.--O, dear me, Mrs Breen said. I hope itwasnt any near relation.May as well get her sympathy.--Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend ofmine. He died quite suddenly,poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral wasthis morning._Your funerals tomorrow While youre comingthrough the rye.Diddlediddle dumdum Diddlediddle..._--Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breenswomaneyes said melancholily.Now thats quite enough about that. Just:quietly: husband.--And your lord and master?Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes.Hasnt lost them anyhow.--O, dont be talking! she said. Hes acaution to rattlesnakes. Hesin there now with his lawbooks finding out the lawof libel. He has meheartscalded. Wait till I show you.Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbakedjampuffs rolypoly pouredout from Harrisons. The heavy noonreek tickled the topof Mr Bloomsgullet. Want to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerarasugar,or theyd taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A barefootarabstood over the grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw ofhunger thatway. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and forkchained to the table.Opening her handbag, chipped leather. Hatpin:ought to have a guard onthose things. Stick it in a chaps eye in the tram.Rummaging. Open.Money. Please take one. Devils if they lose sixpence. RaiseCain.Husband barging. Wheres the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Areyoufeeding your little brothers family? Soiled handkerchief:medicinebottle.Pastille that was fell. What is she?...--There must be a new moon out, she said.Hes always bad then. Do youknow what he did last night?Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixedthemselves on him, wide inalarm, yet smiling.--What? Mr Bloom asked.Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. Ibelieve you. Trust me.--Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream hehad, a nightmare.Indiges.--Said the ace of spades was walking up thestairs.--The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.She took a folded postcard from her handbag.--Read that, she said. He got it thismorning.--What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking thecard. U.P.?--U.P.: up, she said. Someone taking a riseout of him. Its a greatshame for them whoever he is.--Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.She took back the card, sighing.--And now hes going round to Mr Mentonsoffice. Hes going to take anaction for ten thousand pounds, he says.She folded the card into her untidy bag andsnapped the catch.Same blue serge dress she had two years ago,the nap bleaching. Seen itsbest days. Wispish hair over her ears. And thatdowdy toque: three oldgrapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. Sheused to be atasty dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so olderthanMolly.See the eye that woman gave her, passing.Cruel. The unfair sex.He looked still at her, holding back behindhis look his discontent.Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. Im hungry too.Flakes of pastryon the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to hercheek.Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powellthatwas. In Luke Doyles long ago. Dolphins Barn, the charades. U.P.:up.Change the subject.--Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? MrBloom asked.--Mina Purefoy? she said.Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. PlaygoersClub. Matcham often thinks ofthe masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. Thelast act.--Yes.--I just called to ask on the way in is sheover it. Shes in thelying-in hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got her in.Shes threedays bad now.--O, Mr Bloom said. Im sorry to hear that.--Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kidsat home. Its a very stiffbirth, the nurse told me.---O, Mr Bloom said.His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. Histongue clacked incompassion. Dth! Dth!--Im sorry to hear that, he said. Poorthing! Three days! Thatsterrible for her.Mrs Breen nodded.--She was taken bad on the Tuesday...Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently,warning her:--Mind! Let this man pass.A bony form strode along the curbstone fromthe river staring with arapt gaze into the sunlight through a heavystringedglass. Tight as askullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From his arm a foldeddustcoat,a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.--Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walksoutside the lampposts.Watch!--Who is he if its a fair question? MrsBreen asked. Is he dotty?--His name is Cashel Boyle OConnorFitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, MrBloom said smiling. Watch!--He has enough of them, she said. Denis willbe like that one of thesedays.She broke off suddenly.--There he is, she said. I must go after him.Goodbye. Remember me toMolly, wont you?--I will, Mr Bloom said.He watched her dodge through passers towardsthe shopfronts. Denis Breenin skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffledout of Harrisonshugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Likeoldtimes. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrusthis dullgrey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spokeearnestly.Meshuggah. Off his chump.Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing aheadof him in sunlight thetight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat.Going the twodays. Watch him! Out he goes again. One way of getting on in theworld.And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she musthavewith him.U.P.: up. Ill take my oath thats Alf Berganor Richie Goulding. Wroteit for a lark in the Scotch house I bet anything.Round to Mentonsoffice. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feastfor thegods.He passed the _Irish Times_. There might beother answers Iying there.Like to answer them all. Good system for criminals.Code. At their lunchnow. Clerk with the glasses there doesnt know me. O, leavethem thereto simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. Wanted,smartlady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called you naughtydarlingbecause I do not like that other world. Please tell me what isthe meaning.Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me whomade the world. The waythey spring those questions on you. And theother one Lizzie Twigg. My literaryefforts have had the good fortune tomeet with the approval of the eminent poetA. E. (Mr Geo. Russell). Notime to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a bookof poetry.Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Gotthe provinces now. Cookand general, exc. cuisine, housemaid kept. Wanted liveman for spiritcounter. Resp. girl (R.C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit orpork shop.James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent dividend. Made abigdeal on Coatess shares. Ca canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All thetoadynews. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the _Irish Field_now. LadyMountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement androde out with the WardUnion staghounds at the enlargement yesterdayat Rathoath. Uneatable fox.Pothunters too. Fear injects juices makeit tender enough for them. Ridingastride. Sit her horse like a man.Weightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle orpillion for her, not for Joe.First to the meet and in at the death. Strong as abrood mare some ofthose horsey women. Swagger around livery stables. Toss off aglassof brandy neat while youd say knife. That one at the Grosvenorthismorning. Up with her on the car: wishswish. Stonewall or fivebarred gateputher mount to it. Think that pugnosed driver did it out of spite. Whois this shewas like? O yes! Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her oldwraps and blackunderclothes in the Shelbourne hotel. Divorced SpanishAmerican. Didnt take afeather out of her my handling them. As if I washer clotheshorse. Saw her inthe viceregal party when Stubbs the parkranger got me in with Whelan of the_Express._ Scavenging what thequality left. High tea. Mayonnaise I poured onthe plums thinking it wascustard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a fewweeks after. Want tobe a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work for her,thanks.Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Methodin his madness. Saffron bunand milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy. Y.M. C. A. Eatingwith a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. And stillhismuttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodorescousin inDublin Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardyannuals he presents herwith. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topersmarching along bareheaded and hiseldest boy carrying one in amarketnet. The squallers. Poor thing! Then havingto give the breastyear after year all hours of the night. Selfish those t.tsare. Dog inthe manger. Only one lump of sugar in my tea, if you please.He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheoninterval. A sixpenny atRowes? Must look up that ad in the national library. Aneightpenny inthe Burton. Better. On my way.He walked on past BoltonsWestmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgotto tap Tom Kernan.Sss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imaginegroaning on a bed with avinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her bellyswollen out. Phew!Dreadful simply! Childs head too big: forceps. Doubled upinside hertrying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Killmethat would. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. They ought to inventsomethingto stop that. Life with hard labour. Twilight sleep idea:queen Victoria wasgiven that. Nine she had. A good layer. Oldwoman that lived in a shoe she hadso many children. Suppose he wasconsumptive. Time someone thought about it insteadof gassing about thewhat was it the pensive bosom of the silver effulgence.Flapdoodle tofeed fools on. They could easily have big establishments wholethingquite painless out of all the taxes give every child born five quidatcompound interest up to twentyone five per cent is a hundred shillingsandfive tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system encouragepeople to putby money save hundred and ten and a bit twentyone yearswant to work it out onpaper come to a tidy sum more than you think.Not stillborn of course. They are not evenregistered. Trouble fornothing.Funny sight two of them together, theirbellies out. Molly and MrsMoisel. Mothers meeting. Phthisis retires for thetime being, thenreturns. How flat they look all of a sudden after. Peacefuleyes. Weightoff their mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All mybabies,she said. The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed them. O,thatsnyumnyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom Walls son. His first bow tothepublic. Head like a prize pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren. People knockingthem up atall hours. For God sake, doctor. Wife in her throes. Thenkeep them waitingmonths for their fee. To attendance on your wife. Nogratitude in people. Humanedoctors, most of them.Before the huge high door of the Irish houseof parliament a flock ofpigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who willwe do it on? Ipick the fellow in black. Here goes. Heres good luck. Must bethrillingfrom the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees nearGoosegreen playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me.A squad of constables debouched from Collegestreet, marching in Indianfile. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets,patting theirtruncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup undertheirbelts. Policemans lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groupsandscattered, saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best momenttoattack one in pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of others,marchingirregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the station.Bound for theirtroughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receivesoup.He crossed under Tommy Moores roguishfinger. They did right to put himup over a urinal: meeting of the waters. Oughtto be places for women.Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. _Thereis not in thiswide world a vallee_. Great song of Julia Morkans. Kept hervoice up tothe very last. Pupil of Michael Balfes, wasnt she?He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nastycustomers to tackle. JackPower could a tale unfold: father a G man. If a fellowgave them troublebeing lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in thebridewell.Cant blame them after all with the job they have especially theyounghornies. That horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was given hisdegreein Trinity he got a run for his money. My word he did! Hishorses hoofsclattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky I had thepresence of mind to diveinto Mannings or I was souped. He did come awallop, by George. Must have crackedhis skull on the cobblestones. Ioughtnt to have got myself swept along withthose medicals. And theTrinity jibs in their mortarboards. Looking for trouble.Still I got toknow that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me in the Materand nowhes in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within wheels.Policewhistle in my ears still. All skedaddled. Why he fixed on me. Give meincharge. Right here it began.--Up the Boers!--Three cheers for De Wet!--Well hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourappletree.Silly billies: mob of young cubs yellingtheir guts out. Vinegar hill.The Butter exchange band. Few years time half ofthem magistrates andcivil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter:same fellowsused to. Whether on the scaffold high.Never know who youre talking to. CornyKelleher he has Harvey Duff inhis eye. Like that Peter or Denis or James Careythat blew the gaff onthe invincibles. Member of the corporation too. Egging rawyouths on toget in the know all the time drawing secret service pay from thecastle.Drop him like a hot potato. Why those plainclothes men arealwayscourting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to uniform. Squarepushingupagainst a backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next thing on the menu. Andwhois the gentleman does be visiting there? Was the young master sayinganything?Peeping Tom through the keyhole. Decoy duck. Hotblooded youngstudent foolinground her fat arms ironing.--Are those yours, Mary?--I dont wear such things... Stop or Illtell the missus on you. Outhalf the night.--There are great times coming, Mary. Waittill you see.--Ah, gelong with your great times coming.Barmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls.James Stephens idea was the best. He knewthem. Circles of ten so thata fellow couldnt round on more than his own ring.Sinn Fein. Back outyou get the knife. Hidden hand. Stay in. The firing squad.Turnkeysdaughter got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up intheBuckingham Palace hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi.You must have a certain fascination: Parnell.Arthur Griffith is asquareheaded fellow but he has no go in him for the mob. Orgas aboutour lovely land. Gammon and spinach. Dublin Bakery Companystearoom.Debating societies. That republicanism is the best form ofgovernment.That the language question should take precedence of theeconomicquestion. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house. Stuffthemup with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Heres a good lump ofthymeseasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegreasebeforeit gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk withthe band. Nograce for the carver. The thought that the other chap paysbest sauce in theworld. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show usover those apricots, meaningpeaches. The not far distant day. Homerulesun rising up in the northwest.His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloudhiding the sun slowly,shadowing Trinitys surly front. Trams passed oneanother, ingoing,outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same, dayafter day:squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those twolooniesmooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on abedgroaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every secondsomewhere.Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes.Three hundredkicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing theblood off, all arewashed in the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.Cityful passing away, other cityful coming,passing away too: othercoming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets,miles ofpavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner,that.Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he getshisnotice to quit. They buy the place up with gold and still they haveall the gold.Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away ageafter age. Pyramidsin sand. Built on bread and onions. Slaves Chinesewall. Babylon. Big stonesleft. Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawlingsuburbs, jerrybuilt. Kerwansmushroom houses built of breeze. Shelter,for the night.No-one is anything.This is the very worst hour of the day.Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hatethis hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.Provosts house. The reverend Dr Salmon:tinned salmon. Well tinned inthere. Like a mortuary chapel. Wouldnt live in itif they paid me. Hopethey have liver and bacon today. Nature abhors a vacuum.The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints oflight among the silverwareopposite in Walter Sextons window by which JohnHoward Parnell passed,unseeing.There he is: the brother. Image of him.Haunting face. Now thats acoincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of aperson and dontmeet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows him.Must be acorporation meeting today. They say he never put on the citymarshalsuniform since he got the job. Charley Kavanagh used to come out onhishigh horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Look at thewoebegone walkof him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have apain. Great mans brother:his brothers brother. Hed look nice on thecity charger. Drop into the D.B.C.probably for his coffee, play chessthere. His brother used men as pawns. Letthem all go to pot. Afraid topass a remark on him. Freeze them up with that eyeof his. Thats thefascination: the name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and hisother sisterMrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness. Bolt uprightliksurgeon MArdle. Still David Sheehy beat him for south Meath. Applyfor theChiltern Hundreds and retire into public life. The patriotsbanquet. Eatingorangepeels in the park. Simon Dedalus said when theyput him in parliament thatParnell would come back from the grave andlead him out of the house of commonsby the arm.--Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whoseheads is the head upon whichthe ends of the world have forgotten to come whilethe other speaks witha Scotch accent. The tentacles...They passed from behind Mr Bloom along thecurbstone. Beard and bicycle.Young woman.And there he is too. Now thats really a coincidence:second time.Coming events cast their shadows before. With the approval oftheeminent poet, Mr Geo. Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg with him. A.E.:what does that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund,AlphonsusEb Ed El Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the worldwith a Scotchaccent. Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism.Holding forth. Shestaking it all in. Not saying a word. To aidgentleman in literary work.His eyes followed the high figure inhomespun, beard and bicycle,a listening woman at his side. Coming from thevegetarian. Onlyweggebobbles and fruit. Dont eat a beefsteak. If you do theeyes ofthat cow will pursue you through all eternity. They say itshealthier.Windandwatery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad asabloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that thing they gave menutsteak?Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you are eatingrumpsteak. Absurd.Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by thetap all night.Her stockings are loose over her ankles. Idetest that: so tasteless.Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy,cloudy,symbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldnt be surprised if it wasthatkind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical.Forexample one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirtsyoucouldnt squeeze a line of poetry out of him. Dont know what poetryis even.Must be in a certain mood.  _The dreamy cloudygull  Waves oer the waters dull._He crossed at Nassau street corner and stoodbefore the window of Yeatesand Son, pricing the fieldglasses. Or will I dropinto old Harriss andhave a chat with young Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow.Probably at hislunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Goerzlenses sixguineas. Germans making their way everywhere. Sell on easy termstocapture trade. Undercutting. Might chance on a pair in the railwaylostproperty office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them intrainsand cloakrooms. What do they be thinking about? Women too.Incredible. Last yeartravelling to Ennis had to pick up that farmersdaughters ba and hand it toher at Limerick junction. Unclaimed moneytoo. Theres a little watch up thereon the roof of the bank to testthose glasses by.His lids came down on the lower rims of hisirides. Cant see it. If youimagine its there you can almost see it. Cant seeit.He faced about and, standing between theawnings, held out his righthand at arms length towards the sun. Wanted to trythat often. Yes:completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sunsdisk.Must be the focus where the rays cross. If I had blackglasses.Interesting. There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when wewerein Lombard street west. Looking up from the back garden. Terrificexplosionsthey are. There will be a total eclipse this year: autumnsome time.Now that I come to think of it that ballfalls at Greenwich time. Itsthe clock is worked by an electric wire fromDunsink. Must go out theresome first Saturday of the month. If I could get anintroduction toprofessor Joly or learn up something about his family. Thatwould do to:man always feels complimented. Flattery where least expected.Noblemanproud to be descended from some kings mistress. His foremother. Layiton with a trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurtoutwhat you know youre not to: whats parallax? Show this gentlemanthe door.Ah.His hand fell to his side again.Never know anything about it. Waste of time.Gasballs spinning about,crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always.Gas: then solid:then world: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozenrock,like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she said.Ibelieve there is.He went on by la maison Claire.Wait. The full moon was the night we wereSunday fortnight exactly thereis a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not badfor a Fairview moon.She was humming. The young May moon shes beaming, love. Heother sideof her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworms la-amp is gleaming, love.Touch.Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walkingpassed Adam court.With a keep quiet relief his eyes took notethis is the street heremiddle of the day of Bob Dorans bottle shoulders. Onhis annual bend,M Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or_cherchez lafemme_. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and thentherest of the year sober as a judge.Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire.Gone. Plain soda would do himgood. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatrebefore Whitbred ran theQueens. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault business withhis harvestmoonface in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How timeflies,eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers,drinking,laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More power,Pat.Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that whitehat.His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harpthat once didstarve us all.I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am Inow I? Twentyeight I was. Shetwentythree. When we left Lombard street westsomething changed. Couldnever like it again after Rudy. Cant bring back time.Like holdingwater in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginningthen.Would you? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughtyboy?Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.Grafton street gay with housed awnings luredhis senses. Muslin prints,silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses,hoofthuds lowringing in thebaking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in thewhite stockings. Hopethe rain mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon. Allthe beef tothe heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks outofplumb.He passed, dallying, the windows of BrownThomas, silk mercers. Cascadesof ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urnpoured from its mouth aflood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenotsbrought thathere. _La causa √® santa_! Tara tara. Great chorus that. Tareetara. Mustbe washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.Pincushions. Im a long time threatening tobuy one. Sticking them allover the place. Needles in window curtains.He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape:nearly gone. Not todayanyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthdayperhaps.Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then shemightntlike it. Women wont pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brassrails, rays of flat silkstockings.Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jinglingharnesses. All for a woman, home andhouses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicyfrom Jaffa. Agendath Netaim.Wealth of the world.A warm human plumpness settled down on hisbrain. His brain yielded.Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungeredflesh obscurely, hemutely craved to adore.Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. TheBurton. Feel better then.He turned Combridges corner, still pursued.Jingling, hoofthuds.Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deepsummer fields,tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, alongsofas,creaking beds.--Jack, love!--Darling!--Kiss me, Reggy!--My boy!--Love!His heart astir he pushed in the door of theBurton restaurant. Stinkgripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slushof greens. Seethe animals feed.Men, men, men.Perched on high stools by the bar, hatsshoved back, at the tablescalling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfinggobfuls of sloppyfood, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallidsuetfacedyoung man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin.Newset of microbes. A man with an infants saucestained napkin tucked roundhimshovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on hisplate:halfmasticated gristle: gums: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chumpchop from thegrill. Bolting to get it over. Sad boosers eyes. Bittenoff more than he canchew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others seeus. Hungry man is an angryman. Working tooth and jaw. Dont! O! A bone!That last pagan king of IrelandCormac in the schoolpoem choked himselfat Sletty southward of the Boyne. Wonderwhat he was eating. Somethinggaloptious. Saint Patrick converted him toChristianity. Couldntswallow it all however.--Roast beef and cabbage.--One stew.Smells of men. His gorge rose. Spatonsawdust, sweetish warmishcigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, mens beerypiss, the staleof ferment.Couldnt eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpeningknife and fork to eat allbefore him, old chap picking his tootles. Slightspasm, full, chewingthe cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on thispicture thenon that. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lickitoff the plate, man! Get out of this.He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters,tightening the wings ofhis nose.--Two stouts here.--One corned and cabbage.That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbagedown as if his life dependedon it. Good stroke. Give me the fidgets to look.Safer to eat from histhree hands. Tear it limb from limb. Second nature to him.Born with asilver knife in his mouth. Thats witty, I think. Or no. Silvermeansborn rich. Born with a knife. But then the allusion is lost.An illgirt server gathered sticky clatteringplates. Rock, the headbailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown fromhis tankard. Wellup: it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner, knife and forkupright,elbows on table, ready for a second helping stared towards thefoodliftacross his stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling himsomethingwith his mouth full. Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I munched humunthu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to hislips. His eyes said:--Not here. Dont see him.Out. I hate dirty eaters.He backed towards the door. Get a light snackin Davy Byrnes. Stopgap.Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.--Roast and mashed here.--Pint of stout.Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail.Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.He came out into clearer air and turned backtowards Grafton street. Eator be eaten. Kill! Kill!Suppose that communal kitchen years to comeperhaps. All trotting downwith porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devourcontents in thestreet. John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinityeverymothers son dont talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity womenandchildren cabmen priests parsons fieldmarshals archbishops. FromAilesbury road,Clyde road, artisans dwellings, north Dublin union,lord mayor in hisgingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. Myplates empty. After you withour incorporated drinkingcup. Like sirPhilip Cramptons fountain. Rub off themicrobes with your handkerchief.Next chap rubs on a new batch with his. FatherOFlynn would makehares of them all. Have rows all the same. All for numberone. Childrenfighting for the scrapings of the pot. Want a souppot as big asthePhoenix park. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of it. Hatepeople allround you. City Arms hotel _table dh√¥te_ she called it.Soup, joint and sweet.Never know whose thoughts youre chewing. Thenwhod wash up all the plates andforks? Might be all feeding on tabloidsthat time. Teeth getting worse andworse.After all theres a lot in that vegetarianfine flavour of things fromthe earth garlic of course it stinks after Italianorgangrinders crispof onions mushrooms truffles. Pain to the animal too. Pluckand drawfowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for thepoleaxeto split their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh.Staggeringbob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers buckets wobbly lights. Give usthatbrisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyedsheephung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivellingnosejam onsawdust. Top and lashers going out. Dont maul them pieces,young one.Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline.Blood always needed.Insidious. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Famishedghosts.Ah, Im hungry.He entered Davy Byrnes. Moral pub. Hedoesnt chat. Stands a drink nowand then. But in leapyear once in four. Casheda cheque for me once.What will I take now? He drew his watch. Letme see now. Shandygaff?--Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from hisnook.--Hello, Flynn.--Hows things?--Tiptop... Let me see. Ill take a glass ofburgundy and... let mesee.Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them bylooking. Sandwich? Hamand his descendants musterred and bred there. Pottedmeats. What is homewithout Plumtrees potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupidad! Under theobituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignams pottedmeat.Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty.Likepickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Ought tobetough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. _There wasaright royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of thereverend MrMacTrigger_. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows whatconcoction. Cauls mouldytripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzlefind the meat. Kosher. No meat andmilk together. Hygiene that was whatthey call now. Yom Kippur fast springcleaning of inside. Peace andwar depend on some fellows digestion. Religions.Christmas turkeys andgeese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat drink and be merry.Then casual wardsfull after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself.Mity cheese.--Have you a cheese sandwich?--Yes, sir.Like a few olives too if they had them.Italian I prefer. Good glass ofburgundy take away that. Lubricate. A nicesalad, cool as a cucumber,Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure oliveoil. Milly servedme that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanishonion. God madefood, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.--Wife well?--Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich,then. Gorgonzola, have you?--Yes, sir.Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.--Doing any singing those times?Look at his mouth. Could whistle in his ownear. Flap ears to match.Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Stillbetter tell him.Does no harm. Free ad.--Shes engaged for a big tour end of thismonth. You may have heardperhaps.--No. O, thats the style. Whos getting itup?The curate served.--How much is that?--Seven d., sir... Thank you, sir.Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slenderstrips. _Mr MacTrigger_. Easierthan the dreamy creamy stuff. _His five hundredwives. Had the time oftheir lives._--Mustard, sir?--Thank you.He studded under each lifted strip yellowblobs. _Their lives_. I haveit. _It grew bigger and bigger and bigger_.--Getting it up? he said. Well, its like acompany idea, you see. Partshares and part profits.--Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said,putting his hand in his pocketto scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me?Isnt Blazes Boylanmixed up in it?A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanchedon Mr Blooms heart. Heraised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock.Two. Pub clockfive minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.His midriff yearned then upward, sank withinhim, yearned more longly,longingly.Wine.He smellsipped the cordial juice and,bidding his throat strongly tospeed it, set his wineglass delicately down.--Yes, he said. Hes the organiser in pointof fact.No fear: no brains.Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Fleahaving a good square meal.--He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooneywas telling me, over thatboxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in thePortobellobarracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlowhewas telling me...Hope that dewdrop doesnt come down into hisglass. No, snuffled it up.--For near a month, man, before it came off.Sucking duck eggs by Godtill further orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, byGod, Blazes is ahairy chap.Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar intuckstitched shirtsleeves,cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin.Herrings blush. Whosesmile upon each feature plays with such and such replete.Too much faton the parsnips.--And heres himself and pepper on him, NoseyFlynn said. Can you giveus a good one for the Gold cup?--Im off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrneanswered. I never put anything on ahorse.--Youre right there, Nosey Flynn said.Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, freshclean bread, with relish ofdisgust pungent mustard, the feety savour of greencheese. Sips of hiswine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fullerthis weatherwith the chill off.Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in thatcounter. Nicely planed. Likethe way it curves there.--I wouldnt do anything at all in that line,Davy Byrne said. It ruinedmany a man, the same horses.Vintners sweepstake. Licensed for the saleof beer, wine and spiritsfor consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails youlose.--True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unlessyoure in the know. Theresno straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some goodones. Hes givingSceptre today. Zinfandels the favourite, lord Howard deWaldens, wonat Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven tooneagainst Saint Amant a fortnight before.--That so? Davy Byrne said...He went towards the window and, taking up thepettycash book, scannedits pages.--I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said,snuffling. That was a rare bit ofhorseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. Shewon in a thunderstorm,Rothschilds filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacketand yellowcap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John OGaunt. He put me offit.Ay.He drank resignedly from his tumbler, runninghis fingers down theflutes.--Ay, he said, sighing.Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon hissigh. Nosey numbskull.Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already.Better let himforget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming downagain.Cold nose hed have kissing a woman. Still they might like. Pricklybeardsthey like. Dogs cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumblingstomachs Skyeterrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in herlap. O, the bigdoggybowwowsywowsy!Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of breadmustard a moment mawkishcheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because Imnot thirsty. Bathof course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about sixoclock I can.Six. Six. Time will be gone then. She...Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wantedthat badly. Felt sooff colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins:sardines, gaudylobsters claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Outofshells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground theFrencheat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothingin a thousandyears. If you didnt know risky putting anything into yourmouth. Poisonousberries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good.Gaudy colour warns you off.One fellow told another and so on. Try iton the dog first. Led on by the smellor the look. Tempting fruit.Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves forinstance. Need artificialirrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what aboutoysters. Unsightly likea clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too.Who found themout? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters.Effecton the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning. Washeoysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June hasno ar nooysters. But there are people like things high. Tainted game.Jugged hare. Firstcatch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old,blue and green again.Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless mightmix inside. Idea for a poisonmystery. That archduke Leopold was it noyes or was it Otto one of thoseHabsburgs? Or who was it used to eat thescruff off his own head? Cheapest lunchin town. Of course aristocrats,then the others copy to be in the fashion. Millytoo rock oil and flour.Raw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters theythrow back inthe sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Dothegrand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powderedbosompearls. The _√©lite. Cr√®me de la cr√®me_. They want special dishes topretendtheyre. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stingsof the flesh. Knowme come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff,Coffey, the butcher, right tovenisons of the forest from his ex. Sendhim back the half of a cow. Spread Isaw down in the Master of theRolls kitchen area. Whitehatted _chef_ like arabbi. Combustible duck.Curly cabbage _√† la duchesse de Parme_. Just as wellto write it on thebill of fare so you can know what youve eaten. Too manydrugs spoil thebroth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards desiccatedsoup. Geesestuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake someptarmigan.Wouldnt mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, eveningdress,halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole,missDubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expectthat. A missDubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. _Du, de la_ French.Still its the samefish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street rippedthe guts out of makingmoney hand over fist finger in fishes gillscant write his name on a chequethink he was painting the landscapewith his mouth twisted. Moooikill A AitchaHa ignorant as a kish ofbrogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.Glowing wine on his palate lingeredswallowed. Crushing in the winepressgrapes of Burgundy. Suns heat it is. Seemsto a secret touch telling mememory. Touched his sense moistened remembered.Hidden under wild fernson Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. Thebay purpleby the Lions head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towardsSutton.Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buriedcities.Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrubmyhand under her nape, youll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft withointments herhand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turnaway. Ravished over herI lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth.Yum. Softly she gave me in mymouth the seedcake warm and chewed.Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsourof her spittle. Joy: I ateit: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting.Soft warm stickygumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes.Pebblesfell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendronsanannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under fernsshelaughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips,herstretched neck beating, womans breasts full in her blouse of nunsveiling, fatnipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I waskissed. All yieldingshe tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.Me. And me now.Stuck, the flies buzzed.His downcast eyes followed the silent veiningof the oaken slab. Beauty:it curves: curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses,Venus, Juno: curves theworld admires. Can see them library museum standing inthe round hall,naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They dont care what manlooks. Allto see. Never speaking. I mean to say to fellows like Flynn. Supposeshedid Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Mortal! Put you inyourproper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, allambrosial.Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots andturnips, bottle ofAllsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: godsfood. Lovely forms ofwomen sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And westuffing food in one hole andout behind: food, chyle, blood, dung,earth, food: have to feed it like stokingan engine. They have no. Neverlooked. Ill look today. Keeper wont see. Benddown let something dropsee if she.Dribbling a quiet message from his bladdercame to go to do not todo there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass tothe lees andwalked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay withmenlovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard.When the sound of his boots had ceased DavyByrne said from his book:--What is this he is? Isnt he in theinsurance line?--Hes out of that long ago, Nosey Flynnsaid. He does canvassing forthe _Freeman._--I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Ishe in trouble?--Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heardof. Why?--I noticed he was in mourning.--Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith.I asked him how was all athome. Youre right, by God. So he was.--I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne saidhumanely, if I see agentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it upfresh in theirminds.--Its not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said.I met him the day beforeyesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairyJohn Wyse Nolanswife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his handtaking it hometo his better half. Shes well nourished, I tell you. Plovers ontoast.--And is he doing for the _Freeman?_ DavyByrne said.Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.---He doesnt buy cream on the ads he picksup. You can make bacon ofthat.--How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from hisbook.Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air withjuggling fingers. Hewinked.--Hes in the craft, he said.---Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.--Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancientfree and accepted order. Hesan excellent brother. Light, life and love, byGod. They give him a legup. I was told that by a--well, I wont say who.--Is that a fact?--O, its a fine order, Nosey Flynn said.They stick to you when youredown. I know a fellow was trying to get into it.But theyre as close asdamn it. By God they did right to keep the women out ofit.Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:--Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!--There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hidherself in a clock to findout what they do be doing. But be damned but theysmelt her out andswore her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of thesaintLegers of Doneraile.Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said withtearwashed eyes:--And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is.I often saw him in hereand I never once saw him--you know, over the line.--God Almighty couldnt make him drunk, NoseyFlynn said firmly. Slipsoff when the fun gets too hot. Didnt you see him lookat his watch? Ah,you werent there. If you ask him to have a drink first thinghe doeshe outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to Godhedoes.--There are some like that, Davy Byrne said.Hes a safe man, Id say.--Hes not too bad, Nosey Flynn said,snuffling it up. Hes been knownto put his hand down too to help a fellow. Givethe devil his due. O,Bloom has his good points. But theres one thing hellnever do.His hand scrawled a dry pen signature besidehis grog.--I know, Davy Byrne said.--Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynnsaid.Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. TomRochford followed frowning,a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.--Day, Mr Byrne.--Day, gentlemen.They paused at the counter.--Whos standing? Paddy Leonard asked.--Im sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.--Well, whatll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.--Ill take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyonssaid.--How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when,for God sake? Whatsyours, Tom?--How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynnasked, sipping.For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand tohis breastbone andhiccupped.--Would I trouble you for a glass of freshwater, Mr Byrne? he said.--Certainly, sir.Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.--Lord love a duck, he said. Look at what Imstanding drinks to! Coldwater and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whiskyoff a sore leg.He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A deadsnip.--Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twistedpaper into the water set beforehim.--That cursed dyspepsia, he said beforedrinking.--Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.Tom Rochford nodded and drank.--Is it Zinfandel?--Say nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. Im goingto plunge five bob on myown.--Tell us if youre worth your salt and bedamned to you, Paddy Leonardsaid. Who gave it to you?Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingersin greeting.--So long! Nosey Flynn said.The others turned.--Thats the man now that gave it to me,Bantam Lyons whispered.--Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. MrByrne, sir, well take twoof your small Jamesons after that and a...--Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.--Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle forthe baby.Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, histongue brushing his teethsmooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach,say. Then withthose Rontgen rays searchlight you could.At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up asick knuckly cud on thecobblestones and lapped it with new zest. Surfeit.Returned with thankshaving fully digested the contents. First sweet thensavoury. Mr Bloomcoasted warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jawthey move.Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention ofhis?Wasting time explaining it to Flynns mouth. Lean people long mouths.Oughtto be a hall or a place where inventors could go in and inventfree. Course thenyoud have all the cranks pestering.He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo thecloses of the bars:_Don Giovanni, a cenar teco Minvitasti._Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Whodistilled first? Some chapin the blues. Dutch courage. That _Kilkenny People_in the nationallibrary now I must.Bare clean closestools waiting in the windowof William Miller, plumber,turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch itall the way down,swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tourround thebody changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coilsofintestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all thetimewith his insides entrails on show. Science.--_A cenar teco._What does that _teco_ mean? Tonight perhaps.  _Don Giovanni, thouhast me invited  To come to suppertonight,  The rum the rumdum._Doesnt go properly.Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. Thatllbe two pounds ten abouttwo pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven.Prescotts dyeworksvan over there. If I get Billy Prescotts ad: two fifteen.Five guineasabout. On the pigs back.Could buy one of those silk petticoats forMolly, colour of her newgarters.Today. Today. Not think.Tour the south then. What about Englishwateringplaces? Brighton,Margate. Piers by moonlight. Her voice floating out.Those lovelyseaside girls. Against John Longs a drowsing loafer lounged inheavythought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages.Willeat anything.Mr Bloom turned at Grays confectionerswindow of unbought tarts andpassed the reverend Thomas Connellans bookstore._Why I left the churchof Rome? Birds Nest._ Women run him. They say they usedto give pauperchildren soup to change to protestants in the time of the potatoblight.Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews.Samebait. Why we left the church of Rome.A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstonewith his slender cane. Notram in sight. Wants to cross.--Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.The blind stripling did not answer. Hiswallface frowned weakly. Hemoved his head uncertainly.--Youre in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said.Molesworth street is opposite.Do you want to cross? Theres nothing in the way.The cane moved out trembling to the left. MrBlooms eye followed itsline and saw again the dyeworks van drawn up beforeDragos. Where Isaw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping.Driver inJohn Longs. Slaking his drouth.--Theres a van there, Mr Bloom said, butits not moving. Ill see youacross. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?--Yes, the stripling answered. SouthFrederick street.--Come, Mr Bloom said.He touched the thin elbow gently: then tookthe limp seeing hand toguide it forward.Say something to him. Better not do thecondescending. They mistrustwhat you tell them. Pass a common remark.--The rain kept off.No answer.Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, Isuppose. Tastes all differentfor him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a childshand, his hand. LikeMillys was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from myhand. Wonderif he has a name. Van. Keep his cane clear of the horses legs:tireddrudge get his doze. Thats right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front ofahorse.--Thanks, sir.Knows Im a man. Voice.--Right now? First turn to the left.The blind stripling tapped the curbstone andwent on his way, drawinghis cane back, feeling again.Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, aflatcut suit of herringbonetweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he knowthat van was there?Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps:kind of senseof volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark.Wonderwould he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer ideaofDublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walkin abeeline if he hadnt that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellowgoing in tobe a priest.Penrose! That was that chaps name.Look at all the things they can learn to do.Read with their fingers.Tune pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains.Why we think adeformed person or a hunchback clever if he says something wemight say.Of course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait baskets.Peopleought to help. Workbasket I could buy for Mollys birthday. Hatessewing.Might take an objection. Dark men they call them.Sense of smell must be stronger too. Smellson all sides, bunchedtogether. Each street different smell. Each person too.Then the spring,the summer: smells. Tastes? They say you cant taste wines withyoureyes shut or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say getnopleasure.And with a woman, for instance. Moreshameless not seeing. That girlpassing the Stewart institution, head in theair. Look at me. I havethem all on. Must be strange not to see her. Kind of aform in hisminds eye. The voice, temperatures: when he touches her withhisfingers must almost see the lines, the curves. His hands on her hair,forinstance. Say it was black, for instance. Good. We call it black.Then passingover her white skin. Different feel perhaps. Feeling ofwhite.Postoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send hera postal order twoshillings, half a crown. Accept my little present.Stationers just heretoo. Wait. Think over it.With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowlythe hair combed back abovehis ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw. Thengently his finger feltthe skin of his right cheek. Downy hair there too. Not smoothenough.The belly is the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes intoFrederickstreet. Perhaps to Levenstons dancing academy piano. Might besettlingmy braces.Walking by Dorans publichouse he slid hishand between his waistcoatand trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently,felt a slack fold ofhis belly. But I know its whitey yellow. Want to try inthe dark tosee.He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.Poor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Reallyterrible. What dreams wouldhe have, not seeing? Life a dream for him. Where isthe justice beingborn that way? All those women and children excursionbeanfeast burnedand drowned in New York. Holocaust. Karma they call thattransmigrationfor sins you did in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses.Dear,dear, dear. Pity, of course: but somehow you cant cotton on tothem someway.Sir Frederick Falkiner going into thefreemasons hall. Solemn as Troy.After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Oldlegal cronies crackinga magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals ofthe bluecoatschool. I sentenced him to ten years. I suppose hed turn up hisnoseat that stuff I drank. Vintage wine for them, the year marked on adustybottle. Has his own ideas of justice in the recorders court.Wellmeaning old man.Police chargesheets crammed with cases get theirpercentage manufacturing crime.Sends them to the rightabout. The devilon moneylenders. Gave Reuben J. a greatstrawcalling. Now hes reallywhat they call a dirty jew. Power those judgeshave. Crusty old topersin wigs. Bear with a sore paw. And may the Lord havemercy on your soul.Hello, placard. Mirus bazaar. His Excellencythe lord lieutenant.Sixteenth. Today it is. In aid of funds for Mercershospital. _TheMessiah_ was first given for that. Yes. Handel. What about goingoutthere: Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like aleech.Wear out my welcome. Sure to know someone on the gate.Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First Imust. Library.Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers.It is. It is.His heart quopped softly. To the right.Museum. Goddesses. He swerved tothe right.Is it? Almost certain. Wont look. Wine in myface. Why did I? Tooheady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.Making for the museum gate with long windysteps he lifted his eyes.Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Notfollowing me?Didnt see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.The flutter of his breath came forth in shortsighs. Quick. Coldstatues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.No. Didnt see me. After two. Just at thegate.My heart!His eyes beating looked steadfastly at creamcurves of stone. Sir ThomasDeane was the Greek architecture.Look for something I.His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, tookout, read unfoldedAgendath Netaim. Where did I?Busy looking.He thrust back quick Agendath.Afternoon she said.I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try allpockets. Handker. _Freeman._Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Potato. Purse.Where?Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.His hand looking for the where did I putfound in his hip pocket soaplotion have to call tepid paper stuck. Ah soapthere I yes. Gate.Safe!Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarianpurred:--And we have, have we not, those pricelesspages of _Wilhelm Meister_.A great poet on a great brother poet. A hesitatingsoul taking armsagainst a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as onesees inreal life.He came a step a sinkapace forward onneatsleather creaking and a stepbackward a sinkapace on the solemn floor.A noiseless attendant setting open the doorbut slightly made him anoiseless beck.--Directly, said he, creaking to go, albeitlingering. The beautifulineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hardfacts. One alwaysfeels that Goethes judgments are so true. True in the largeranalysis.Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off.Bald, most zealous by the doorhe gave his large ear all to the attendantswords: heard them: and wasgone.Two left.--Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen sneered, wasalive fifteen minutesbefore his death.--Have you found those six brave medicals,John Eglinton asked withelders gall, to write _Paradise Lost_ at yourdictation? _The Sorrowsof Satan_ he calls it.Smile. Smile Cranlys smile.  _First he tickledher  Then he patted her  Then hepassed the female catheter.  For he was amedical  Jolly old medi..._--I feel you would need one more for_Hamlet._ Seven is dear to themystic mind. The shining seven W.B. calls them.Glittereyed his rufous skull close to hisgreencapped desklamp soughtthe face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an ollav,holyeyed. He laughedlow: a sizars laugh of Trinity: unanswered.  _Orchestral Satan,weeping many a rood  Tears such as angelsweep.  Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta._He holds my follies hostage.Cranlys eleven true Wicklowmen to free theirsireland. GaptoothedKathleen, her four beautiful green fields, the stranger inher house.And one more to hail him: _ave, rabbi_: the Tinahely twelve. Intheshadow of the glen he cooees for them. My souls youth I gave him, nightbynight. God speed. Good hunting.Mulligan has my telegram.Folly. Persist.--Our young Irish bards, John Eglintoncensured, have yet to create afigure which the world will set beside SaxonShakespeares Hamlet thoughI admire him, as old Ben did, on this side idolatry.--All these questions are purely academic,Russell oracled out of hisshadow. I mean, whether Hamlet is Shakespeare orJames I or Essex.Clergymens discussions of the historicity of Jesus. Art hasto revealto us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question aboutawork of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting ofGustaveMoreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley,the words ofHamlet bring our minds into contact with the eternalwisdom, Platos world ofideas. All the rest is the speculation ofschoolboys for schoolboys.A. E. has been telling some yankeeinterviewer. Wall, tarnation strikeme!--The schoolmen were schoolboys first,Stephen said superpolitely.Aristotle was once Platos schoolboy.--And has remained so, one should hope, JohnEglinton sedately said. Onecan see him, a model schoolboy with his diplomaunder his arm.He laughed again at the now smiling beardedface.Formless spiritual. Father, Word and HolyBreath. Allfather, theheavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful,the Logos whosuffers in us at every moment. This verily is that. I am the fireuponthe altar. I am the sacrificial butter.Dunlop, Judge, the noblest Roman of them all,A.E., Arval, the NameIneffable, in heaven hight: K.H., their master, whoseidentity is nosecret to adepts. Brothers of the great white lodge alwayswatchingto see if they can help. The Christ with the bridesister, moistureoflight, born of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to theplane ofbuddhi. The life esoteric is not for ordinary person. O.P.must work off badkarma first. Mrs Cooper Oakley once glimpsed our veryillustrious sisterH.P.B.s elemental.O, fie! Out ont! _Pfuiteufel!_ You naughtntto look, missus, so younaughtnt when a ladys ashowing of her elemental.Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. Hebore in his hand withgrace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.--That model schoolboy, Stephen said, wouldfind Hamlets musings aboutthe afterlife of his princely soul, the improbable,insignificant andundramatic monologue, as shallow as Platos.John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth:--Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hearanyone compare Aristotlewith Plato.--Which of the two, Stephen asked, would havebanished me from hiscommonwealth?Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horsenessis the whatness ofallhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God:noise in thestreet: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see.Throughspaces smaller than red globules of mans blood they creepycrawlafterBlakes buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is butashadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges tothepast.Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards hiscolleague.--Haines is gone, he said.--Is he?--I was showing him Jubainvilles book. Hesquite enthusiastic, dontyou know, about Hydes _Lovesongs of Connacht._ Icouldnt bring him into hear the discussion. Hes gone to Gills to buy it.  _Bound thee forth,my booklet, quick  To greet the callouspublic.  Writ, I ween, twas not mywish  In lean unlovely English._--The peatsmoke is going to his head, JohnEglinton opined.We feel in England. Penitent thief. Gone. Ismoked his baccy. Greentwinkling stone. An emerald set in the ring of the sea.--People do not know how dangerous lovesongscan be, the auric egg ofRussell warned occultly. The movements which workrevolutions in theworld are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasantsheart on thehillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable ground buttheliving mother. The rarefied air of the academy and the arena producethesixshilling novel, the musichall song. France produces the finest flowerofcorruption in Mallarme but the desirable life is revealed only to thepoor ofheart, the life of Homers Phaeacians.From these words Mr Best turned anunoffending face to Stephen.--Mallarme, dont you know, he said, haswritten those wonderful prosepoems Stephen MacKenna used to read to me inParis. The one about_Hamlet._ He says: _il se prom√®ne, lisant au livre delui-m√™me_, dontyou know, _reading the book of himself_. He describes _Hamlet_given ina French town, dont you know, a provincial town. They advertised it.His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs inair. _HAMLET  ou  LEDISTRAIT  Pi√®ce de Shakespeare_He repeated to John Eglintons newgatheredfrown:--_Pi√®ce de Shakespeare_, dont you know.Its so French. The Frenchpoint of view. _Hamlet ou_...--The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended.John Eglinton laughed.--Yes, I suppose it would be, he said.Excellent people, no doubt, butdistressingly shortsighted in some matters.Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration ofmurder.--A deathsman of the soul Robert Greenecalled him, Stephen said. Notfor nothing was he a butchers son, wielding thesledded poleaxe andspitting in his palms. Nine lives are taken off for hisfathers one.Our Father who art in purgatory. Khaki Hamlets dont hesitatetoshoot. The bloodboltered shambles in act five is a forecast oftheconcentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne.Cranly, I his mute orderly, following battlesfrom afar._Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom noneBut we had spared..._Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. Thedevil and the deep sea.--He will have it that _Hamlet_ is aghoststory, John Eglinton saidfor Mr Bests behoof. Like the fat boy inPickwick he wants to make ourflesh creep._List! List! O List!_My flesh hears him: creeping, hears._If thou didst ever..._--What is a ghost? Stephen said with tinglingenergy. One who has fadedinto impalpability through death, through absence,through change ofmanners. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford ascorrupt Parislies from virgin Dublin. Who is the ghost from _limbo patrum_,returningto the world that has forgotten him? Who is King Hamlet?John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaningback to judge.Lifted.--It is this hour of a day in mid June,Stephen said, begging witha swift glance their hearing. The flag is up on theplayhouse by thebankside. The bear Sackerson growls in the pit near it, Parisgarden.Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages amongthegroundlings.Local colour. Work in all you know. Make themaccomplices.--Shakespeare has left the huguenots housein Silver street and walksby the swanmews along the riverbank. But he does notstay to feed thepen chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. The swanof Avonhas other thoughts.Composition of place. Ignatius Loyola, makehaste to help me!--The play begins. A player comes on underthe shadow, made up in thecastoff mail of a court buck, a wellset man with abass voice. It is theghost, the king, a king and no king, and the player isShakespeare whohas studied _Hamlet_ all the years of his life which were notvanity inorder to play the part of the spectre. He speaks the words toBurbage,the young player who stands before him beyond the rack ofcerecloth,calling him by a name:_Hamlet, I am thy fathers spirit,_bidding him list. To a son he speaks, the sonof his soul, the prince,young Hamlet and to the son of his body, HamnetShakespeare, who hasdied in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.Is it possible that that player Shakespeare,a ghost by absence, and inthe vesture of buried Denmark, a ghost by death,speaking his own wordsto his own sons name (had Hamnet Shakespeare lived hewould have beenprince Hamlets twin), is it possible, I want to know, orprobable thathe did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of thosepremises: youare the dispossessed son: I am the murdered father: your mother istheguilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway?--But this prying into the family life of agreat man, Russell beganimpatiently.Art thou there, truepenny?--Interesting only to the parish clerk. Imean, we have the plays. Imean when we read the poetry of _King Lear_ what isit to us how thepoet lived? As for living our servants can do that for us,Villiers delIsle has said. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of theday,the poets drinking, the poets debts. We have _King Lear_: and itisimmortal.Mr Bests face, appealed to, agreed._Flow over them with your waves and with yourwaters, Mananaan, MananaanMacLir..._How now, sirrah, that pound he lent you whenyou were hungry?Marry, I wanted it.Take thou this noble.Go to! You spent most of it in GeorginaJohnsons bed, clergymansdaughter. Agenbite of inwit.Do you intend to pay it back?O, yes.When? Now?Well... No.When, then?I paid my way. I paid my way.Steady on. Hes from beyant Boyne water. Thenortheast corner. You oweit.Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I amother I now. Other I gotpound.Buzz. Buzz.But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I bymemory because undereverchanging forms.I that sinned and prayed and fasted.A child Conmee saved from pandies.I, I and I. I.A.E.I.O.U.--Do you mean to fly in the face of thetradition of three centuries?John Eglintons carping voice asked. Her ghost atleast has been laidfor ever. She died, for literature at least, before she wasborn.--She died, Stephen retorted, sixtysevenyears after she was born. Shesaw him into and out of the world. She took hisfirst embraces. She borehis children and she laid pennies on his eyes to keephis eyelids closedwhen he lay on his deathbed.Mothers deathbed. Candle. The sheetedmirror. Who brought me intothis world lies there, bronzelidded, under few cheapflowers. _Liliatarutilantium._I wept alone.John Eglinton looked in the tangled glowwormof his lamp.--The world believes that Shakespeare made amistake, he said, and gotout of it as quickly and as best he could.--Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man of geniusmakes no mistakes. Hiserrors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.Portals of discovery opened to let in thequaker librarian,softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous.--A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly, isnot a useful portal ofdiscovery, one should imagine. What useful discovery didSocrates learnfrom Xanthippe?--Dialectic, Stephen answered: and from hismother how to bring thoughtsinto the world. What he learnt from his other wifeMyrto (_absitnomen!_), Socratididions Epipsychidion, no man, not a woman, willeverknow. But neither the midwifes lore nor the caudlelectures saved himfromthe archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock.--But Ann Hathaway? Mr Bests quiet voicesaid forgetfully. Yes, we seemto be forgetting her as Shakespeare himselfforgot her.His look went from brooders beard tocarpers skull, to remind, tochide them not unkindly, then to the baldpinklollard costard, guiltlessthough maligned.--He had a good groatsworth of wit, Stephensaid, and no truant memory.He carried a memory in his wallet as he trudged toRomeville whistling_The girl I left behind me._ If the earthquake did not timeit we shouldknow where to place poor Wat, sitting in his form, the cry ofhounds,the studded bridle and her blue windows. That memory, _Venus andAdonis_,lay in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London.Is Katharine the shrewillfavoured? Hortensio calls her young andbeautiful. Do you think the writer of_Antony and Cleopatra_, apassionate pilgrim, had his eyes in the back of hishead that he chosethe ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Good: he leftherand gained the world of men. But his boywomen are the women of a boy.Theirlife, thought, speech are lent them by males. He chose badly? Hewas chosen, itseems to me. If others have their will Ann hath a way.By cock, she was toblame. She put the comether on him, sweet andtwentysix. The greyeyed goddesswho bends over the boy Adonis, stoopingto conquer, as prologue to the swellingact, is a boldfaced Stratfordwench who tumbles in a cornfield a lover youngerthan herself.And my turn? When?Come!--Ryefield, Mr Best said brightly, gladly,raising his new book, gladly,brightly.He murmured then with blond delight for all:_Between the acres of the rye These prettycountryfolk would lie._Paris: the wellpleased pleaser.A tall figure in bearded homespun rose fromshadow and unveiled itscooperative watch.--I am afraid I am due at the _Homestead._Whither away? Exploitable ground.--Are you going? John Eglintons activeeyebrows asked. Shall we see youat Moores tonight? Piper is coming.--Piper! Mr Best piped. Is Piper back?Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck ofpickled pepper.--I dont know if I can. Thursday. We haveour meeting. If I can getaway in time.Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers. _IsisUnveiled._ Their Pali book wetried to pawn. Crosslegged under an umbrelumbershoot he thrones anAztec logos, functioning on astral levels, theiroversoul, mahamahatma.The faithful hermetists await the light, ripe forchelaship,ringroundabout him. Louis H. Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin. Lotusladiestend them ithe eyes, their pineal glands aglow. Filled with his god,hethrones, Buddh under plantain. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. Hesouls,shesouls,shoals of souls. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled,whirling, theybewail.  _In quintessentialtriviality   For years in this fleshcase a shesouldwelt._--They say we are to have a literarysurprise, the quaker librariansaid, friendly and earnest. Mr Russell, rumourhas it, is gatheringtogether a sheaf of our younger poets verses. We are alllookingforward anxiously.Anxiously he glanced in the cone of lamplightwhere three faces,lighted, shone.See this. Remember.Stephen looked down on a wide headlesscaubeen, hung on hisashplanthandle over his knee. My casque and sword. Touchlightly withtwo index fingers. Aristotles experiment. One or two? Necessity isthatin virtue of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise. Argal,onehat is one hat.Listen.Young Colum and Starkey. George Roberts isdoing the commercial part.Longworth will give it a good puff in the _Express._O, will he? I likedColums _Drover._ Yes, I think he has that queer thinggenius. Do youthink he has genius really? Yeats admired his line: _As in wildeartha Grecian vase_. Did he? I hope youll be able to come tonight.MalachiMulligan is coming too. Moore asked him to bring Haines. Did youhearMiss Mitchells joke about Moore and Martyn? That Moore is Martynswildoats? Awfully clever, isnt it? They remind one of Don Quixote andSancho Panza.Our national epic has yet to be written, Dr Sigerson says.Moore is the man forit. A knight of the rueful countenance here inDublin. With a saffron kilt?ONeill Russell? O, yes, he must speak thegrand old tongue. And his Dulcinea?James Stephens is doing some cleversketches. We are becoming important, itseems.Cordelia. _Cordoglio._ Lirs loneliestdaughter.Nookshotten. Now your best French polish.--Thank you very much, Mr Russell, Stephensaid, rising. If you will beso kind as to give the letter to Mr Norman...--O, yes. If he considers it important itwill go in. We have so muchcorrespondence.--I understand, Stephen said. Thanks.God ild you. The pigs paper.Bullockbefriending.Synge has promised me an article for _Dana_too. Are we going to beread? I feel we are. The Gaelic league wants somethingin Irish. I hopeyou will come round tonight. Bring Starkey.Stephen sat down.The quaker librarian came from theleavetakers. Blushing, his mask said:--Mr Dedalus, your views are mostilluminating.He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearerheaven by the altitude of achopine, and, covered by the noise of outgoing, saidlow:--Is it your view, then, that she was notfaithful to the poet?Alarmed face asks me. Why did he come?Courtesy or an inward light?--Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said,there must have beenfirst a sundering.--Yes.Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runawayin blighted treeforks,from hue and cry. Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in thechase. Womenhe won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices,bullytapsters wives. Fox and geese. And in New Place a slackdishonoured body thatonce was comely, once as sweet, as fresh ascinnamon, now her leaves falling,all, bare, frighted of the narrowgrave and unforgiven.--Yes. So you think...The door closed behind the outgoer.Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaultedcell, rest of warm andbrooding air.A vestals lamp.Here he ponders things that were not: whatCaesar would have lived to dohad he believed the soothsayer: what might havebeen: possibilities ofthe possible as possible: things not known: what nameAchilles bore whenhe lived among women.Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases,embalmed in spice of words.Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned.And I heard thevoice of that Egyptian highpriest. _In painted chambers loadedwithtilebooks._They are still. Once quick in the brains ofmen. Still: but an itch ofdeath is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlintale, urge me to wreaktheir will.--Certainly, John Eglinton mused, of all greatmen he is the mostenigmatic. We know nothing but that he lived and suffered.Not even somuch. Others abide our question. A shadow hangs over all the rest.--But _Hamlet_ is so personal, isnt it? MrBest pleaded. I mean, a kindof private paper, dont you know, of his privatelife. I mean, I dontcare a button, dont you know, who is killed or who isguilty...He rested an innocent book on the edge of thedesk, smiling hisdefiance. His private papers in the original. _Ta an bad ar antir. Taimin mo shagart_. Put beurla on it, littlejohn.Quoth littlejohn Eglinton:--I was prepared for paradoxes from whatMalachi Mulligan told us butI may as well warn you that if you want to shake mybelief thatShakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you.Bear with me.Stephen withstood the bane of miscreant eyesglinting stern underwrinkled brows. A basilisk. _E quando vede luomolattosca_. MesserBrunetto, I thank thee for the word.--As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweaveour bodies, Stephen said,from day to day, their molecules shuttled to and fro,so does the artistweave and unweave his image. And as the mole on my rightbreast is whereit was when I was born, though all my body has been woven of newstufftime after time, so through the ghost of the unquiet father the imageofthe unliving son looks forth. In the intense instant of imagination,when themind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which I was is thatwhich I am andthat which in possibility I may come to be. So in thefuture, the sister of thepast, I may see myself as I sit here now butby reflection from that which thenI shall be.Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at thatstile.--Yes, Mr Best said youngly. I feel Hamletquite young. The bitternessmight be from the father but the passages with Opheliaare surely fromthe son.Has the wrong sow by the lug. He is in myfather. I am in his son.--That mole is the last to go, Stephen said,laughing.John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow.--If that were the birthmark of genius, hesaid, genius would be adrug in the market. The plays of Shakespeares lateryears which Renanadmired so much breathe another spirit.--The spirit of reconciliation, the quakerlibrarian breathed.--There can be no reconciliation, Stephensaid, if there has not been asundering.Said that.--If you want to know what are the eventswhich cast their shadow overthe hell of time of _King Lear, Othello, Hamlet,Troilus and Cressida,_look to see when and how the shadow lifts. What softensthe heart of aman, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses,Pericles,prince of Tyre?Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.--A child, a girl, placed in his arms,Marina.--The leaning of sophists towards the bypathsof apocrypha is a constantquantity, John Eglinton detected. The highroads aredreary but they leadto the town.Good Bacon: gone musty. Shakespeare Baconswild oats. Cypherjugglersgoing the highroads. Seekers on the great quest. Whattown, goodmasters? Mummed in names: A. E., eon: Magee, John Eglinton. East ofthesun, west of the moon: _Tir na n-og_. Booted the twain and staved._How many miles to Dublin? Three score andten, sir. Will we be there bycandlelight?_--Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said, as thefirst play of the closingperiod.--Does he? What does Mr Sidney Lee, or MrSimon Lazarus as some aver hisname is, say of it?--Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm,Miranda, a wonder, Perdita,that which was lost. What was lost is given back tohim: his daughterschild. _My dearest wife_, Pericles says, _was like thismaid._ Will anyman love the daughter if he has not loved the mother?--The art of being a grandfather, Mr Best ganmurmur. _lart d√™tregrand_...--Will he not see reborn in her, with thememory of his own youth added,another image?Do you know what you are talking about? Love,yes. Word known to allmen. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quaeconcupiscimus...--His own image to a man with that queerthing genius is the standard ofall experience, material and moral. Such anappeal will touch him. Theimages of other males of his blood will repel him. Hewill see in themgrotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.The benign forehead of the quaker librarianenkindled rosily with hope.--I hope Mr Dedalus will work out his theoryfor the enlightenment ofthe public. And we ought to mention another Irishcommentator, Mr GeorgeBernard Shaw. Nor should we forget Mr Frank Harris. Hisarticles onShakespeare in the _Saturday Review_ were surely brilliant.Oddlyenough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady ofthesonnets. The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I ownthatif the poet must be rejected such a rejection would seem more inharmonywith--what shall I say?--our notions of what ought not to havebeen.Felicitously he ceased and held a meek headamong them, auks egg, prizeof their fray.He thous and thees her with gravehusbandwords. Dost love, Miriam? Dostlove thy man?--That may be too, Stephen said. Theres asaying of Goethes which MrMagee likes to quote. Beware of what you wish for inyouth becauseyou will get it in middle life. Why does he send to one who isa_buonaroba,_ a bay where all men ride, a maid of honour with ascandalousgirlhood, a lordling to woo for him? He was himself a lordof language and hadmade himself a coistrel gentleman and he had written_Romeo and Juliet_. Why?Belief in himself has been untimely killed. Hewas overborne in a cornfieldfirst (ryefield, I should say) and he willnever be a victor in his own eyesafter nor play victoriously the gameof laugh and lie down. Assumeddongiovannism will not save him. No laterundoing will undo the first undoing.The tusk of the boar has woundedhim there where love lies ableeding. If theshrew is worsted yet thereremains to her womans invisible weapon. There is, Ifeel in the words,some goad of the flesh driving him into a new passion, adarker shadowof the first, darkening even his own understanding of himself. Alikefate awaits him and the two rages commingle in a whirlpool.They list. And in the porches of their ears Ipour.--The soul has been before stricken mortally,a poison poured in theporch of a sleeping ear. But those who are done to deathin sleep cannotknow the manner of their quell unless their Creator endow theirsoulswith that knowledge in the life to come. The poisoning and the beastwithtwo backs that urged it King Hamlets ghost could not know of werehe notendowed with knowledge by his creator. That is why the speech(his lean unlovelyEnglish) is always turned elsewhere, backward.Ravisher and ravished, what hewould but would not, go with him fromLucreces bluecircled ivory globes toImogens breast, bare, with itsmole cinquespotted. He goes back, weary of thecreation he has piled upto hide him from himself, an old dog licking an oldsore. But, becauseloss is his gain, he passes on towards eternity inundiminishedpersonality, untaught by the wisdom he has written or by the lawshehas revealed. His beaver is up. He is a ghost, a shadow now, the windbyElsinores rocks or what you will, the seas voice, a voice heardonly in theheart of him who is the substance of his shadow, the sonconsubstantial with thefather.--Amen! was responded from the doorway.Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?_Entracte_.A ribald face, sullen as a deans, BuckMulligan came forward, thenblithe in motley, towards the greeting of theirsmiles. My telegram.--You were speaking of the gaseousvertebrate, if I mistake not? heasked of Stephen.Primrosevested he greeted gaily with hisdoffed Panama as with a bauble.They make him welcome. _Was Du verlachstwirst Du noch dienen._Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi,Johann Most.He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghostand Himself sent Himself,Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put uponby His fiends,stripped and whipped, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starvedoncrosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heavenandthere these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the right hand of HisOwn Self butyet shall come in the latter day to doom the quick and deadwhen all the quickshall be dead already.Glo--o--ri--a in ex--cel--sis De--o.He lifts his hands. Veils fall. O, flowers!Bells with bells with bellsaquiring.--Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. Amost instructive discussion.Mr Mulligan, Ill be bound, has his theory too ofthe play and ofShakespeare. All sides of life should be represented.He smiled on all sides equally.Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled:--Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know thename.A flying sunny smile rayed in his loosefeatures.--To be sure, he said, remembering brightly.The chap that writes likeSynge.Mr Best turned to him.--Haines missed you, he said. Did you meethim? Hell see you after atthe D. B. C. Hes gone to Gills to buy Hydes_Lovesongs of Connacht_.--I came through the museum, Buck Mulligansaid. Was he here?--The bards fellowcountrymen, John Eglintonanswered, are rather tiredperhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. I hearthat an actress playedHamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night inDublin. Viningheld that the prince was a woman. Has no-one made him out to beanIrishman? Judge Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues. Heswears (HisHighness not His Lordship) by saint Patrick.--The most brilliant of all is that story ofWildes, Mr Best said,lifting his brilliant notebook. That _Portrait of Mr W.H._ where heproves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man allhues.--For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quakerlibrarian asked.Or Hughie Wills? Mr William Himself. W. H.:who am I?--I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said,amending his gloss easily. Ofcourse its all paradox, dont you know, Hughesand hews and hues,the colour, but its so typical the way he works it out. Itsthe veryessence of Wilde, dont you know. The light touch.His glance touched their faces lightly as hesmiled, a blond ephebe.Tame essence of Wilde.Youre darned witty. Three drams ofusquebaugh you drank with DanDeasys ducats.How much did I spend? O, a few shillings.For a plump of pressmen. Humour wet and dry.Wit. You would give your five wits foryouths proud livery he pranksin. Lineaments of gratified desire.There be many mo. Take her for me. In pairingtime. Jove, a cool ruttimesend them. Yea, turtledove her.Eve. Naked wheatbellied sin. A snake coilsher, fang ins kiss.--Do you think it is only a paradox? thequaker librarian was asking.The mocker is never taken seriously when he is mostserious.They talked seriously of mockersseriousness.Buck Mulligans again heavy face eyed Stephenawhile. Then, his headwagging, he came near, drew a folded telegram from hispocket. Hismobile lips read, smiling with new delight.--Telegram! he said. Wonderful inspiration!Telegram! A papal bull!He sat on a corner of the unlit desk, readingaloud joyfully:--_The sentimentalist is he who would enjoywithout incurring theimmense debtorship for a thing done._ Signed: Dedalus.Where did youlaunch it from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you drunk thefourquid? The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father.Telegram!Malachi Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street. O, you peerlessmummer!O, you priestified Kinchite!Joyfully he thrust message and envelope intoa pocket but keened in aquerulous brogue:--Its what Im telling you, mister honey,its queer and sick we were,Haines and myself, the time himself brought it in.Twas murmur we didfor a gallus potion would rouse a friar, Im thinking, andhe limp withleching. And we one hour and two hours and three hours inConneryssitting civil waiting for pints apiece.He wailed:--And we to be there, mavrone, and you to beunbeknownst sending us yourconglomerations the way we to have our tongues out ayard long like thedrouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful.Stephen laughed.Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan bentdown.--The tramper Synge is looking for you, hesaid, to murder you. Heheard you pissed on his halldoor in Glasthule. Hes outin pampooties tomurder you.--Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contributionto literature.Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughingto the dark eavesdroppingceiling.--Murder you! he laughed.Harsh gargoyle face that warred against meover our mess of hashof lights in rue Saint-Andr√©-des-Arts. In words of wordsfor words,palabras. Oisin with Patrick. Faunman he met in Clamartwoods,brandishing a winebottle. _Cest vendredi saint!_ Murthering Irish.Hisimage, wandering, he met. I mine. I met a fool ithe forest.--Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the doorajar.--... in which everyone can find his own. SoMr Justice Madden in his_Diary of Master William Silence_ has found the huntingterms... Yes?What is it?--Theres a gentleman here, sir, theattendant said, coming forward andoffering a card. From the _Freeman._ He wantsto see the files of the_Kilkenny People_ for last year.--Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is thegentleman?...He took the eager card, glanced, not saw,laid down unglanced, looked,asked, creaked, asked:--Is he?... O, there!Brisk in a galliard he was off, out. In thedaylit corridor he talkedwith voluble pains of zeal, in duty bound, most fair,most kind, mosthonest broadbrim.--This gentleman? _Freemans Journal?Kilkenny People?_ To be sure. Goodday, sir. _Kilkenny_... We have certainly...A patient silhouette waited, listening.--All the leading provincial... _NorthernWhig, Cork Examiner,Enniscorthy Guardian,_ 1903... Will you please?... Evans,conduct thisgentleman... If you just follow the atten... Or, please allowme...This way... Please, sir...Voluble, dutiful, he led the way to all theprovincial papers, a bowingdark figure following his hasty heels.The door closed.--The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried.He jumped up and snatched the card.--Whats his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom.He rattled on:--Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more.I found him over in themuseum where I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. TheGreek mouth thathas never been twisted in prayer. Every day we must do homageto her._Life of life, thy lips enkindle._Suddenly he turned to Stephen:--He knows you. He knows your old fellow. O,I fear me, he is Greekerthan the Greeks. His pale Galilean eyes were upon hermesial groove.Venus Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those loins! _The god pursuingthemaiden hid_.--We want to hear more, John Eglinton decidedwith Mr Bests approval.We begin to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we hadthought of her, ifat all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope stayathome.--Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephensaid, took the palm of beautyfrom Kyrios Menelaus brooddam, Argive Helen, thewooden mare of Troyin whom a score of heroes slept, and handed it to poorPenelope. Twentyyears he lived in London and, during part of that time, he drewa salaryequal to that of the lord chancellor of Ireland. His life was rich.Hisart, more than the art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, is theart ofsurfeit. Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugarof roses,marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. Sir WalterRaleigh, when theyarrested him, had half a million francs on hisback including a pair of fancystays. The gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor hadunderlinen enough to vie with her ofSheba. Twenty years he dalliedthere between conjugial love and its chastedelights and scortatory loveand its foul pleasures. You know Manninghams storyof the burgherswife who bade Dick Burbage to her bed after she had seen him in_RichardIII_ and how Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado aboutnothing,took the cow by the horns and, when Burbage came knocking at thegate,answered from the capons blankets: _William the conqueror camebeforeRichard III_. And the gay lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry O,and hisdainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a clean quality woman issuited for aplayer, and the punks of the bankside, a penny a time.Cours la Reine. _Encore vingt sous. Nousferons de petites cochonneries.Minette? Tu veux?_--The height of fine society. And sir WilliamDavenant of oxfordsmother with her cup of canary for any cockcanary.Buck Mulligan, his pious eyes upturned,prayed:--Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!--And Harry of six wives daughter. And otherlady friends fromneighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. Butall thosetwenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in Stratford wasdoingbehind the diamond panes?Do and do. Thing done. In a rosery of Fetterlane of Gerard, herbalist,he walks, greyedauburn. An azured harebell like herveins. Lids ofJunos eyes, violets. He walks. One life is all. One body. Do.But do.Afar, in a reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.BuckMulligan rapped John Eglintons desk sharply.--Whom do you suspect? he challenged.--Say that he is the spurned lover in thesonnets. Once spurned twicespurned. But the court wanton spurned him for a lord,his dearmylove.Love that dare not speak its name.--As an Englishman, you mean, John sturdyEglinton put in, he loved alord.Old wall where sudden lizards flash. AtCharenton I watched them.--It seems so, Stephen said, when he wants todo for him, and for allother and singular uneared wombs, the holy office anostler does for thestallion. Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife to motheras he had ashrew to wife. But she, the giglot wanton, did not break a bedvow.Twodeeds are rank in that ghosts mind: a broken vow and the dullbrainedyokelon whom her favour has declined, deceased husbands brother. SweetAnn, I takeit, was hot in the blood. Once a wooer, twice a wooer.Stephen turned boldly in his chair.--The burden of proof is with you not withme, he said frowning. If youdeny that in the fifth scene of _Hamlet_ he hasbranded her with infamytell me why there is no mention of her during thethirtyfour yearsbetween the day she married him and the day she buried him. Allthosewomen saw their men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, herpoordear Willun, when he went and died on her, raging that he was thefirst to go,Joan, her four brothers, Judith, her husband and all hersons, Susan, herhusband too, while Susans daughter, Elizabeth, to usegranddaddys words, wedher second, having killed her first.O, yes, mention there is. In the years whenhe was living richly inroyal London to pay a debt she had to borrow fortyshillings from herfathers shepherd. Explain you then. Explain the swansong toowherein hehas commended her to posterity.He faced their silence.  To whom thusEglinton:  You mean the will. But that has been explained, I believe, by jurists.  Shewas entitled to her widows dower  At common law. Hislegal knowledge was great  Our judges tellus.  Him Satan fleers, Mocker:  And therefore he left out her name From the first draft but he did not leave out  Thepresents for his granddaughter, for his daughters,  Forhis sister, for his old cronies in Stratford  And inLondon. And therefore when he was urged,  As I believe,to name her  He left her his Secondbest  Bed. _Punkt._  Leftherhis Secondbest  Leftherhis Bestabed  Secabest  Leftabed.Woa!--Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then,John Eglinton observed, asthey have still if our peasant plays are true totype.--He was a rich country gentleman, Stephensaid, with a coat of armsand landed estate at Stratford and a house in Irelandyard, a capitalistshareholder, a bill promoter, a tithefarmer. Why did he notleave herhis best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her nightsinpeace?--It is clear that there were two beds, abest and a secondbest, MrSecondbest Best said finely.--_Separatio a mensa et a thalamo_, betteredBuck Mulligan and wassmiled on.--Antiquity mentions famous beds, SecondEglinton puckered, bedsmiling.Let me think.--Antiquity mentions that Stagyriteschoolurchin and bald heathen sage,Stephen said, who when dying in exile freesand endows his slaves, paystribute to his elders, wills to be laid in earthnear the bones of hisdead wife and bids his friends be kind to an old mistress(dont forgetNell Gwynn Herpyllis) and let her live in his villa.--Do you mean he died so? Mr Best asked withslight concern. I mean...--He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan capped. Aquart of ale is a dish fora king. O, I must tell you what Dowden said!--What? asked Besteglinton.William Shakespeare and company, limited. Thepeoples William. Forterms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house...--Lovely! Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. Iasked him what he thoughtof the charge of pederasty brought against the bard.He lifted his handsand said: _All we can say is that life ran very high inthose days._Lovely!Catamite.--The sense of beauty leads us astray, saidbeautifulinsadness Best tougling Eglinton.Steadfast John replied severe:--The doctor can tell us what those wordsmean. You cannot eat your cakeand have it.Sayest thou so? Will they wrest from us, fromme, the palm of beauty?--And the sense of property, Stephen said. Hedrew Shylock out of hisown long pocket. The son of a maltjobber and moneylenderhe was himselfa cornjobber and moneylender, with ten tods of corn hoarded inthefamine riots. His borrowers are no doubt those divers of worshipmentioned byChettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing.He sued a fellowplayerfor the price of a few bags of malt and exactedhis pound of flesh in interestfor every money lent. How else couldAubreys ostler and callboy get rich quick?All events brought grist tohis mill. Shylock chimes with the jewbaiting thatfollowed the hangingand quartering of the queens leech Lopez, his jews heartbeing pluckedforth while the sheeny was yet alive: _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_withthe coming to the throne of a Scotch philosophaster with a turnforwitchroasting. The lost armada is his jeer in _Loves Labour Lost_.Hispageants, the histories, sail fullbellied on a tide of Mafekingenthusiasm.Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we have a porters theoryof equivocation.The _Sea Venture_ comes home from Bermudas and the playRenan admired is writtenwith Patsy Caliban, our American cousin.The sugared sonnets follow Sidneys. Asfor fay Elizabeth, otherwisecarrotty Bess, the gross virgin who inspired _TheMerry Wives ofWindsor_, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life long fordeephidmeanings in the depths of the buckbasket.I think youre getting on very nicely. Justmix up a mixture oftheolologicophilolological. _Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere._--Prove that he was a jew, John Eglintondared,expectantly. Your deanof studies holds he was a holy Roman._Sufflaminandus sum._--He was made in Germany, Stephen replied, asthe champion Frenchpolisher of Italian scandals.--A myriadminded man, Mr Best reminded.Coleridge called himmyriadminded._Amplius. In societate humana hoc est maximenecessarium ut sit amicitiainter multos._--Saint Thomas, Stephen began...--_Ora pro nobis_, Monk Mulligan groaned,sinking to a chair.There he keened a wailing rune.--_Pogue mahone! Acushla machree!_ Itsdestroyed we are from this day!Its destroyed we are surely!All smiled their smiles.--Saint Thomas, Stephen smiling said, whosegorbellied works I enjoyreading in the original, writing of incest from astandpoint differentfrom that of the new Viennese school Mr Magee spoke of,likens it in hiswise and curious way to an avarice of the emotions. He meansthat thelove so given to one near in blood is covetously withheld fromsomestranger who, it may be, hungers for it. Jews, whom christians taxwithavarice, are of all races the most given to intermarriage. Accusationsaremade in anger. The christian laws which built up the hoards of thejews (for whom,as for the lollards, storm was shelter) bound theiraffections too with hoops ofsteel. Whether these be sins or virtues oldNobodaddy will tell us at doomsdayleet. But a man who holds so tightlyto what he calls his rights over what hecalls his debts will holdtightly also to what he calls his rights over her whomhe calls hiswife. No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his wife orhismanservant or his maidservant or his jackass.--Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan antiphoned.--Gentle Will is being roughly handled,gentle Mr Best said gently.--Which will? gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan.We are getting mixed.--The will to live, John Eglintonphilosophised, for poor Ann, Willswidow, is the will to die._--Requiescat!_ Stephen prayed.  _What of all thewill to do?  It has vanished long ago..._--She lies laid out in stark stiffness inthat secondbest bed, themobled queen, even though you prove that a bed in thosedays was asrare as a motorcar is now and that its carvings were the wonder ofsevenparishes. In old age she takes up with gospellers (one stayed with heratNew Place and drank a quart of sack the town council paid for but inwhich bedhe slept it skills not to ask) and heard she had a soul. Sheread or had read toher his chapbooks preferring them to the _MerryWives_ and, loosing her nightlywaters on the jordan, she thoughtover _Hooks and Eyes for Believers Breeches_and _The most SpiritualSnuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze_. Venushas twisted herlips in prayer. Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience. It isan ageof exhausted whoredom groping for its god.--History shows that to be true, _inquitEglintonus Chronolologos_. Theages succeed one another. But we have it on highauthority that a mansworst enemies shall be those of his own house and family.I feel thatRussell is right. What do we care for his wife or father? I shouldsaythat only family poets have family lives. Falstaff was not a family man.Ifeel that the fat knight is his supreme creation.Lean, he lay back. Shy, deny thy kindred, theunco guid. Shy, suppingwith the godless, he sneaks the cup. A sire in UltonianAntrim bade ithim. Visits him here on quarter days. Mr Magee, sir, theres agentlemanto see you. Me? Says hes your father, sir. Give me my Wordsworth.EnterMagee Mor Matthew, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in strossers withabuttoned codpiece, his nether stocks bemired with clauber of tenforests, a wandof wilding in his hand.Your own? He knows your old fellow. Thewidower.Hurrying to her squalid deathlair from gayParis on the quayside Itouched his hand. The voice, new warmth, speaking. DrBob Kenny isattending her. The eyes that wish me well. But do not know me.--A father, Stephen said, battling againsthopelessness, is a necessaryevil. He wrote the play in the months that followedhis fathers death.If you hold that he, a greying man with two marriageabledaughters, withthirtyfive years of life, _nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita_,withfifty of experience, is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg thenyoumust hold that his seventyyear old mother is the lustful queen. No.The corpseof John Shakespeare does not walk the night. From hour tohour it rots and rots.He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devisedthat mystical estate upon hisson. Boccaccios Calandrino was the firstand last man who felt himself withchild. Fatherhood, in the sense ofconscious begetting, is unknown to man. It isa mystical estate, anapostolic succession, from only begetter to only begotten.On thatmystery and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian intellectflungto the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovablybecausefounded, like the world, macro and microcosm, upon the void.Upon incertitude,upon unlikelihood. _Amor matris_, subjective andobjective genitive, may be theonly true thing in life. Paternity may bea legal fiction. Who is the father ofany son that any son should lovehim or he any son?What the hell are you driving at?I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons._Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea._Are you condemned to do this?--They are sundered by a bodily shame sosteadfast that the criminalannals of the world, stained with all other incestsand bestialities,hardly record its breach. Sons with mothers, sires withdaughters,lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak their name, nephewswithgrandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. Thesonunborn mars beauty: born, he brings pain, divides affection, increasescare.He is a new male: his growth is his fathers decline, his youthhis fathersenvy, his friend his fathers enemy.In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought it.--What links them in nature? An instant ofblind rut.Am I a father? If I were?Shrunken uncertain hand.--Sabellius, the African, subtlest heresiarchof all the beasts of thefield, held that the Father was Himself His Own Son.The bulldog ofAquin, with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him. Well:ifthe father who has not a son be not a father can the son who has not afatherbe a son? When Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another poetof the samename in the comedy of errors wrote _Hamlet_ he was not thefather of his own sonmerely but, being no more a son, he was and felthimself the father of all hisrace, the father of his own grandfather,the father of his unborn grandson who,by the same token, never wasborn, for nature, as Mr Magee understands her,abhors perfection.Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked upshybrightly. Gladlyglancing, a merry puritan, through the twisted eglantine.Flatter. Rarely. But flatter.--Himself his own father, Sonmulligan toldhimself. Wait. I am big withchild. I have an unborn child in my brain. PallasAthena! A play! Theplays the thing! Let me parturiate!He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaidinghands.--As for his family, Stephen said, hismothers name lives in theforest of Arden. Her death brought from him the scenewith Volumnia in_Coriolanus._ His boysons death is the deathscene of youngArthur in_King John._ Hamlet, the black prince, is Hamnet Shakespeare. Whothegirls in _The Tempest_, in _Pericles,_ in _Winters Tale_ are we know.WhoCleopatra, fleshpot of Egypt, and Cressid and Venus are we mayguess. But thereis another member of his family who is recorded.--The plot thickens, John Eglinton said.The quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in,quake, his mask, quake, withhaste, quake, quack.Door closed. Cell. Day.They list. Three. They.I you he they.Come, mess.STEPHEN: He had three brothers, Gilbert,Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in hisold age told some cavaliers he got a pass fornowt from Maister Gathererone time mass he did and he seen his brud MaisterWull the playwriter upin Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man ons back. Theplayhouse sausagefilled Gilberts soul. He is nowhere: but an Edmund and aRichard arerecorded in the works of sweet William.MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! Whats in a name?BEST: That is my name, Richard, dont youknow. I hope you are going tosay a good word for Richard, dont you know, formy sake. _(Laughter)_BUCKMULLIGAN: (_Piano, diminuendo_)  _Then outspokemedical Dick  To his comrade medical Davy..._STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, thevillain shakebags, Iago,Richard Crookback, Edmund in _King Lear_, two bear thewicked unclesnames. Nay, that last play was written or being written whilehisbrother Edmund lay dying in Southwark.BEST: I hope Edmund is going to catch it. Idont want Richard, my name..._(Laughter)_QUAKERLYSTER: (_A tempo_) But he that filchesfrom me my good name...STEPHEN: _(Stringendo)_ He has hidden his ownname, a fair name,William, in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as apainter of oldItaly set his face in a dark corner of his canvas. He hasrevealed it inthe sonnets where there is Will in overplus. Like John oGaunthis nameis dear to him, as dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on abendsable a spear or steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearerthanhis glory of greatest shakescene in the country. Whats in a name?That is whatwe ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name thatwe are told is ours. Astar, a daystar, a firedrake, rose at his birth.It shone by day in the heavensalone, brighter than Venus in thenight, and by night it shone over delta inCassiopeia, the recumbentconstellation which is the signature of his initialamong the stars. Hiseyes watched it, lowlying on the horizon, eastward of thebear, ashe walked by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returningfromShottery and from her arms.Both satisfied. I too.Dont tell them he was nine years old when itwas quenched.And from her arms.Wait to be wooed and won. Ay, meacock. Whowill woo you?Read the skies. _Autontimorumenos. BousStephanoumenos._ Wheres yourconfiguration? Stephen, Stephen, cut the breadeven. S. D: _sua donna.Gi√†: di lui. gelindo risolve di non amare_ S. D.--What is that, Mr Dedalus? the quakerlibrarian asked. Was it acelestial phenomenon?--A star by night, Stephen said. A pillar ofthe cloud by day.What mores to speak?Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, hisboots._Stephanos,_ my crown. My sword. His bootsare spoiling the shape of myfeet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchieftoo.--You make good use of the name, JohnEglinton allowed. Your own name isstrange enough. I suppose it explains yourfantastical humour.Me, Magee and Mulligan.Fabulous artificer. The hawklike man. Youflew. Whereto?Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Paris and back. Lapwing.Icarus._Pater, ait._ Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. Lapwing you are.Lapwingbe.Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say:--Thats very interesting because thatbrother motive, dont you know,we find also in the old Irish myths. Just whatyou say. The threebrothers Shakespeare. In Grimm too, dont you know, thefairytales. Thethird brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and winsthe bestprize.Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best.The quaker librarian springhalted near.--I should like to know, he said, whichbrother you... I understand youto suggest there was misconduct with one of thebrothers... But perhapsI am anticipating?He caught himself in the act: looked at all:refrained.An attendant from the doorway called:--Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants...--O, Father Dineen! Directly.Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he wasrectly gone.John Eglinton touched the foil.--Come, he said. Let us hear what you have tosay of Richard and Edmund.You kept them for the last, didnt you?--In asking you to remember those two noblekinsmen nuncle Richie andnuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am askingtoo much perhaps. Abrother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.Lapwing.Where is your brother? Apothecaries hall. Mywhetstone. Him, thenCranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Actspeech. Theymock to try you. Act. Be acted on.Lapwing.I am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. Mykingdom for a drink.On.--You will say those names were already inthe chronicles from which hetook the stuff of his plays. Why did he take themrather than others?Richard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to awidowed Ann(whats in a name?), woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow.Richardthe conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered. Theotherfour acts of that play hang limply from that first. Of all hiskings Richard isthe only king unshielded by Shakespeares reverence,the angel of the world. Whyis the underplot of _King Lear_ in whichEdmund figures lifted out of Sidneys_Arcadia_ and spatchcocked on to aCeltic legend older than history?--That was Wills way, John Eglintondefended. We should not now combinea Norse saga with an excerpt from a novel byGeorge Meredith. _Quevoulez-vous?_ Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on theseacoast and makesUlysses quote Aristotle.--Why? Stephen answered himself. Because thetheme of the false orthe usurping or the adulterous brother or all three in oneis toShakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. The noteofbanishment, banishment from the heart, banishment from home,soundsuninterruptedly from _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_ onward tillProsperobreaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the earth and drownshisbook. It doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itselfinanother, repeats itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe.Itrepeats itself again when he is near the grave, when his marrieddaughter Susan,chip of the old block, is accused of adultery. But itwas the original sin thatdarkened his understanding, weakened his willand left in him a stronginclination to evil. The words are those ofmy lords bishops of Maynooth. Anoriginal sin and, like original sin,committed by another in whose sin he toohas sinned. It is between thelines of his last written words, it is petrifiedon his tombstone underwhich her four bones are not to be laid. Age has notwithered it. Beautyand peace have not done it away. It is in infinite varietyeverywhere inthe world he has created, in _Much Ado about Nothing_, twice in_As youlike It_, in _The Tempest_, in _Hamlet,_ in _Measure for Measure_--andinall the other plays which I have not read.He laughed to free his mind from his mindsbondage.Judge Eglinton summed up.--The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is theghost and the prince. Heis all in all.--He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is themature man of act five.All in all. In _Cymbeline,_ in _Othello_ he is bawd andcuckold. He actsand is acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion, like Josehekills the real Carmen. His unremitting intellect is the hornmadIagoceaselessly willing that the moor in him shall suffer.--Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulligan cluckedlewdly. O word of fear!Dark dome received, reverbed.--And what a character is Iago! undauntedJohn Eglinton exclaimed. Whenall is said Dumas _fils_ (or is it Dumas _p√®re?)_is right. After GodShakespeare has created most.--Man delights him not nor woman neither,Stephen said. He returns aftera life of absence to that spot of earth where hewas born, where he hasalways been, man and boy, a silent witness and there, hisjourney oflife ended, he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies.Themotion is ended. Gravediggers bury Hamlet _(p√®re?)_ and Hamlet _fils._Aking and a prince at last in death, with incidental music. And, whatthoughmurdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for,Dane or Dubliner,sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whomthey refuse to be divorced. Ifyou like the epilogue look long on it:prosperous Prospero, the good manrewarded, Lizzie, grandpas lump oflove, and nuncle Richie, the bad man takenoff by poetic justice to theplace where the bad niggers go. Strong curtain. Hefound in the worldwithout as actual what was in his world within as possible.Maeterlincksays: _If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sageseatedon his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his stepswilltend._ Every life is many days, day after day. We walk throughourselves,meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives,widows,brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves. The playwrightwho wrote thefolio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us lightfirst and the sun twodays later), the lord of things as they are whomthe most Roman of catholicscall _dio boia_, hangman god, is doubtlessall in all in all of us, ostler andbutcher, and would be bawd andcuckold too but that in the economy of heaven,foretold by Hamlet, thereare no more marriages, glorified man, an androgynousangel, being a wifeunto himself._--Eureka!_ Buck Mulligan cried. _Eureka!_Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached ina stride John Eglintonsdesk.--May I? he said. The Lord has spoken toMalachi.He began to scribble on a slip of paper.Take some slips from the counter going out.--Those who are married, Mr Best, douceherald, said, all save one,shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes,of arts a bachelor.Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, theyfingerponder nightly each hisvariorum edition of _The Taming of the Shrew._--You are a delusion, said roundly JohnEglinton to Stephen. You havebrought us all this way to show us a Frenchtriangle. Do you believeyour own theory?--No, Stephen said promptly.--Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked.You ought to make it adialogue, dont you know, like the Platonic dialoguesWilde wrote.John Eclecticon doubly smiled.--Well, in that case, he said, I dont seewhy you should expect paymentfor it since you dont believe it yourself. Dowdenbelieves there issome mystery in _Hamlet_ but will say no more. Herr Bleibtreu,the manPiper met in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believesthatthe secret is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going tovisit the presentduke, Piper says, and prove to him that his ancestorwrote the plays. It willcome as a surprise to his grace. But hebelieves his theory.I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is,help me to believe or helpme to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? _Egomen._ Whoto unbelieve? Otherchap.--You are the only contributor to _Dana_ whoasks for pieces of silver.Then I dont know about the next number. Fred Ryanwants space for anarticle on economics.Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me.Tide you over. Economics.--For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publishthis interview.Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughingscribbling, laughing: and thengravely said, honeying malice:--I called upon the bard Kinch at his summerresidence in upperMecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the_Summa contraGentiles_ in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh NellyandRosalie, the coalquay whore.He broke away.--Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Aengus of thebirds.Come, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay.I will serve you your ortsand offals.Stephen rose.Life is many days. This will end.--We shall see you tonight, John Eglintonsaid. _Notre ami_ Moore saysMalachi Mulligan must be there.Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.--Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on Frenchletters to the youth ofIreland. Ill be there. Come, Kinch, the bards mustdrink. Can you walkstraight?Laughing, he...Swill till eleven. Irish nightsentertainment.Lubber...Stephen followed a lubber...One day in the national library we had adiscussion. Shakes. After. Hislub back: I followed. I gall his kibe.Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed alubber jester, a wellkempthead, newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into ashattering daylight ofno thought.What have I learned? Of them? Of me?Walk like Haines now.The constant readers room. In the readersbook Cashel Boyle OConnorFitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes hispolysyllables. Item: was Hamletmad? The quakers pate godlily with a priesteenin booktalk.--O please do, sir... I shall be mostpleased...Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmurwith himself, selfnodding:--A pleased bottom.The turnstile.Is that?... Blueribboned hat... Idlywriting... What? Looked?...The curving balustrade: smoothslidingMincius.Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step bystep, iambing, trolling:_John Eglinton, my jo, John, Why wont youwed a wife?_He spluttered to the air:--O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg LinTon. We went over to theirplaybox, Haines and I, the plumbers hall. Ourplayers are creating anew art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. AbbeyTheatre! Ismell the pubic sweat of monks.He spat blank.Forgot: any more than he forgot the whippinglousy Lucy gave him. Andleft the _femme de trente ans._ And why no otherchildren born? And hisfirst child a girl?Afterwit. Go back.The dour recluse still there (he has hiscake) and the douce youngling,minion of pleasure, Phedos toyable fair hair.Eh... I just eh... wanted... I forgot...he...--Longworth and MCurdy Atkinson werethere...Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling:  _I hardly hear thepurlieu cry  Or a tommy talk as I pass oneby  Before my thoughts begin torun  On F. MCurdy Atkinson,  Thesame that had the wooden leg  And that filibusteringfilibeg  That never dared to slake hisdrouth,  Magee that had the chinlessmouth.  Being afraid to marry onearth  They masturbated for all they were worth._Jest on. Know thyself.Halted, below me, a quizzer looks at me. Ihalt.--Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned.Synge has left off wearingblack to be like nature. Only crows, priests andEnglish coal are black.A laugh tripped over his lips.--Longworth is awfully sick, he said, afterwhat you wrote about thatold hake Gregory. O you inquisitional drunkenjewjesuit! She gets youa job on the paper and then you go and slate her drivelto Jaysus.Couldnt you do the Yeats touch?He went on and down, mopping, chanting withwaving graceful arms:--The most beautiful book that has come outof our country in my time.One thinks of Homer.He stopped at the stairfoot.--I have conceived a play for the mummers, hesaid solemnly.The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined.Gone the nine mens morricewith caps of indices.In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan readhis tablet: _Everyman Hisown Wife or A Honeymoon in the Hand (a nationalimmorality in threeorgasms) by Ballocky Mulligan._He turned a happy patchs smirk to Stephen,saying:--The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.He read, _marcato:_--Characters:  TODY TOSTOFF (aruined Pole)  CRAB (a bushranger)   MEDICALDICK ) and  ) (two birds with onestone)  MEDICAL DAVY )  MOTHERGROGAN (a watercarrier)  FRESHNELLY  and  ROSALIE (the coalquaywhore).He laughed, lolling a to and fro head,walking on, followed by Stephen:and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls ofmen:--O, the night in the Camden hall when thedaughters of Erin had tolift their skirts to step over you as you lay in yourmulberrycoloured,multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!--The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said,for whom they ever liftedthem.About to pass through the doorway, feelingone behind, he stood aside.Part. The moment is now. Where then? IfSocrates leave his house today,if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies inspace which I in time mustcome to, ineluctably.My will: his will that fronts me. Seasbetween.A man passed out between them, bowing,greeting.--Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.The portico.Here I watched the birds for augury. Aengusof the birds. They go, theycome. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men wondered.Street of harlotsafter. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.--The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whisperedwith clowns awe. Did yousee his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. Ifear thee, ancientmariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.Manner of Oxenford.Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.A dark back went before them, step of a pard,down, out by the gateway,under portcullis barbs.They followed.Offend me still. Speak on.Kind air defined the coigns of houses inKildare street. No birds. Frailfrom the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended,pluming, and in a flawof softness softly were blown.Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priestsof Cymbeline: hierophantic:from wide earth an altar.  _Laud we thegods  And let our crooked smokes climb to theirnostrils  From our blessd altars._The superior, the very reverend John ConmeeS.J. reset his smooth watchin his interior pocket as he came down thepresbytery steps. Five tothree. Just nice time to walk to Artane. What was thatboys name again?Dignam. Yes. _Vere dignum et iustum est._ Brother Swan was thepersonto see. Mr Cunninghams letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible.Goodpractical catholic: useful at mission time.A onelegged sailor, swinging himself onwardby lazy jerks of hiscrutches, growled some notes. He jerked short before theconvent of thesisters of charity and held out a peaked cap for alms towards theveryreverend John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed him in the sun forhispurse held, he knew, one silver crown.Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. Hethought, but not for long,of soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot offby cannonballs,ending their days in some pauper ward, and of cardinal Wolseyswords:_If I had served my God as I have served my king He would nothaveabandoned me in my old days._ He walked by the treeshade ofsunnywinkingleaves: and towards him came the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P.--Very well, indeed, father. And you, father?Father Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. Hewould go to Buxtonprobably for the waters. And her boys, were they getting onwell atBelvedere? Was that so? Father Conmee was very glad indeed to hearthat.And Mr Sheehy himself? Still in London. The house was still sitting, tobesure it was. Beautiful weather it was, delightful indeed. Yes, it wasveryprobable that Father Bernard Vaughan would come again to preach. O,yes: a verygreat success. A wonderful man really.Father Conmee was very glad to see the wifeof Mr David Sheehy M.P.Iooking so well and he begged to be remembered to MrDavid Sheehy M.P.Yes, he would certainly call.--Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy.Father Conmee doffed his silk hat and smiled,as he took leave, at thejet beads of her mantilla inkshining in the sun. Andsmiled yet again,in going. He had cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arecanutpaste.Father Conmee walked and, walking, smiled forhe thought on FatherBernard Vaughans droll eyes and cockney voice.--Pilate! Wy dont you old back that owlinmob?A zealous man, however. Really he was. Andreally did great good in hisway. Beyond a doubt. He loved Ireland, he said, andhe loved the Irish.Of good family too would one think it? Welsh, were they not?O, lest he forget. That letter to fatherprovincial.Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboysat the corner of Mountjoysquare. Yes: they were from Belvedere. The littlehouse. Aha. And werethey good boys at school? O. That was very good now. Andwhat was hisname? Jack Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher. And the other littleman?His name was Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to have.Father Conmee gave a letter from his breastto Master Brunny Lynam andpointed to the red pillarbox at the corner ofFitzgibbon street.--But mind you dont post yourself into thebox, little man, he said.The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed:--O, sir.--Well, let me see if you can post a letter,Father Conmee said.Master Brunny Lynam ran across the road andput Father Conmees letterto father provincial into the mouth of the bright redletterbox. FatherConmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoysquareeast.Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing&c, in silk hat, slatefrockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie,tight lavendertrousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking withgravedeportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he passed ladyMaxwellat the corner of Dignams court.Was that not Mrs MGuinness?Mrs MGuinness, stately, silverhaired, bowedto Father Conmee from thefarther footpath along which she sailed. And FatherConmee smiled andsaluted. How did she do?A fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen ofScots, something. And tothink that she was a pawnbroker! Well, now! Such a...what should hesay?... such a queenly mien.Father Conmee walked down Great Charlesstreet and glanced at the shutupfree church on his left. The reverend T. R.Greene B.A. will (D.V.)speak. The incumbent they called him. He felt itincumbent on him to saya few words. But one should be charitable. Invincibleignorance. Theyacted according to their lights.Father Conmee turned the corner and walkedalong the North Circularroad. It was a wonder that there was not a tramline insuch an importantthoroughfare. Surely, there ought to be.A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed fromRichmond street. Allraised untidy caps. Father Conmee greeted them more thanonce benignly.Christian brother boys.Father Conmee smelt incense on his right handas he walked. SaintJosephs church, Portland row. For aged and virtuousfemales.Father Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous:butoccasionally they were also badtempered.Near Aldborough house Father Conmee thoughtof that spendthriftnobleman. And now it was an office or something.Father Conmee began to walk along the NorthStrand road and was salutedby Mr William Gallagher who stood in the doorway ofhis shop. FatherConmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odoursthat camefrom baconflitches and ample cools of butter. He passed GroganstheTobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of adreadfulcatastrophe in New York. In America those things werecontinuallyhappening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared. Still,anact of perfect contrition.Father Conmee went by Daniel Berginspublichouse against the window ofwhich two unlabouring men lounged. Theysaluted him and were saluted.Father Conmee passed H. J. ONeills funeralestablishment where CornyKelleher totted figures in the daybook while he cheweda blade of hay.A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmeesalutedthe constable. In Youkstetters, the porkbutchers, FatherConmeeobserved pigs puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly curledintubes.Moored under the trees of Charleville MallFather Conmee saw aturfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with ahat of dirtystraw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplarabovehim. It was idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the providence oftheCreator who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig itout and bring itto town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poorpeople.On Newcomen bridge the very reverend JohnConmee S.J. of saint FrancisXaviers church, upper Gardiner street, stepped onto an outward boundtram.Off an inward bound tram stepped the reverendNicholas Dudley C. C. ofsaint Agathas church, north William street, on toNewcomen bridge.At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped intoan outward bound tram forhe disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past MudIsland.Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar,a blue ticket tucked withcare in the eye of one plump kid glove, while fourshillings, a sixpenceand five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalminto his purse.Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspectorusuallymade his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket.Thesolemnity of the occupants of the car seemed to Father Conmee excessivefor ajourney so short and cheap. Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.It was a peaceful day. The gentleman with theglasses opposite FatherConmee had finished explaining and looked down. Hiswife, Father Conmeesupposed. A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife of thegentleman withthe glasses. She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever sogently,tiptapping her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiledtinily,sweetly.Father Conmee perceived her perfume in thecar. He perceived also thatthe awkward man at the other side of her was sittingon the edge of theseat.Father Conmee at the altarrails placed thehost with difficulty in themouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, whenit was about to go, an oldwoman rose suddenly from her place to alight. Theconductor pulled thebellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with herbasket anda marketnet: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and netandbasket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passedthe endof the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who hadalways to be toldtwice _bless you, my child,_ that they have beenabsolved, _pray for me._ Butthey had so many worries in life, so manycares, poor creatures.From the hoardings Mr Eugene Strattongrimaced with thick niggerlips atFather Conmee.Father Conmee thought of the souls of blackand brown and yellow men andof his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and theAfrican mission and ofthe propagation of the faith and of the millions of blackand brown andyellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when theirlasthour came like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian jesuit,_LeNombre des √âlus,_ seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable plea. Thoseweremillions of human souls created by God in His Own likeness towhom the faith hadnot (D.V.) been brought. But they were Gods souls,created by God. It seemed toFather Conmee a pity that they should allbe lost, a waste, if one might say.At the Howth road stop Father Conmeealighted, was saluted by theconductor and saluted in his turn.The Malahide road was quiet. It pleasedFather Conmee, road and name.The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. LordTalbot de Malahide,immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seasadjoining.Then came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in oneday.Those were old worldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old timesinthe barony.Father Conmee, walking, thought of his littlebook _Old Times in theBarony_ and of the book that might be written aboutjesuit houses and ofMary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countessof Belvedere.A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of loughEnnel,Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening,notstartled when an otter plunged. Who could know the truth? Not thejealous lordBelvedere and not her confessor if she had not committedadultery fully,_eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris,_ withher husbands brother?She would half confess if she had not all sinnedas women did. Only God knew andshe and he, her husbands brother.Father Conmee thought of that tyrannousincontinence, needed however formans race on earth, and of the ways of Godwhich were not our ways.Don John Conmee walked and moved in times ofyore. He was humane andhonoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and hesmiled atsmiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with fullfruitclusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble tonoble,were impalmed by Don John Conmee.It was a charming day.The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmeebreadths of cabbages,curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showedhim a flock ofsmall white clouds going slowly down the wind. _Moutonner,_ theFrenchsaid. A just and homely word.Father Conmee, reading his office, watched aflock of muttoning cloudsover Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled bythe stubble ofClongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening, andheardthe cries of the boys lines at their play, young cries in thequietevening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.Father Conmee drew off his gloves and tookhis rededged breviary out. Anivory bookmark told him the page.Nones. He should have read that before lunch.But lady Maxwell had come.Father Conmee read in secret _Pater_ and_Ave_ and crossed his breast._Deus in adiutorium._He walked calmly and read mutely the nones,walking and reading till hecame to _Res_ in _Beati immaculati: Principiumverborum tuorum veritas:in eternum omnia indicia iustitiae tuae._A flushedyoung man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came ayoung woman with wildnodding daisies in her hand. The young man raisedhis cap abruptly: the youngwoman abruptly bent and with slow caredetached from her light skirt a clingingtwig.Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turneda thin page of hisbreviary. _Sin: Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et averbis tuisformidavit cor meum._* * * * *Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook andglanced with his drooping eyeat a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. Hepulled himself erect,went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shapeand brassfurnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by andcameto the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyesandleaned against the doorcase, looking idly out.Father John Conmee stepped into theDollymount tram on Newcomen bridge.Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted bootsand gazed, his hatdowntilted, chewing his blade of hay.Constable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass thetime of day.--Thats a fine day, Mr Kelleher.--Ay, Corny Kelleher said.--Its very close, the constable said.Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuicearching from his mouthwhile a generous white arm from a window in Eccles streetflung forth acoin.--Whats the best news? he asked.--I seen that particular party last evening,the constable said withbated breath.* * * * *A onelegged sailor crutched himself roundMacConnells corner, skirtingRabaiottis icecream car, and jerked himself upEccles street. TowardsLarry ORourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, hegrowled unamiably:--_For England_...He swung himself violently forward past Kateyand Boody Dedalus, haltedand growled:--_home and beauty._J. J. OMolloys white careworn face was toldthat Mr Lambert was in thewarehouse with a visitor.A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin fromher purse and dropped itinto the cap held out to her. The sailor grumbledthanks, glanced sourlyat the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung himselfforward fourstrides.He halted and growled angrily:--_For England_...Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquoricelaces, halted near him,gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks,halted, lifted his headtowards a window and bayed deeply:--_home and beauty._The gay sweet chirping whistling within wenton a bar or two, ceased.The blind of the window was drawn aside. A card_Unfurnished Apartments_slipped from the sash and fell. A plump bare generousarm shone, wasseen, held forth from a white petticoatbodice and tautshiftstraps. Awomans hand flung forth a coin over the area railings. It fellon thepath.One of the urchins ran to it, picked it upand dropped it into theminstrels cap, saying:--There, sir.* * * * *Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door ofthe closesteaming kitchen.--Did you put in the books? Boody asked.Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish massbeneath bubbling sudstwice with her potstick and wiped her brow.--They wouldnt give anything on them, shesaid.Father Conmee walked through Clongowesfields, his thinsocked anklestickled by stubble.--Where did you try? Boody asked.--MGuinnesss.Boody stamped her foot and threw her satchelon the table.--Bad cess to her big face! she cried.Katey went to the range and peered withsquinting eyes.--Whats in the pot? she asked.--Shirts, Maggy said.Boody cried angrily:--Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of herstained skirt, asked:--And whats in this?A heavy fume gushed in answer.--Peasoup, Maggy said.--Where did you get it? Katey asked.--Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.The lacquey rang his bell.--Barang!Boody sat down at the table and saidhungrily:--Give us it here.Maggy poured yellow thick soup from thekettle into a bowl. Katey,sitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as herfingertip lifted to hermouth random crumbs:--A good job we have that much. WheresDilly?--Gone to meet father, Maggy said.Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into theyellow soup, added:--Our father who art not in heaven.Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Kateys bowl,exclaimed:--Boody! For shame!A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah iscoming, rode lightly down theLiffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapidswhere water chafedaround the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls andanchorchains,between the Customhouse old dock and Georges quay.* * * * *The blond girl in Thorntons bedded thewicker basket with rustlingfibre. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathedin pink tissue paperand a small jar.--Put these in first, will you? he said.--Yes, sir, the blond girl said. And thefruit on top.--Thatll do, game ball, Blazes Boylan said.She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail,and among them ripeshamefaced peaches.Blazes Boylan walked here and there in newtan shoes about thefruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled andplump redtomatoes, sniffing smells.H. E. L. Y.S filed before him, tallwhitehatted,past Tangier lane,plodding towards their goal.He turned suddenly from a chip ofstrawberries, drew a gold watch fromhis fob and held it at its chains length.--Can you send them by tram? Now?A darkbacked figure under Merchants archscanned books on the hawkerscart.--Certainly, sir. Is it in the city?--O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes.The blond girl handed him a docket andpencil.--Will you write the address, sir?Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushedthe docket to her.--Send it at once, will you? he said. Itsfor an invalid.--Yes, sir. I will, sir.Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in histrousers pocket.--Whats the damage? he asked.The blond girls slim fingers reckoned thefruits.Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of herblouse. A young pullet. He tooka red carnation from the tall stemglass.--This for me? he asked gallantly.The blond girl glanced sideways at him, gotup regardless, with his tiea bit crooked, blushing.--Yes, sir, she said.Bending archly she reckoned again fat pearsand blushing peaches.Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with morefavour, the stalk of thered flower between his smiling teeth.--May I say a word to your telephone, missy?he asked roguishly.* * * * *_--Ma!_ Almidano Artifoni said.He gazed over Stephens shoulder atGoldsmiths knobby poll.Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, theirwomen sitting fore,gripping the handrests. Palefaces. Mens arms frankly roundtheirstunted forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch ofthebank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed.--_Anchio ho avuto di queste idee, ALMIDANOARTIFONI SAID, quand erogiovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo√® una bestia.√â peccato. Perch√® la sua voce... sarebbe un cespite di rendita,via.Invece, Lei si sacrifica._--_Sacrifizio incruento,_ Stephen saidsmiling, swaying his ashplant inslow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly._--Speriamo,_ the round mustachioed face saidpleasantly. _Ma, dia rettaa me. Ci rifletta_.By the stern stone hand of Grattan, biddinghalt, an Inchicore tramunloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.--_Ci rifletter√≤,_ Stephen said, glancingdown the solid trouserleg.--_Ma, sul serio, eh?_ Almidano Artifonisaid.His heavy hand took Stephens firmly. Humaneyes. They gazed curiouslyan instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram._--Eccolo,_ Almidano Artifoni said infriendly haste. _Venga a trovarmie ci pensi. Addio, caro._--_Arrivederla, maestro,_ Stephen said,raising his hat when his handwas freed. _E grazie._--_Di che?_ Almidano Artifoni said. _Scusi,eh? Tante belle cose!_Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton ofrolled music as a signal,trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. Invain he trotted,signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gilliessmugglingimplements of music through Trinity gates.* * * * *Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copyof _The Woman in White_far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudynotepaper into hertypewriter.Too much mystery business in it. Is he inlove with that one, Marion?Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.The disk shot down the groove, wobbled awhile, ceased and ogled them:six.Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:--16 June 1904.Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen betweenMonypenys corner and the slabwhere Wolfe Tones statue was not, eeledthemselves turning H. E. L.Y.S and plodded back as they had come.Then she stared at the large poster of MarieKendall, charmingsoubrette, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jottersixteens andcapital esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. Shes notnicelooking,is she? The way shes holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder willthatfellow be at the band tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to makeaconcertina skirt like Susy Nagles. They kick out grand. Shannon andall theboatclub swells never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness hewont keep mehere till seven.The telephone rang rudely by her ear.--Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. Illring them up after five. Onlythose two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. Allright, sir. Then I can goafter six if youre not back. A quarter after. Yes,sir. Twentyseven andsix. Ill tell him. Yes: one, seven, six.She scribbled three figures on an envelope.--Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from SPORTwas in looking for you. MrLenehan, yes. He said hell be in the Ormond at four.No, sir. Yes, sir.Ill ring them up after five.* * * * *Two pink faces turned in the flare of thetiny torch.--Whos that? Ned Lambert asked. Is thatCrotty?--Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice repliedgroping for foothold.--Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambertsaid, raising in salute hispliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on.Mind your steps there.The vesta in the clergymans uplifted hand consumeditself in a longsoft flame and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died:andmouldy air closed round them.--How interesting! a refined accent said inthe gloom.--Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We arestanding in the historiccouncil chamber of saint Marys abbey where silkenThomas proclaimedhimself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot in allDublin.OMadden Burke is going to write something about it one of thesedays.The old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union andtheoriginal jews temple was here too before they built their synagogueover inAdelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were you?--No, Ned.--He rode down through Dame walk, the refinedaccent said, if my memoryserves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomascourt.--Thats right, Ned Lambert said. Thatsquite right, sir.--If you will be so kind then, the clergymansaid, the next time toallow me perhaps...--Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring thecamera whenever you like. Illget those bags cleared away from the windows. Youcan take it from hereor from here.In the still faint light he moved about,tapping with his lath the piledseedbags and points of vantage on the floor.From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.--Im deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, theclergyman said. I wont trespasson your valuable time...--Youre welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Dropin whenever you like. Nextweek, say. Can you see?--Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Verypleased to have met you.--Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambertanswered.He followed his guest to the outlet and thenwhirled his lath away amongthe pillars. With J. J. OMolloy he came forthslowly into Marys abbeywhere draymen were loading floats with sacks of caroband palmnut meal,OConnor, Wexford.He stood to read the card in his hand.--The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey.Present address: SaintMichaels, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. Hes writing abook about theFitzgeralds he told me. Hes well up in history, faith.The young woman with slow care detached fromher light skirt a clingingtwig.--I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot,J. J. OMolloy said.Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.--God! he cried. I forgot to tell him thatone about the earl of Kildareafter he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You knowthat one? _Im bloodysorry I did it,_ says he, _but I declare to God I thoughtthe archbishopwas inside._ He mightnt like it, though. What? God, Ill tellhimanyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members theywereall of them, the Geraldines.The horses he passed started nervously undertheir slack harness. Heslapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:--Woa, sonny!He turned to J. J. OMolloy and asked:--Well, Jack. What is it? Whats the trouble?Wait awhile. Hold hard.With gaping mouth and head far back he stoodstill and, after aninstant, sneezed loudly.--Chow! he said. Blast you!--The dust from those sacks, J. J. OMolloysaid politely.--No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a... coldnight before... blastyour soul... night before last... and there was a hell ofa lot ofdraught...He held his handkerchief ready for thecoming...--I was... Glasnevin this morning... poorlittle... what do you callhim... Chow!... Mother of Moses!* * * * *Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pilehe clasped against hisclaret waistcoat.--See? he said. Say its turn six. In here,see. Turn Now On.He slid it into the left slot for them. Itshot down the groove, wobbleda while, ceased, ogling them: six.Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading,beheld pass from theconsolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court RichieGoulding carryingthe costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustlingfrom theadmiralty division of kings bench to the court of appeal anelderlyfemale with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirtofgreat amplitude.--See? he said. See now the last one I put inis over here: Turns Over.The impact. Leverage, see?He showed them the rising column of disks onthe right.--Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. Soa fellow coming in latecan see what turn is on and what turns are over.--See? Tom Rochford said.He slid in a disk for himself: and watched itshoot, wobble, ogle, stop:four. Turn Now On.--Ill see him now in the Ormond, Lenehansaid, and sound him. One goodturn deserves another.--Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him Im Boylanwith impatience.--Goodnight, MCoy said abruptly. When youtwo beginNosey Flynn stooped towards the lever,snuffling at it.--But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.--Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later.He followed MCoy out across the tiny squareof Crampton court.--Hes a hero, he said simply.--I know, MCoy said. The drain, you mean.--Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.They passed Dan Lowrys musichall where MarieKendall, charmingsoubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.Going down the path of Sycamore street besidethe Empire musichallLenehan showed MCoy how the whole thing was. One of thosemanholes likea bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck down in it,halfchoked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, bookys vest andall,with the rope round him. And be damned but he got the rope roundthe poor deviland the two were hauled up.--The act of a hero, he said.At the Dolphin they halted to allow theambulance car to gallop pastthem for Jervis street.--This way, he said, walking to the right. Iwant to pop into Lynamsto see Sceptres starting price. Whats the time byyour gold watch andchain?MCoy peered into Marcus Tertius Mosessombre office, then at ONeillsclock.--After three, he said. Whos riding her?--O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game fillyshe is.While he waited in Temple bar MCoy dodged abanana peel with gentlepushes of his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellowmight damn easyget a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.The gates of the drive opened wide to giveegress to the viceregalcavalcade.--Even money, Lenehan said returning. Iknocked against Bantam Lyonsin there going to back a bloody horse someone gavehim that hasnt anearthly. Through here.They went up the steps and under Merchantsarch. A darkbacked figurescanned books on the hawkers cart.--There he is, Lenehan said.--Wonder what hes buying, MCoy said,glancing behind.--_Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye,_Lenehan said.--Hes dead nuts on sales, MCoy said. I waswith him one day and hebought a book from an old one in Liffey street for twobob. There werefine plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the moonandcomets with long tails. Astronomy it was about.Lenehan laughed.--Ill tell you a damn good one about cometstails, he said. Come overin the sun.They crossed to the metal bridge and wentalong Wellington quay by theriverwall.Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out ofMangans, late Fehrenbachs,carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.--There was a long spread out at Glencreereformatory, Lenehan saideagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirtaffair. The lordmayor was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron andDanDawson spoke and there was music. Bartell dArcy sang and BenjaminDollard...--I know, MCoy broke in. My missus sangthere once.--Did she? Lenehan said.A card _Unfurnished Apartments_ reappeared onthe windowsash of number 7Eccles street.He checked his tale a moment but broke out ina wheezy laugh.--But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahuntof Camden street had thecatering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloomand the wife werethere. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry andcuracao towhich we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquidscamesolids. Cold joints galore and mince pies...--I know, MCoy said. The year the missus wasthere...Lenehan linked his arm warmly.--But wait till I tell you, he said. We had amidnight lunch too afterall the jollification and when we sallied forth it wasblue oclock themorning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeouswintersnight on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were ononeside of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We startedsingingglees and duets: _Lo, the early beam of morning_. She was wellprimedwith a good load of Delahunts port under her bellyband. Every joltthebloody car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hells delights! Shehas afine pair, God bless her. Like that.He held his caved hands a cubit from him,frowning:--I was tucking the rug under her andsettling her boa all the time.Know what I mean?His hands moulded ample curves of air. Heshut his eyes tight indelight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp fromhis lips.--The lad stood to attention anyhow, he saidwith a sigh. Shes a gameymare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all thestars and the cometsin the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the greatbear andHercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, Iwaslost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At lastshespotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. _And what star is that,Poldy?_ says she.By God, she had Bloom cornered. _That one, is it?_says Chris Callinan, _surethats only what you might call a pinprick._By God, he wasnt far wide of themark.Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall,panting with soft laughter.--Im weak, he gasped.MCoys white face smiled about it atinstants and grew grave. Lenehanwalked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap andscratched his hindheadrapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at MCoy.--Hes a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, hesaid seriously. Hes not oneof your common or garden... you know... Theres atouch of the artistabout old Bloom.* * * * *Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of _The AwfulDisclosures of MariaMonk,_ then of Aristotles _Masterpiece._ Crooked botchedprint. Plates:infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers ofslaughteredcows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world.Allbutting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born everyminutesomewhere. Mrs Purefoy.He laid both books aside and glanced at thethird: _Tales of the Ghetto_by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.--That I had, he said, pushing it by.The shopman let two volumes fall on thecounter.--Them are two good ones, he said.Onions of his breath came across the counterout of his ruined mouth.He bent to make a bundle of the other books, huggedthem against hisunbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingycurtain.On OConnell bridge many persons observed thegrave deportment and gayapparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing&c.Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. _FairTyrants_ by JamesLovebirch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.He opened it. Thought so.A womans voice behind the dingy curtain.Listen: the man.No: she wouldnt like that much. Got her itonce.He read the other title: _Sweets of Sin_.More in her line. Let us see.He read where his finger opened._--All the dollarbills her husband gave herwere spent in the stores onwondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! Forraoul!_Yes. This. Here. Try.--_Her mouth glued on his in a lusciousvoluptuous kiss while his handsfelt for the opulent curves inside herdeshabill√©._Yes. Take this. The end.--_You are late, he spoke hoarsely, eying herwith a suspicious glare.The beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap,displaying herqueenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint. An imperceptible smileplayedround her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly._Mr Bloom read again: _The beautiful woman._Warmth showered gently over him, cowing hisflesh. Flesh yielded amplyamid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. Hisnostrils archedthemselves for prey. Melting breast ointments (_for Him! ForRaoul!_).Armpits oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (_her heavingembonpoint!_).Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions!Young! Young!An elderly female, no more young, left thebuilding of the courts ofchancery, kings bench, exchequer and common pleas,having heard inthe lord chancellors court the case in lunacy of Potterton, intheadmiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of theLadyCairns versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of appealreservationof judgment in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accidentand GuaranteeCorporation.Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop,bulging out the dingycurtains. The shopmans uncombed grey head came out andhis unshavenreddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegmon thefloor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along it,andbent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.Mr Bloom beheld it.Mastering his troubled breath, he said:--Ill take this one.The shopman lifted eyes bleared with oldrheum.--_Sweets of Sin,_ he said, tapping on it.Thats a good one.* * * * *The lacquey by the door of Dillonsauctionrooms shook his handbelltwice again and viewed himself in the chalkedmirror of the cabinet.Dilly Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone,heard the beats of thebell, the cries of the auctioneer within. Four and nine.Those lovelycurtains. Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at twoguineas. Anyadvance on five shillings? Going for five shillings.The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it:--Barang!Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmilewheelmen to their sprint.J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan,their stretchednecks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library.Mr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, cameround from Williamss row. Hehalted near his daughter.--Its time for you, she said.--Stand up straight for the love of the lordJesus, Mr Dedalus said.Are you trying to imitate your uncle John, thecornetplayer, head uponshoulder? Melancholy God!Dilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalusplaced his hands on them andheld them back.--Stand up straight, girl, he said. Youllget curvature of the spine.Do you know what you look like?He let his head sink suddenly down andforward, hunching his shouldersand dropping his underjaw.--Give it up, father, Dilly said. All thepeople are looking at you.Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tuggedagain at his moustache.--Did you get any money? Dilly asked.--Where would I get money? Mr Dedalus said.There is no-one in Dublinwould lend me fourpence.--You got some, Dilly said, looking in hiseyes.--How do you know that? Mr Dedalus asked, histongue in his cheek.Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he hadbooked, walked boldly alongJamess street.--I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you inthe Scotch house now?--I was not, then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling.Was it the little nunstaught you to be so saucy? Here.He handed her a shilling.--See if you can do anything with that, hesaid.--I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give memore than that.--Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly.Youre like the rest ofthem, are you? An insolent pack of little bitches sinceyour poor motherdied. But wait awhile. Youll all get a short shrift and a longday fromme. Low blackguardism! Im going to get rid of you. Wouldnt care ifIwas stretched out stiff. Hes dead. The man upstairs is dead.He left her and walked on. Dilly followedquickly and pulled his coat.--Well, what is it? he said, stopping.The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.--Barang!--Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedaluscried, turning on him.The lacquey, aware of comment, shook thelolling clapper of his bell butfeebly:--Bang!Mr Dedalus stared at him.--Watch him, he said. Its instructive. Iwonder will he allow us totalk.--You got more than that, father, Dilly said.--Im going to show you a little trick, MrDedalus said. Ill leaveyou all where Jesus left the jews. Look, theres all Ihave. I gottwo shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave forthefuneral.He drew forth a handful of copper coins,nervously.--Cant you look for some money somewhere? Dilly said.Mr Dedalus thought and nodded.--I will, he said gravely. I looked all alongthe gutter in OConnellstreet. Ill try this one now.--Youre very funny, Dilly said, grinning.--Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her twopennies. Get a glass of milkfor yourself and a bun or a something. Ill be homeshortly.He put the other coins in his pocket andstarted to walk on.The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted byobsequious policemen, out ofParkgate.--Im sure you have another shilling, Dillysaid.The lacquey banged loudly.Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuringto himself with a pursingmincing mouth gently:--The little nuns! Nice little things! O,sure they wouldnt doanything! O, sure they wouldnt really! Is it littlesister Monica!* * * * *From the sundial towards Jamess gate walkedMr Kernan, pleased with theorder he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldlyalong Jamess street,past Shackletons offices. Got round him all right. How doyou do, MrCrimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in yourotherestablishment in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping alive.Lovelyweather were having. Yes, indeed. Good for the country. Thosefarmers arealways grumbling. Ill just take a thimbleful of your bestgin, Mr Crimmins. Asmall gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair thatGeneral Slocum explosion.Terrible, terrible! A thousand casualties. Andheartrending scenes. Mentrampling down women and children. Most brutalthing. What do they say was thecause? Spontaneous combustion. Mostscandalous revelation. Not a single lifeboatwould float and thefirehose all burst. What I cant understand is how theinspectors everallowed a boat like that... Now, youre talking straight, MrCrimmins.You know why? Palm oil. Is that a fact? Without a doubt. Well now,lookat that. And America they say is the land of the free. I thought we werebadhere.I smiled at him. _America,_ I said quietly,just like that. _What isit? The sweepings of every country including our own.Isnt that true?_Thats a fact.Graft, my dear sir. Well, of course, wheretheres money going theresalways someone to pick it up.Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress doesit. Nothing like a dressyappearance. Bowls them over.--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How arethings?--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered,stopping.Mr Kernan halted and preened himself beforethe sloping mirror of PeterKennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt.Scott of Dawsonstreet. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Neverbuiltunder three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some Kildare streetclubtoff had it probably. John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernianbank, gave mea very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if heremembered me.Aham! Must dress the character for thosefellows. Knight of the road.Gentleman. And now, Mr Crimmins, may we have thehonour of your customagain, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as theold sayinghas it.North wall and sir John Rogersons quay, withhulls and anchorchains,sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpledthrowaway, rocked on theferrywash, Elijah is coming.Mr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image.High colour, of course.Grizzled moustache. Returned Indian officer. Bravely hebore his stumpybody forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Is thatNedLamberts brother over the way, Sam? What? Yes. Hes as like it as damnit.No. The windscreen of that motorcar in the sun there. Just a flashlike that.Damn like him.Aham! Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed hisvitals and his breath. Gooddrop of gin, that was. His frocktails winked inbright sunshine to hisfat strut.Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn andquartered. Greasy black rope.Dogs licking the blood off the street when thelord lieutenants wifedrove by in her noddy.Bad times those were. Well, well. Over anddone with. Great topers too.Fourbottle men.Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michans?Or no, there was a midnightburial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through asecret door in thewall. Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well.Better turndown here. Make a detour.Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope ofWatling street bythe corner of Guinnesss visitors waitingroom. Outside theDublinDistillers Companys stores an outside car without fare or jarveystood,the reins knotted to the wheel. Damn dangerous thing. SomeTipperarybosthoon endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway horse.Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of havingwaited an hour in JohnHenry Mentons office, led his wife over OConnellbridge, bound for theoffice of Messrs Collis and Ward.Mr Kernan approached Island street.Times of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambertto lend me thosereminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on itallnow in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Gaming at Dalys. Nocardsharpingthen. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the tableby a dagger.Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from majorSirr. Stables behindMoira house.Damn good gin that was.Fine dashing young nobleman. Good stock, ofcourse. That ruffian, thatsham squire, with his violet gloves gave him away.Course they wereon the wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. Fine poemthatis: Ingram. They were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does sing thatballadtouchingly. Masterly rendition._At the siege of Ross did my father fall._A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quaypassed, outriders leaping,leaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Creamsunshades.Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.His Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that bya hair. Damn it! What apity!* * * * *Stephen Dedalus watched through the webbedwindow the lapidarys fingersprove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed the windowand the showtrays. Dustdarkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails.Dust slepton dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, onrubies,leprous and winedark stones.Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specksof fire, evil, lightsshining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung thestars oftheir brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe andwrestthem.She dances in a foul gloom where gum bumswith garlic. A sailorman,rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. Along and seafedsilent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches andherhips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.Old Russell with a smeared shammy ragburnished again his gem, turned itand held it at the point of his Moses beard.Grandfather ape gloatingon a stolen hoard.And you who wrest old images from the burialearth? The brainsick wordsof sophists: Antisthenes. A lore of drugs. Orient andimmortal wheatstanding from everlasting to everlasting.Two old women fresh from their whiff of thebriny trudged throughIrishtown along London bridge road, one with a sandedtired umbrella,one with a midwifes bag in which eleven cockles rolled.The whirr of flapping leathern bands and humof dynamos from thepowerhouse urged Stephen to be on. Beingless beings. Stop!Throb alwayswithout you and the throb always within. Your heart you sing of.Ibetween them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I.Shatterthem, one and both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter meyou who can.Bawd and butcher were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. Alook around.Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful andkeeps famous time. You sayright, sir. A Monday morning, twas so, indeed.Stephen went down Bedford row, the handle ofthe ash clacking againsthis shoulderblade. In Clohisseys window a faded 1860print of Heenanboxing Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square hatsstoodround the roped prizering. The heavyweights in tight loinclothsproposedgently each to other his bulbous fists. And they are throbbing:heroeshearts.He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.--Twopence each, the huckster said. Four forsixpence.Tattered pages. _The Irish Beekeeper. Lifeand Miracles of the Cur√© ofArs. Pocket Guide to Killarney._I might find here one of my pawnedschoolprizes. _Stephano Dedalo,alumno optimo, palmam ferenti._Father Conmee, having read his little hours,walked through the hamletof Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.Binding too good probably. What is this?Eighth and ninth book of Moses.Secret of all secrets. Seal of King David.Thumbed pages: read and read.Who has passed here before me? How to softenchapped hands. Recipe forwhite wine vinegar. How to win a womans love. For methis. Say thefollowing talisman three times with hands folded:--_Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! Amor mesolo! Sanktus! Amen._Who wrote this? Charms and invocations of themost blessed abbot PeterSalanka to all true believers divulged. As good as anyother abbotscharms, as mumbling Joachims. Down, baldynoddle, or well woolyourwool.--What are you doing here, Stephen?Dillys high shoulders and shabby dress.Shut the book quick. Dont let see.--What are you doing? Stephen said.A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locksfalling at its sides. Itglowed as she crouched feeding the fire with brokenboots. I told herof Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats,fingering apinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kellys token. _Nebrakada femininum._--What have you there? Stephen asked.--I bought it from the other cart for apenny, Dilly said, laughingnervously. Is it any good?My eyes they say she has. Do others see meso? Quick, far and daring.Shadow of my mind.He took the coverless book from her hand.Chardenals French primer.--What did you buy that for? he asked. Tolearn French?She nodded, reddening and closing tight herlips.Show no surprise. Quite natural.--Here, Stephen said. Its all right. MindMaggy doesnt pawn it on you.I suppose all my books are gone.--Some, Dilly said. We had to.She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her.Agenbite. All against us. She willdrown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coilsof seaweed hair around me,my heart, my soul. Salt green death.We.Agenbite of inwit. Inwits agenbite.Misery! Misery!* * * * *--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How arethings?--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered,stopping.They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy andDaughters. Father Cowleybrushed his moustache often downward with a scoopinghand.--Whats the best news? Mr Dedalus said.--Why then not much, Father Cowley said. Imbarricaded up, Simon, withtwo men prowling around the house trying to effect anentrance.--Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it?--O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeenman of our acquaintance.--With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedalusasked.--The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered.Reuben of that ilk. Im justwaiting for Ben Dollard. Hes going to say a wordto long John to gethim to take those two men off. All I want is a little time.He looked with vague hope up and down thequay, a big apple bulging inhis neck.--I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor oldbockedy Ben! Hes alwaysdoing a good turn for someone. Hold hard!He put on his glasses and gazed towards themetal bridge an instant.--There he is, by God, he said, arse andpockets.Ben Dollards loose blue cutaway and squarehat above large slopscrossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. Hecame towardsthem at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:--Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.--Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scornvarious points of BenDollards figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with anod, he mutteredsneeringly:--Thats a pretty garment, isnt it, for asummers day?--Why, God eternally curse your soul, BenDollard growled furiously, Ithrew out more clothes in my time than you eversaw.He stood beside them beaming, on them firstand on his roomy clothesfrom points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying:--They were made for a man in his health,Ben, anyhow.--Bad luck to the jewman that made them, BenDollard said. Thanks be toGod hes not paid yet.--And how is that _basso profondo_, Benjamin?Father Cowley asked.Cashel Boyle OConnor Fitzmaurice TisdallFarrell, murmuring,glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club.Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly achanters mouth, gave forth adeep note.--Aw! he said.--Thats the style, Mr Dedalus said, noddingto its drone.--What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not toodusty? What?He turned to both.--Thatll do, Father Cowley said, noddingalso.The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the oldchapterhouse of saintMarys abbey past James and Charles Kennedys, rectifiers,attended byGeraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the fordofhurdles.Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards theshopfronts led them forward,his joyful fingers in the air.--Come along with me to the subsheriffsoffice, he said. I want toshow you the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff. Hesa cross betweenLobengula and Lynchehaun. Hes well worth seeing, mind you. Comealong.I saw John Henry Menton casually in the Bodega just now and it willcostme a fall if I dont... Wait awhile... Were on the right lay, Bob,believeyou me.--For a few days tell him, Father Cowley saidanxiously.Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loudorifice open, a dangling buttonof his coat wagging brightbacked from its threadas he wiped away theheavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.--What few days? he boomed. Hasnt yourlandlord distrained for rent?--He has, Father Cowley said.--Then our friends writ is not worth thepaper its printed on, BenDollard said. The landlord has the prior claim. Igave him all theparticulars. 29 Windsor avenue. Love is the name?--Thats right, Father Cowley said. Thereverend Mr Love. Hes aminister in the country somewhere. But are you sure ofthat?--You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollardsaid, that he can put thatwrit where Jacko put the nuts.He led Father Cowley boldly forward, linkedto his bulk.--Filberts I believe they were, Mr Dedalussaid, as he dropped hisglasses on his coatfront, following them.* * * * *--The youngster will be all right, MartinCunningham said, as theypassed out of the Castleyard gate.The policeman touched his forehead.--God bless you, Martin Cunningham said,cheerily.He signed to the waiting jarvey who chuckedat the reins and set ontowards Lord Edward street.Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedys head by MissDouces head, appeared abovethe crossblind of the Ormond hotel.--Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering hisbeard. I wrote to FatherConmee and laid the whole case before him.--You could try our friend, Mr Power suggestedbackward.--Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touchme not.John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading thelist, came after themquickly down Cork hill.On the steps of the City hall CouncillorNannetti, descending, hailedAlderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyonascending.The castle car wheeled empty into upperExchange street.--Look here, Martin, John Wyse Nolan said,overtaking them at the _Mail_office. I see Bloom put his name down for fiveshillings.--Quite right, Martin Cunningham said, takingthe list. And put down thefive shillings too.--Without a second word either, Mr Powersaid.--Strange but true, Martin Cunningham added.John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.--Ill say there is much kindness in the jew,he quoted, elegantly.They went down Parliament street.--Theres Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said, justheading for Kavanaghs.--Righto, Martin Cunningham said. Here goes.Outside _la Maison Claire_ Blazes Boylanwaylaid Jack Mooneysbrother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties.John Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power,while Martin Cunningham tookthe elbow of a dapper little man in a shower ofhail suit, who walkeduncertainly, with hasty steps past Micky Andersonswatches.--The assistant town clerks corns are givinghim some trouble, JohnWyse Nolan told Mr Power.They followed round the corner towards JamesKavanaghs winerooms. Theempty castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate.Martin Cunningham,speaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy Henrydid notglance.--And long John Fanning is here too, JohnWyse Nolan said, as large aslife.The tall form of long John Fanning filled thedoorway where he stood.--Good day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunninghamsaid, as all halted andgreeted.Long John Fanning made no way for them. Heremoved his large Henry Claydecisively and his large fierce eyes scowledintelligently over alltheir faces.--Are the conscript fathers pursuing theirpeaceful deliberations? hesaid with rich acrid utterance to the assistant townclerk.Hell open to christians they were having,Jimmy Henry said pettishly,about their damned Irish language. Where was themarshal, he wantedto know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old Barlowthemacebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order,noquorum even, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and littleLorcanSherlock doing _locum tenens_ for him. Damned Irish language,language of ourforefathers.Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke fromhis lips.Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirlingthe peak of his beard, to theassistant town clerk and the subsheriff, whileJohn Wyse Nolan held hispeace.--What Dignam was that? long John Fanningasked.Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted hisleft foot.--O, my corns! he said plaintively. Comeupstairs for goodness saketill I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!Testily he made room for himself beside longJohn Fannings flank andpassed in and up the stairs.--Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to thesubsheriff. I dont thinkyou knew him or perhaps you did, though.With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed themin.--Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said tothe stalwart back of longJohn Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning inthe mirror.--Rather lowsized. Dignam of Mentons officethat was, Martin Cunninghamsaid.Long John Fanning could not remember him.Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.--Whats that? Martin Cunningham said.All turned where they stood. John Wyse Nolancame down again. From thecool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses passParliament street,harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. Gailythey went pastbefore his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of theleaders,leaping leaders, rode outriders.--What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, asthey went on up thestaircase.--The lord lieutenantgeneral and generalgovernor of Ireland, John WyseNolan answered from the stairfoot.* * * * *As they trod across the thick carpet BuckMulligan whispered behind hisPanama to Haines:--Parnells brother. There in the corner.They chose a small table near the window,opposite a longfaced man whosebeard and gaze hung intently down on achessboard.--Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round inhis seat.--Yes, Mulligan said. Thats John Howard, hisbrother, our city marshal.John Howard Parnell translated a white bishopquietly and his grey clawwent up again to his forehead whereat it rested. Aninstant after, underits screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at hisfoe and fellonce more upon a working corner.--Ill take a _m√©lange,_ Haines said to thewaitress.--Two _m√©langes,_ Buck Mulligan said. Andbring us some scones andbutter and some cakes as well.When she had gone he said, laughing:--We call it D.B.C. because they have damnbad cakes. O, but you missedDedalus on _Hamlet._Haines opened his newbought book.--Im sorry, he said. Shakespeare is thehappy huntingground of allminds that have lost their balance.The onelegged sailor growled at the area of14 Nelson street:--_England expects_...Buck Mulligans primrose waistcoat shookgaily to his laughter.--You should see him, he said, when his bodyloses its balance.Wandering Aengus I call him.--I am sure he has an _id√©e fixe,_ Hainessaid, pinching his chinthoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I amspeculating what itwould be likely to be. Such persons always have.Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.--They drove his wits astray, he said, byvisions of hell. He will nevercapture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, ofall poets, the whitedeath and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He cannever be a poet.The joy of creation...--Eternal punishment, Haines said, noddingcurtly. I see. I tackled himthis morning on belief. There was something on hismind, I saw.Its rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makesaninteresting point out of that.Buck Mulligans watchful eyes saw thewaitress come. He helped her tounload her tray.--He can find no trace of hell in ancientIrish myth, Haines said, amidthe cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking,the sense of destiny,of retribution. Rather strange he should have just thatfixed idea. Doeshe write anything for your movement?He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwisethrough the whipped cream.Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two andplastered butter over itssmoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.--Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing.He is going to writesomething in ten years.--Seems a long way off, Haines said,thoughtfully lifting his spoon.Still, I shouldnt wonder if he did after all.He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone ofhis cup.--This is real Irish cream I take it, he saidwith forbearance. I dontwant to be imposed on.Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway,sailed eastward by flanks ofships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks,beyond new Wappingstreet past Bensons ferry, and by the threemasted schooner_Rosevean_from Bridgwater with bricks.* * * * *Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street,past Sewells yard.Behind him Cashel Boyle OConnor Fitzmaurice TisdallFarrell, withstickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr LawSmithshouse and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind himablind stripling tapped his way by the wall of College park.Cashel Boyle OConnor Fitzmaurice TisdallFarrell walked as far asMr Lewis Werners cheerful windows, then turned andstrode back alongMerrion square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.At the corner of Wildes house he halted,frowned at Elijahs nameannounced on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at thedistant pleasance ofdukes lawn. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. Withratsteethbared he muttered:--_Coactus volui._He strode on for Clare street, grinding hisfierce word.As he strode past Mr Blooms dental windowsthe sway of his dustcoatbrushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping caneand swept onwards,having buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling turnedhis sicklyface after the striding form.--Gods curse on you, he said sourly, whoeveryou are! Youre blindernor I am, you bitchs bastard!* * * * *Opposite Ruggy ODonohoes Master PatrickAloysius Dignam, pawing thepound and a half of Mangans, late Fehrenbachs,porksteaks he had beensent for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling. It wastoo bloomingdull sitting in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley andMrsMacDowell and the blind down and they all at their sniffles and sippingsupsof the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunneys.And they eatingcrumbs of the cottage fruitcake, jawing the wholeblooming time and sighing.After Wicklow lane the window of MadameDoyle, courtdress milliner,stopped him. He stood looking in at the two puckersstripped to theirpelts and putting up their props. From the sidemirrors twomourningMasters Dignam gaped silently. Myler Keogh, Dublins pet lamb, willmeetsergeantmajor Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fiftysovereigns.Gob, thatd be a good pucking match to see. Myler Keogh,thats the chapsparring out to him with the green sash. Two barentrance, soldiers half price.I could easy do a bunk on ma. MasterDignam on his left turned as he turned.Thats me in mourning. Whenis it? May the twentysecond. Sure, the bloomingthing is all over. Heturned to the right and on his right Master Dignam turned,his cap awry,his collar sticking up. Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he sawtheimage of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, beside the two puckers. Oneofthem mots that do be in the packets of fags Stoer smokes that his oldfellowwelted hell out of him for one time he found out.Master Dignam got his collar down and dawdledon. The best pucker goingfor strength was Fitzsimons. One puck in the wind fromthat fellow wouldknock you into the middle of next week, man. But the bestpucker forscience was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings outofhim, dodging and all.In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a redflower in a toffs mouth anda swell pair of kicks on him and he listening towhat the drunk wastelling him and grinning all the time.No Sandymount tram.Master Dignam walked along Nassau street,shifted the porksteaks tohis other hand. His collar sprang up again and hetugged it down. Theblooming stud was too small for the buttonhole of the shirt,bloomingend to it. He met schoolboys with satchels. Im not goingtomorroweither, stay away till Monday. He met other schoolboys. Do theynoticeIm in mourning? Uncle Barney said hed get it into the papertonight.Then theyll all see it in the paper and read my name printed andpasname.His face got all grey instead of being redlike it was and there was afly walking over it up to his eye. The scrunch thatwas when theywere screwing the screws into the coffin: and the bumps when theywerebringing it downstairs.Pa was inside it and ma crying in the parlourand uncle Barney tellingthe men how to get it round the bend. A big coffin itwas, and high andheavylooking. How was that? The last night pa was boosed hewas standingon the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out toTunneys forto boose more and he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never seehimagain. Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He told me to bea goodson to ma. I couldnt hear the other things he said but I sawhis tongue and histeeth trying to say it better. Poor pa. That wasMr Dignam, my father. I hopehes in purgatory now because he went toconfession to Father Conroy on Saturdaynight.* * * * *William Humble, earl of Dudley, and ladyDudley, accompanied bylieutenantcolonel Heseltine, drove out after luncheonfrom the viceregallodge. In the following carriage were the honourable MrsPaget, Miss deCourcy and the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C. in attendance.The cavalcade passed out by the lower gate ofPhoenix park saluted byobsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridgealong the northernquays. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his waythrough themetropolis. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the rivergreetedhim vainly from afar Between Queens and Whitworth bridges lordDudleysviceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B.L.,M. A., who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M. E. Whites, thepawnbrokers, atthe corner of Arran street west stroking his nose withhis forefinger, undecidedwhether he should arrive at Phibsboroughmore quickly by a triple change of tramor by hailing a car or on footthrough Smithfield, Constitution hill andBroadstone terminus. In theporch of Four Courts Richie Goulding with thecostbag of Goulding,Collis and Ward saw him with surprise. Past Richmond bridgeat thedoorstep of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent forthePatriotic Insurance Company, an elderly female about to enter changedherplan and retracing her steps by Kings windows smiled credulouslyon therepresentative of His Majesty. From its sluice in Wood quay wallunder TomDevans office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue ofliquid sewage. Abovethe crossblind of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze,Miss Kennedys head by MissDouces head watched and admired. On Ormondquay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering hisway from the greenhouse for thesubsheriffs office, stood still in midstreetand brought his hat low.His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalusgreeting. From Cahillscorner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., made obeisanceunperceived,mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held of yorerichadvowsons. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and MCoy, taking leave of eachother,watched the carriages go by. Passing by Roger Greenes office andDollards bigred printinghouse Gerty MacDowell, carrying the Catesbyscork lino letters forher father who was laid up, knew by the styleit was the lord and ladylieutenant but she couldnt see what HerExcellency had on because the tram andSprings big yellow furniture vanhad to stop in front of her on account of itsbeing the lord lieutenant.Beyond Lundy Foots from the shaded door ofKavanaghs wineroomsJohn Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards thelordlieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland. The RightHonourableWilliam Humble, earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed Micky Andersonsalltimes ticking watches and Henry and Jamess wax smartsuitedfreshcheekedmodels, the gentleman Henry, _dernier cri_ James. Over against DamegateTom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the cavalcade.TomRochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley fixed on him, took histhumbsquickly out of the pockets of his claret waistcoat and doffed his captoher. A charming _soubrette,_ great Marie Kendall, with dauby cheeks andliftedskirt smiled daubily from her poster upon William Humble, earlof Dudley, andupon lieutenantcolonel H. G. Heseltine, and also uponthe honourable Gerald WardA. D. C. From the window of the D. B. C. BuckMulligan gaily, and Haines gravely,gazed down on the viceregal equipageover the shoulders of eager guests, whosemass of forms darkened thechessboard whereon John Howard Parnell lookedintently. In Fownessstreet Dilly Dedalus, straining her sight upward fromChardenals firstFrench primer, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinningin theglare. John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of CommercialBuildings,stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watchnotlooked at in his fat left hand not feeling it. Where the foreleg ofKingBillys horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husbandbackfrom under the hoofs of the outriders. She shouted in his ear thetidings.Understanding, he shifted his tomes to his left breastand saluted the secondcarriage. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C.,agreeably surprised, made haste toreply. At Ponsonbys corner a jadedwhite flagon H. halted and four tallhattedwhite flagons halted behindhim, E.L.YS, while outriders pranced past andcarriages. OppositePigotts music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor ofdancing &c,gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy andunobserved.By the provosts wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tanshoesand socks with skyblue clocks to the refrain of _My girls a Yorkshiregirl._Blazes Boylan presented to the leadersskyblue frontlets and highaction a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at arakish angle and asuit of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets forgotto salutebut he offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyesandthe red flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau streetHisExcellency drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme ofmusicwhich was being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen highlandladdies blaredand drumthumped after the _cort√®ge_:  _But though shes afactory lass  And wears no fancyclothes.  Baraabum.  Yet Ive asort of a  Yorkshire relish for My little Yorkshire rose.  Baraabum._Thither of the wall the quartermile flathandicappers, M. C. Green, H.Shrift, T. M. Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N.Morphy, F. Stevenson,C. Adderly and W. C. Huggard, started in pursuit. Stridingpast Finnshotel Cashel Boyle OConnor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell staredthrough afierce eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr M. E.Solomonsin the window of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep inLeinsterstreet by Trinitys postern a loyal kings man, Hornblower, touchedhistallyho cap. As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square MasterPatrickAloysius Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being given to the gentwith the topperand raised also his new black cap with fingers greasedby porksteak paper. Hiscollar too sprang up. The viceroy, on his way toinaugurate the Mirus bazaar inaid of funds for Mercers hospital,drove with his following towards Lower Mountstreet. He passed a blindstripling opposite Broadbents. In Lower Mount streeta pedestrian in abrown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly andunscathed acrossthe viceroys path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from hishoarding,Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcometoPembroke township. At Haddington road corner two sanded womenhaltedthemselves, an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to viewwithwonder the lord mayor and lady mayoress without his golden chain.OnNorthumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency acknowledgedpunctuallysalutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two smallschoolboys at the gardengate of the house said to have been admiredby the late queen when visiting theIrish capital with her husband, theprince consort, in 1849 and the salute ofAlmidano Artifonis sturdytrousers swallowed by a closing door. Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons,steelyringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn.Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail,chips.Horrid! And gold flushed more.A husky fifenote blew.Blew. Blue bloom is on the.Goldpinnacled hair.A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin,rose of Castile.Trilling, trilling: Idolores.Peep! Whos in the... peepofgold?Tink cried to bronze in pity.And a call, pure, long and throbbing.Longindying call.Decoy. Soft word. But look: the bright starsfade. Notes chirrupinganswer.O rose! Castile. The morn is breaking.Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.Coin rang. Clock clacked.Avowal. _Sonnez._ I could. Rebound of garter.Not leave thee. Smack. _Lacloche!_ Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart,goodbye!Jingle. Bloo.Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs.War! War! The tympanum.A sail! A veil awave upon the waves.Lost. Throstle fluted. All is lost now.Horn. Hawhorn.When first he saw. Alas!Full tup. Full throb.Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring.Martha! Come!Clapclap. Clipclap. Clappyclap.Goodgod henev erheard inall.Deaf bald Pat brought pad knife took up.A moonlit nightcall: far, far.I feel so sad. P. S. So lonely blooming.Listen!The spiked and winding cold seahorn. Have youthe? Each, and for other,plash and silent roar.Pearls: when she. Liszts rhapsodies. Hissss.You dont?Did not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd. With a cockwith a carra.Black. Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.Wait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while youhee.But wait!Low in dark middle earth. Embedded ore.Naminedamine. Preacher is he:All gone. All fallen.Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.Amen! He gnashed in fury.Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding.Bronzelydia by Minagold.By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow.Bloom. Old Bloom.One rapped, one tapped, with a carra, with acock.Pray for him! Pray, good people!His gouty fingers nakkering.Big Benaben. Big Benben.Last rose Castile of summer left bloom I feelso sad alone.Pwee! Little wind piped wee.True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay.Like you men. Will lift yourtschink with tschunk.Fff! Oo!Where bronze from anear? Where gold fromafar? Where hoofs?Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.Then not till then. My eppripfftaph. Bepfrwritt.Done.Begin!Bronze by gold, miss Douces head by missKennedys head, over thecrossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofsgo by, ringingsteel.--Is that her? asked miss Kennedy.Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex,pearl grey and _eau de Nil._--Exquisite contrast, miss Kennedy said.When all agog miss Douce said eagerly:--Look at the fellow in the tall silk.--Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly.--In the second carriage, miss Douces wetlips said, laughing in thesun.Hes looking. Mind till I see.She darted, bronze, to the backmost corner,flattening her face againstthe pane in a halo of hurried breath.Her wet lips tittered:--Hes killed looking back.She laughed:--O wept! Arent men frightful idiots?With sadness.Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from brightlight, twining a loose hairbehind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, shetwisted twined ahair.Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hairbehind a curving ear.--Its them has the fine times, sadly thenshe said.A man.Bloowho went by by Moulangs pipes bearing inhis breast the sweetsof sin, by Wines antiques, in memory bearing sweet sinfulwords, byCarrolls dusky battered plate, for Raoul.The boots to them, them in the bar, thembarmaids came. For themunheeding him he banged on the counter his tray ofchattering china. And--Theres your teas, he said.Miss Kennedy with manners transposed theteatray down to an upturnedlithia crate, safe from eyes, low.--What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.--Find out, miss Douce retorted, leaving herspyingpoint.--Your _beau,_ is it?A haughty bronze replied:--Ill complain to Mrs de Massey on you if Ihear any more of yourimpertinent insolence.--Imperthnthn thnthnthn, bootssnout sniffedrudely, as he retreated asshe threatened as he had come.Bloom.On her flower frowning miss Douce said:--Most aggravating that young brat is. If hedoesnt conduct himselfIll wring his ear for him a yard long.Ladylike in exquisite contrast.--Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined.She poured in a teacup tea, then back in theteapot tea. They coweredunder their reef of counter, waiting on footstools,crates upturned,waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, bothof blacksatin, two and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and twoandseven.Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar,heard steel from anear, hoofsring from afar, and heard steelhoofs ringhoofringsteel.--Am I awfully sunburnt?Miss bronze unbloused her neck.--No, said miss Kennedy. It gets brown after.Did you try the borax withthe cherry laurel water?Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin askancein the barmirrorgildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmered and intheirmidst a shell.--And leave it to my hands, she said.--Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedyadvised.Bidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce--Those things only bring out a rash,replied, reseated. I asked thatold fogey in Boyds for something for my skin.Miss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea,grimaced and prayed:--O, dont remind me of him for mercy sake!--But wait till I tell you, miss Douceentreated.Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured withmilk plugged both two earswith little fingers.--No, dont, she cried.--I wont listen, she cried.But Bloom?Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogeys tone:--For your what? says he.Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, tospeak: but said, but prayedagain:--Dont let me think of him or Ill expire.The hideous old wretch! Thatnight in the Antient Concert Rooms.She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, asip, sipped, sweet tea.--Here he was, miss Douce said, cocking herbronze head three quarters,ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa!Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from missKennedys throat. Miss Doucehuffed and snorted down her nostrils that quiveredimperthnthn like asnout in quest.--O! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will youever forget his goggle eye?Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter,shouting:--And your other eye!Bloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatnersname. Why do I always thinkFigather? Gathering figs, I think. And ProsperLores huguenot name.By Bassis blessed virgins Blooms dark eyes went by.Bluerobed, whiteunder, come to me. God they believe she is: or goddess. Thosetoday. Icould not see. That fellow spoke. A student. After with Dedalus son.Hemight be Mulligan. All comely virgins. That brings those rakes offellows in: herwhite.By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweetare the sweets.Of sin.In a giggling peal young goldbronze voicesblended, Douce with Kennedyyour other eye. They threw young heads back, bronzegigglegold, to letfreefly their laughter, screaming, your other, signals toeach other,high piercing notes.Ah, panting, sighing, sighing, ah, fordone,their mirth died down.Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised,drank a sip andgigglegiggled. Miss Douce, bending over the teatray, ruffledagain hernose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping,herfair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed,spluttered outof her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter,coughing with choking,crying:--O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to aman like that! she cried.With his bit of beard!Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, afull yell of full woman,delight, joy, indignation.--Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.Shrill, with deep laughter, after, gold afterbronze, they urged eacheach to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold,goldbronze,shrilldeep, to laughter after laughter. And then laughed more.Greasy Iknows. Exhausted, breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braidedandpinnacled by glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed(O!),panting, sweating (O!), all breathless.Married to Bloom, to greaseabloom.--O saints above! miss Douce said, sighedabove her jumping rose. IwishedI hadnt laughed so much. I feel all wet.--O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. Youhorrid thing!And flushed yet more (you horrid!), moregoldenly.By Cantwells offices roved Greaseabloom, byCeppis virgins, bright oftheir oils. Nannettis father hawked those thingsabout, wheedling atdoors as I. Religion pays. Must see him for that par. Eatfirst. I want.Not yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhandsturning. On.Where eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I netfiveguineas with those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet. The sweetsofsin.Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled.Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips,picking chips off one of hisrocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled.--O, welcome back, miss Douce.He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?--Tiptop.He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.--Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show Iam. Lying out on thestrand all day.Bronze whiteness.--That was exceedingly naughty of you, MrDedalus told her and pressedher hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.--O go away! she said. Youre very simple, Idont think.He was.--Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simplein the cradle theychristened me simple Simon.--You must have been a doaty, miss Douce madeanswer. And what did thedoctor order today?--Well now, he mused, whatever you sayyourself. I think Ill troubleyou for some fresh water and a half glass ofwhisky.Jingle.--With the greatest alacrity, miss Douceagreed.With grace of alacrity towards the mirrorgilt Cantrell and Cochranesshe turned herself. With grace she tapped a measureof gold whisky fromher crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalusbroughtpouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue twohuskyfifenotes.--By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to seethe Mourne mountains. Mustbe a great tonic in the air down there. But a longthreatening comes atlast, they say. Yes. Yes.Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, hermaidenhair, her mermaids, into thebowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.None nought said nothing. Yes.Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler,trilling:--_O, Idolores, queen of the eastern seas!_--Was Mr Lidwell in today?In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. MrBloom reached Essexbridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha Imust write.Buy paper. Dalys. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloom isonthe rye.--He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said.Lenehan came forward.--Was Mr Boylan looking for me?He asked. She answered:--Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I wasupstairs?She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, asecond teacup poised, hergaze upon a page:--No. He was not.Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, readon. Lenehan round thesandwichbell wound his round body round.--Peep! Whos in the corner?No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yetmade overtures. To mind herstops. To read only the black ones: round o andcrooked ess.Jingle jaunty jingle.Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take nonotice. She took no noticewhile he read by rote a solfa fable for her,plappering flatly:--Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too theestork: Will you put yourbill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to hertea aside.He sighed aside:--Ah me! O my!He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.--Greetings from the famous son of a famousfather.--Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked.Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who?--Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask?Stephen, the youthful bard.Dry.Mr Dedalus, famous father, laid by his dry filledpipe.--I see, he said. I didnt recognise him forthe moment. I hear he iskeeping very select company. Have you seen him lately?He had.--I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this veryday, said Lenehan. InMooneys _en ville_ and in Mooneys _sur mer._ He hadreceived the rhinofor the labour of his muse.He smiled at bronzes teabathed lips, atlistening lips and eyes:--The _√©lite_ of Erin hung upon his lips.The ponderous pundit, HughMacHugh, Dublins most brilliant scribe andeditor and that minstrel boyof the wild wet west who is known by the euphoniousappellation of theOMadden Burke.After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grogand--That must have been highly diverting, saidhe. I see.He see. He drank. With faraway mourningmountain eye. Set down hisglass.He looked towards the saloon door.--I see you have moved the piano.--The tuner was in today, miss Douce replied,tuning it for the smokingconcert and I never heard such an exquisite player.--Is that a fact?--Didnt he, miss Kennedy? The realclassical, you know. And blind too,poor fellow. Not twenty Im sure he was.--Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.He drank and strayed away.--So sad to look at his face, miss Doucecondoled.Gods curse on bitchs bastard.Tink to her pity cried a diners bell. To thedoor of the bar anddiningroom came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat,waiter of Ormond.Lager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served.With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan withimpatience, forjinglejaunty blazes boy.Upholding the lid he (who?) gazed in thecoffin (coffin?) at the obliquetriple (piano!) wires. He pressed (the same whopressed indulgently herhand), soft pedalling, a triple of keys to see thethicknesses of feltadvancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall in action.Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve twoenvelopes when I was inWisdom Helys wise Bloom in Dalys Henry Flower bought.Are you nothappy in your home? Flower to console me and a pin cuts lo.Meanssomething, language of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is.Respectablegirl meet after mass. Thanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom eyedon the door aposter, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves. Smokemermaids, coolest whiffof all. Hair streaming: lovelorn. For some man.For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar onEssex bridge a gay hat riding on ajaunting car. It is. Again. Third time.Coincidence.Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted fromthe bridge to Ormond quay.Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now. Out.--Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.--Aha... I was forgetting... Excuse...--And four.At four she. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhomsmiled. Bloo smi qui go.Ternoon. Think youre the only pebble on the beach?Does that to all.For men.In drowsy silence gold bent on her page.From the saloon a call came, long in dying.That was a tuningfork thetuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A callagain. That he nowpoised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure,purer, softlyand softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.Pat paid for diners popcorked bottle: andover tumbler, tray andpopcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald andbothered, with missDouce.--_The bright stars fade_...A voiceless song sang from within, singing:--... _the morn is breaking._A duodene of birdnotes chirruped brighttreble answer under sensitivehands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked,all harpsichording,called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth,of lovesleavetaking, lifes, loves morn.--_The dewdrops pearl_...Lenehans lips over the counter lisped a lowwhistle of decoy.--But look this way, he said, rose ofCastile.Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.She rose and closed her reading, rose ofCastile: fretted, forlorn,dreamily rose.--Did she fall or was she pushed? he askedher.She answered, slighting:--Ask no questions and youll hear no lies.Like lady, ladylike.Blazes Boylans smart tan shoes creaked onthe barfloor where he strode.Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehanheard and knew andhailed him:--See the conquering hero comes.Between the car and window, warily walking,went Bloom, unconqueredhero. See me he might. The seat he sat on: warm. Blackwary hecat walkedtowards Richie Gouldings legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting.--_And I from thee_...--I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.He touched to fair miss Kennedy a rim of hisslanted straw. She smiledon him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening forhim her richerhair, a bosom and a rose.Smart Boylan bespoke potions.--Whats your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass ofbitter, please, and asloegin for me. Wire in yet?Not yet. At four she. Who said four?Cowleys red lugs and bulging apple in thedoor of the sheriffs office.Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing inthe Ormond? Car waiting.Wait.Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I toowas just. In here. What,Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom.Sit tight there.See, not be seen. I think Ill join you. Come on. Richie ledon. Bloomfollowed bag. Dinner fit for a prince.Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon,stretching her satin arm, herbust, that all but burst, so high.--O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at eachstretch. O!But easily she seized her prey and led it lowin triumph.--Why dont you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.Shebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thicksyrupy liquor for hislips, looked as it flowed (flower in his coat: who gavehim?), andsyrupped with her voice:--Fine goods in small parcels.That is to say she. Neatly she pouredslowsyrupy sloe.--Heres fortune, Blazes said.He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.--Hold on, said Lenehan, till I...--Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbledale.--Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.--I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking anddrinking. Not on my own, youknow. Fancy of a friend of mine.Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tiltedale and at miss Douceslips that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong herlips had trilled.Idolores. The eastern seas.Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way(flower, wonder who gave),bearing away teatray. Clock clacked.Miss Douce took Boylans coin, struck boldlythe cashregister. Itclanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sortedin the tilland hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack.Forme.--What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan.Four?Oclock.Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming,bust ahumming, tugged BlazesBoylans elbowsleeve.--Lets hear the time, he said.The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloomby ryebloom flowered tables.Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Patattending, a table nearthe door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps atrick. Not come:whet appetite. I couldnt do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazures skybluebow and eyes.--Go on, pressed Lenehan. Theres no-one. Henever heard.--... _to Floras lips did hie._High, a high note pealed in the treble clear.Bronzedouce communing with her rose that sankand rose soughtBlazes Boylans flower and eyes.--Please, please.He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.--_I could not leave thee_...--Afterwits, miss Douce promised coyly.--No, now, urged Lenehan. _Sonnezlacloche!_ Odo! Theres no-one.She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot.Sudden bent. Two kindlingfaces watched her bend.Quavering the chords strayed from the air,found it again, lost chord,and lost and found it, faltering.--Go on! Do! _Sonnez!_Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above herknee. Delayed. Tauntedthem still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes._--Sonnez!_Smack. She set free sudden in rebound hernipped elastic gartersmackwarm against her smackable a womans warmhosed thigh.--_La Cloche!_ cried gleeful Lenehan. Trainedby owner. No sawdustthere.She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! arentmen?), but, lightwardgliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.--Youre the essence of vulgarity, she ingliding said.Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips hischalice, drank off hischalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops.His spellboundeyes went after, after her gliding head as it went down the barbymirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering,aspiky shell, where it concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze.Yes, bronze from anearby.--... _Sweetheart, goodbye!_--Im off, said Boylan with impatience.He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped hischange.--Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinkingquickly. I wanted to tell you.Tom Rochford...--Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan,going.Lenehan gulped to go.--Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. Imcoming.He followed the hasty creaking shoes butstood by nimbly by thethreshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.--How do you do, Mr Dollard?--Eh? How do? How do? Ben Dollards vaguebass answered, turning aninstant from Father Cowleys woe. He wont give youany trouble, Bob.Alf Bergan will speak to the long fellow. Well put abarleystraw inthat Judas Iscariots ear this time.Sighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, afinger soothing an eyelid.--Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily.Come on, Simon. Give us aditty. We heard the piano.Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drinkorders. Power for Richie.And Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice. Hiscorns. Four now. Howwarm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?)heat. Let mesee. Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.--Whats that? Mr Dedalus said. I was onlyvamping, man.--Come on, come on, Ben Dollard called.Begone dull care. Come, Bob.He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them(hold that fellow with the:hold him now) into the saloon. He plumped himDollard on the stool. Hisgouty paws plumped chords. Plumped, stopped abrupt.Bald Pat in the doorway met tealess goldreturning. Bothered, he wantedPower and cider. Bronze by the window, watched,bronze from afar.Jingle a tinkle jaunted.Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. Hes off.Light sob of breath Bloomsighed on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling. Hesgone. Jingle.Hear.--Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God bewith old times.Miss Douces brave eyes, unregarded, turnedfrom the crossblind, smittenby sunlight. Gone. Pensive (who knows?), smitten(the smiting light),she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drewdown pensive(why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze, over the barwherebald stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrastinexquisitenonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of shadow, _eaudeNil._--Poor old Goodwin was the pianist thatnight, Father Cowley remindedthem. There was a slight difference of opinionbetween himself and theCollard grand.There was.--A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said.The devil wouldnt stop him.He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stageof drink.--God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollardsaid, turning from thepunished keyboard. And by Japers I had no weddinggarment.They laughed all three. He had no wed. Alltrio laughed. No weddinggarment.--Our friend Bloom turned in handy thatnight, Mr Dedalus said. Wheresmy pipe, by the way?He wandered back to the bar to the lost chordpipe. Bald Pat carried twodiners drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowleylaughed again.--I saved the situation, Ben, I think.--You did, averred Ben Dollard. I rememberthose tight trousers too.That was a brilliant idea, Bob.Father Cowley blushed to his brilliant purplylobes. He saved the situa.Tight trou. Brilliant ide.--I knew he was on the rocks, he said. Thewife was playing the piano inthe coffee palace on Saturdays for a very triflingconsideration andwho was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the otherbusiness? Do youremember? We had to search all Holles street to find them tillthechap in Keoghs gave us the number. Remember? Ben remembered, hisbroadvisage wondering.--By God, she had some luxurious operacloaksand things there.Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.--Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God,and court dresses. Hewouldnt take any money either. What? Any Gods quantityof cocked hatsand boleros and trunkhose. What?--Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloomhas left off clothes ofall descriptions.Jingle jaunted down the quays. Blazessprawled on bounding tyres.Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right,sir. Right, Pat.Mrs Marion. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn.Of Paul de Kock. Nicename he.--Whats this her name was? A buxom lassy.Marion...--Tweedy.--Yes. Is she alive?--And kicking.--She was a daughter of...--Daughter of the regiment.--Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffedsavoury puff after--Irish? I dont know, faith. Is she, Simon?Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury,crackling.--Buccinator muscle is... What?... Bitrusty... O, she is... MyIrish Molly, O.He puffed a pungent plumy blast.--From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold bythe beerpull, bronzeby maraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismoreterrace,Drumcondra with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cutliverslices. As said before heate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards,fried cods roes whileRichie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steakthen kidney,bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate.Dinners fit for princes.By Bachelors walk jogjaunty jingled BlazesBoylan, bachelor, in sun inheat, mares glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip,on bounding tyres:sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn.Have you the?Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.Over their voices Dollard bassooned attack,booming over bombardingchords:--_When love absorbs my ardent soul_...Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quiveryloveshivery roofpanes.--War! War! cried Father Cowley. Youre the warrior.--So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I wasthinking of your landlord. Love ormoney.He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge faceover his blunder huge.--Sure, youd burst the tympanum of her ear,man, Mr Dedalus saidthrough smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shookupon the keyboard. He would.--Not to mention another membrane, FatherCowley added. Half time, Ben._Amoroso ma non troppo._ Let me there.Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen withtankards of cool stout. Shepassed a remark. It was indeed, first gentlemansaid, beautiful weather.They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lordlieutenant was going?And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldnt say.But it wouldbe in the paper. O, she need not trouble. No trouble. She wavedabouther outspread _Independent,_ searching, the lord lieutenant, herpinnaclesof hair slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too much trouble,first gentleman said. O, notin the least. Way he looked that. Lordlieutenant. Gold by bronze heard ironsteel.  --............ _myardent soul_  _I care not foror the morrow._In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes.Love and War someone is.Ben Dollards famous. Night he ran round to us toborrow a dress suitfor that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musicalporkers.Molly did laugh when he went out. Threw herself back across thebed,screaming, kicking. With all his belongings on show. O saints above,Imdrenched! O, the women in the front row! O, I never laughed so many!Well, ofcourse thats what gives him the base barreltone. For instanceeunuchs. Wonderwhos playing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley. Musical.Knows whatever note youplay. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed tosuave solicitor, GeorgeLidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gaveher moist (aladys) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. Tothe olddingdong again.--Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held alydiahand.Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here atleast. That chap in theBurton, gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding and I.Clean tables,flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing todo.Best value in Dub.Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in toit, like one together,mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles,eye on thebowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high longsnore.Night we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus,betweenthe acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Conductorslegstoo, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide them.Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light.Girl touched it. Poop of alovely. Gravys rather good fit for a. Golden ship.Erin. The harp thatonce or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. Weare theirharps. I. He. Old. Young.--Ah, I couldnt, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy,listless.Strongly.--Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Getit out in bits.--_Mappari,_ Simon, Father Cowley said.Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tallin affliction, his longarms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsedsoftly. Softly hesang to a dusty seascape there: _A Last Farewell._ A headland,a ship, asail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave uponthewind upon the headland, wind around her.Cowley sang:  _--Mapparituttamor:  Il mio sguardo lincontr..._She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to onedeparting, dear one, towind, love, speeding sail, return.--Go on, Simon.--Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben...Well...Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside thetuningfork and, sitting,touched the obedient keys.--No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it inthe original. One flat.The keys, obedient, rose higher, told,faltered, confessed, confused.Up stage strode Father Cowley.--Here, Simon, Ill accompany you, he said.Get up.By Graham Lemons pineapple rock, by Elveryselephant jingly jogged.Steak, kidney, liver, mashed, at meat fit for princessat princes Bloomand Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank, Power andcider.Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richiesaid: _Sonnambula._ Heheard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, what MGuckin!Yes. In his way.Choirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor ifyou like.Never forget it. Never.Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw thetightened features strain.Backache he. Brights bright eye. Next item on theprogramme. Paying thepiper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Staveit off awhile.Sings too: _Down among the dead men._ Appropriate. Kidney pie.Sweets tothe. Not making much hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic ofhim.Power. Particular about his drink. Flaw in the glass, fresh Vartrywater.Fecking matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereignin dribs anddrabs. And when hes wanted not a farthing. Screwedrefusing to pay his fare.Curious types.Never would Richie forget that night. As longas he lived: never. In thegods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when thefirst note.Speech paused on Richies lips.Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodiesabout damn all.Believes his own lies. Does really. Wonderfulliar. But want a goodmemory.--Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.--_All is lost now_.Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipientnote sweet bansheemurmured: all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet,good teethhes proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound.Twonotes in one there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Takingmymotives he twined and turned them. All most too new call is lost in all.Echo.How sweet the answer. How is that done? All lost now. Mournful hewhistled.Fall, surrender, lost.Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe ofdoyley down under the vase.Order. Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep shewent to him. Innocencein the moon. Brave. Dont know their danger. Still holdher back. Callname. Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go.Thatswhy. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.--A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. Iknow it well.Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.He knows it well too. Or he feels. Stillharping on his daughter. Wisechild that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of theall is lost. RollickingRichie once. Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear.Napkinring in hiseye. Now begging letters he sends his son with. CrosseyedWalter sir Idid sir. Wouldnt trouble only I was expecting some money.Apologise.Piano again. Sounds better than last time Iheard. Tuned probably.Stopped again.Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingeringsinger out with it.--With it, Simon.--It, Simon.--Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeplyobliged by your kindsolicitations.--It, Simon.--I have no money but if you will lend meyour attention I shallendeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down.By the sandwichbell in screening shadowLydia, her bronze and rose, aladys grace, gave and withheld: as in coolglaucous _eau de Nil_ Minato tankards two her pinnacles of gold.The harping chords of prelude closed. Achord, longdrawn, expectant,drew a voice away.--_When first I saw that form endearing_...Richie turned.--Si Dedalus voice, he said.Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, theylistened feeling that flowendearing flow over skin limbs human heart soulspine. Bloom signed toPat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajarthe door of thebar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited,waitingto hear, for he was hard of hear by the door.--_Sorrow from me seemed to depart._Through the hush of air a voice sang to them,low, not rain, not leavesin murmur, like no voice of strings or reeds orwhatdoyoucallthemdulcimers touching their still ears with words, still heartsof theireach his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from themeachseemed to from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw,lostRichie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldnt expectit in theleast, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.Love that is singing: loves old sweet song.Bloom unwound slowly theelastic band of his packet. Loves old sweet _sonnezla_ gold. Bloomwound a skein round four forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, andwoundit round his troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.--_Full of hope and all delighted_...Tenors get women by the score. Increase theirflow. Throw flower at hisfeet. When will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle alldelighted. Hecant sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed forhim.What perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Lastlook atmirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? Howdo you? I dowell. There? What? Or? Phial of cachous, kissing comfits,in her satchel. Yes?Hands felt for the opulent.Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud,full, shining, proud.--_But alas, twas idle dreaming_...Glorious tone he has still. Cork air softeralso their brogue. Sillyman! Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrongwords. Wore outhis wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves.If hedoesnt break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feetsingtoo. Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lindsoup:stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full itthrobbed. Thats the chat.Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing prouderect.Words? Music? No: its whats behind.Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitupsecretness flowed to flow in musicout, in desire, dark to lick flow invading.Tipping her tepping hertapping her topping her. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating.Tup. The joythe feel the warm the. Tup. To pour oer sluices pouring gushes.Flood,gush, flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now! Language of love.--... _ray of hope is_...Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcelyhear so ladylike the museunsqueaked a ray of hopk._Martha_ it is. Coincidence. Just going towrite. Lionels song.Lovely name you have. Cant write. Accept my little pres.Play on herheartstrings pursestrings too. Shes a. I called you naughty boy.Stillthe name: Martha. How strange! Today.The voice of Lionel returned, weaker butunwearied. It sang again toRichie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat openmouth ear waiting towait. How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrowseemed to part,how look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloomsheart.Wish I could see his face, though. Explainbetter. Why the barber inDragos always looked my face when I spoke his face inthe glass. Stillhear it better here than in the bar though farther.--_Each graceful look_...First night when first I saw her at MatDillons in Terenure. Yellow,black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two thelast. Fate. After her.Fate.Round and round slow. Quick round. We two.All looked. Halt. Down shesat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.--_Charmed my eye_...Singing. _Waiting_ she sang. I turned hermusic. Full voice of perfumeof what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw,both full, throatwarbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate.Spanishyeyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one sideinshadow Dolores shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.--_Martha! Ah, Martha!_Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief,in cry of passion dominantto love to return with deepening yet with risingchords of harmony. Incry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must marthafeel. Foronly her he waited. Where? Here there try there here all trywhere.Somewhere.  --_Co-ome, thou lostone!  Co-ome, thou dear one!_Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me.Martha, chestnote, return!_--Come!_It soared, a bird, it held its flight, aswift pure cry, soar silver orbit leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come,dont spin it out toolong long breath he breath long life, soaring high, highresplendent,aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of theetherialbosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere allsoaring all aroundabout the all, the endlessnessnessness...--_To me!_Siopold!Consumed.Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to.Come. To me, to him, to her,you too, me, us.--Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon.Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclapclap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon!Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said,cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, LydiaDouce, George Lidwell, Pat, MinaKennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards,Cowley, first gent with tankand bronze miss Douce and gold MJiss Mina.Blazes Boylans smart tan shoes creaked onthe barfloor, said before.Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatioonehandled Nelson,reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before justnow.Atrot, in heat, heatseated. _Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la._Slowerthe mare went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Tooslow for Boylan,blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.An afterclang of Cowleys chords closed, diedon the air made richer.And Richie Goulding drank his Power andLeopold Bloom his cider drank,Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said theywould partake of twomore tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked,disserving,coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.--Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, onbread and water. Then youdsing, Simon, like a garden thrush.Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father BobCowley played. Mina Kennedyserved. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan struttedin. Lydia, admired,admired. But Bloom sang dumb.Admiring.Richie, admiring, descanted on that mansglorious voice. He rememberedone night long ago. Never forget that night. Sisang _Twas rank andfame_: in Ned Lamberts twas. Good God he never heard inall his life anote like that he never did _then false one we had better part_so clearso God he never heard _since love lives not_ a clinking voice livesnotask Lambert he can tell you too.Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale,told Mr Bloom, face of thenight, Si in Ned Lamberts, Dedalus house, sang_Twas rank and fame._He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, RichieGoulding, told him, Mr Bloom, ofthe night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus,sing TWAS RANK AND FAME inhis, Ned Lamberts, house.Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak aswe pass by. Rift in thelute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires himall the more.The night Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky chords,wonderful,more than all others.That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. Itsin the silence after youfeel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and withslack fingers plucked theslender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, ittwanged. WhileGoulding talked of Barracloughs voice production, while TomKernan,harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked tolisteningFather Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played.Whilebig Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded ashesmoked, who smoked.Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yetmore Bloom stretched hisstring. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of eachother: lure them on.Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head.Outtohelloutofthat.Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rats tail wriggling! Five bobI gave._Corpus paradisum._ Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup.Gone.They sing. Forgotten. I too; And one day she with. Leave her: gettired.Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing.Herwavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:d.Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more,more. Are you not happy inyour? Twang. It snapped.Jingle into Dorset street.Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm,reproachful, pleased.--Dont make half so free, said she, till weare better acquainted.George Lidwell told her really and truly: butshe did not believe.First gentleman told Mina that was so. Sheasked him was that so. Andsecond tankard told her so. That that was so.Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: missKennedy, Mina, did notbelieve: George Lidwell, no: miss Dou did not: the first,the first:gent with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, miss Kenn:Lidlydiawell:the tank.Better write it here. Quills in thepostoffice chewed and twisted.Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink.He went. A pad. He went. Apad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.--Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curlingcatgut line. It certainly is.Few lines will do. My present. All that Italianflorid music is. Whois this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take outsheet notepaper,envelope: unconcerned. Its so characteristic.--Grandest number in the whole opera,Goulding said.--It is, Bloom said.Numbers it is. All music when you come tothink. Two multiplied by twodivided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chordsthose are. One plus twoplus six is seven. Do anything you like with figuresjuggling. Alwaysfind out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall. Hedoesntsee my mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics. Andyouthink youre listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it like:Martha,seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quiteflat. Its onaccount of the sounds it is.Instance hes playing now. Improvising. Mightbe what you like, till youhear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin allright: then hearchords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, overbarrels,through wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune. Question ofmoodyoure in. Still always nice to hear. Except scales up and down, girlslearning.Two together nextdoor neighbours. Ought to invent dummy pianosfor that._Blumenlied_ I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow,a girl, night I camehome, the girl. Door of the stables near Ceciliastreet. Milly no taste. Queerbecause we both, I mean.Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Patset with ink pen quiteflat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.It was the only language Mr Dedalus said toBen. He heard them as aboy in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing theirbarcaroles.Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, inthemoonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God, suchmusic,Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.Sour pipe removed he held a shield of handbeside his lips that cooed amoonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call fromafar, replying.Down the edge of his _Freeman_ baton rangedBlooms, your other eye,scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman,Dignam Patrick.Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking...Hope hes not looking, cute as a rat. He heldunfurled his _Freeman._Cant see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped,Bloo mur: dearsir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Helldid Iput? Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline _imposs._ Towritetoday.Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gentlywith I am just reflectingfingers on flat pad Pat brought.On. Know what I mean. No, change that ee.Accep my poor litt presenclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on. Five Dig. Two abouthere. Penny thegulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrnes. Is eight about. Sayhalf acrown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Doyoudespise? Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught?Younaughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today. Yes,yes, will tellyou. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Otherworld she wrote. Mypatience are exhaust. To keep it up. You mustbelieve. Believe. The tank. It.Is. True.Folly am I writing? Husbands dont. Thatsmarriage does, their wives.Because Im away from. Suppose. But how? She must.Keep young. If shefound out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all.Useless pain. Ifthey dont see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.A hackney car, number three hundred andtwentyfour, driver Barton Jamesof number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, onwhich sat a fare, a younggentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue sergesuit made by GeorgeRobert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay,and wearinga straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number oneGreatBrunswick street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled andjingled.By Dlugacz porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted agallantbuttocked mare.--Answering an ad? keen Richies eyes askedBloom.--Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothingdoing, I expect.Bloom mur: best references. But Henry wrote:it will excite me. Youknow how. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better addpostscript. What is heplaying now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tumtum. How willyou pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell meI wantto. Know. O. Course if I didnt I wouldnt ask. La la la ree. Trailsoffthere sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sad tail at end. P.P.S. La la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely. Dee.He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel.Address. Just copy out of paper.Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co,limited. Henry wrote:Miss Martha Clifford c/o P. O. Dolphins BarnLane DublinBlot over the other so he cant read. There.Right. Idea prize titbit.Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment atthe rate of guineaper col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor MrsPurefoy. U.P: up.Too poetical that about the sad. Music didthat. Music hath charms.Shakespeare said. Quotations every day in the year. Tobe or not to be.Wisdom while you wait.In Gerards rosery of Fetter lane he walks,greyedauburn. One life isall. One body. Do. But do.Done anyhow. Postal order, stamp. Postofficelower down. Walk now.Enough. Barney Kiernans I promised to meet them. Dislikethat job.House of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesnt hear.Deaf beetle he is.Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesnt.Settling those napkins.Lot of ground he must cover in the day. Paint facebehind on him thenhed be two. Wish theyd sing more. Keep my mind off.Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins.Pat is a waiter hard of hishearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait.Hee hee hee hee. Hewaits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee heehee. He waitswhile you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while youwait.Hee hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time.And look at the lovely shellshe brought.To the end of the bar to him she bore lightlythe spiked and windingseahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.--Listen! she bade him.Under Tom Kernans ginhot words theaccompanist wove music slow.Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice.Well, sir, the husbandtook him by the throat. _Scoundrel,_ said he, _Youllsing no morelovesongs._ He did, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors getwom.Cowley lay back.Ah, now he heard, she holding it to his ear.Hear! He heard.Wonderful. She held it to her own. Andthrough the sifted light palegold in contrast glided. To hear.Tap.Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held attheir ears. He heard morefaintly that that they heard, each for herself alone,then each forother, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar.Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, theylistened.Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobethere. Been to the seaside.Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should haveput on coldcreamfirst make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustntforget.Fever near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shellwithseaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks themouth,why? Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. A cave.No admittanceexcept on business.The sea they think they hear. Singing. Aroar. The blood it is. Souse inthe ear sometimes. Well, its a sea. Corpuscleislands.Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. GeorgeLidwell held its murmur,hearing: then laid it by, gently.--What are the wild waves saying? he askedher, smiled.Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia onLidwell smiled.Tap.By Larry ORourkes, by Larry, bold Larry O,Boylan swayed and Boylanturned.From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided toher tankards waiting. No,she was not so lonely archly miss Douces head let MrLidwell know.Walks in the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With whom? Shenoblyanswered: with a gentleman friend.Bob Cowleys twinkling fingers in the trebleplayed again. The landlordhas the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben.Lightly he played alight bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch andsmiling,and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one, one,one:two, one, three, four.Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cowslowing, the cattlemarket,cocks, hens dont crow, snakes hissss. Theres musiceverywhere.Ruttledges door: ee creaking. No, thats noise. Minuet of_DonGiovanni_ hes playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castlechambersdancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eatingdockleaves. Nicethat is. Look: look, look, look, look, look: you lookat us.Thats joyful I can feel. Never have writtenit. Why? My joy is otherjoy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be. Mere factof music showsyou are. Often thought she was in the dumps till she began tolilt. Thenknow.MCoy valise. My wife and your wife.Squealing cat. Like tearing silk.Tongue when she talks like the clapper of abellows. They cant managemens intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me.Im warm, dark, open.Molly in _quis est homo_: Mercadante. My ear against thewall to hear.Want a woman who can deliver the goods.Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe ofdandy Boylan socks skyblueclocks came light to earth.O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could makea kind of pun on that.It is a kind of music I often thought when she. Acousticsthat is.Tinkling. Empty vessels make most noise. Because the acoustics,theresonance changes according as the weight of the water is equal tothe law offalling water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszts, Hungarian,gipsyeyed. Pearls.Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle.Hissss. Now. Maybe now.Before.One rapped on a door, one tapped with aknock, did he knock Paul de Kockwith a loud proud knocker with a cockcarracarracarra cock. Cockcock.Tap.--_Qui sdegno,_ Ben, said Father Cowley.--No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. _The CroppyBoy._ Our native Doric.--Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men andtrue.--Do, do, they begged in one.Ill go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, hecame, he did not stay. Tome. How much?--What key? Six sharps?--F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.Bob Cowleys outstretched talons griped theblack deepsounding chords.Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No,Richie said. Yes, must. Gotmoney somewhere. Hes on for a razzle backachespree. Much? He seehearslipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Givehim twopencetip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family waiting,waitingPatty come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait.But wait. But hear. Chords dark.Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of thedark middle earth. Embedded ore.Lumpmusic.The voice of dark age, of unlove, earthsfatigue made grave approachand painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains,called on good menand true. The priest he sought. With him would he speak aword.Tap.Ben Dollards voice. Base barreltone. Doinghis level best to say it.Croak of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Othercomedown. Bigships chandlers business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes,shipslanterns. Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in theIveaghhome. Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him.The priests at home. A false priestsservant bade him welcome. Stepin. The holy father. With bows a traitor servant.Curlycues of chords.Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build themcubicles to end their daysin. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.The voice of warning, solemn warning, toldthem the youth had entereda lonely hall, told them how solemn fell hisfootsteps there, told themthe gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting toshrive.Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks hell winin _Answers,_ poetspicture puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note. Birdsitting hatchingin a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. Seeblank teewhat domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. Good voicehehas still. No eunuch yet with all his belongings.Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Gouldinglistened. And by the door deafPat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened. The chordsharped slower.The voice of penance and of grief came slow,embellished, tremulous.Bens contrite beard confessed. _in nomine Domini,_ inGods name heknelt. He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: _mea culpa._Latin again. That holds them like birdlime.Priest with the communioncorpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffinor coffey,_corpusnomine._ Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape.Tap.They listened. Tankards and miss Kennedy.George Lidwell, eyelid wellexpressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si.The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins.Since Easter he had cursedthree times. You bitchs bast. And once at masstimehe had gone to play.Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mothersrest he hadnot prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed faraway. Soulfully. Doesnthalf know Im. Molly great dab at seeing anyonelooking.Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Isthat best side of her face?They always know. Knock at the door. Last tip totitivate.Cockcarracarra.What do they think when they hear music? Wayto catch rattlesnakes.Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah ofPersia likedthat best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtaintoo.Custom his country perhaps. Thats music too. Not as bad as itsounds.Tootling. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasseshelpless,gashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand opencrocodilemusic hath jaws. Woodwind like Goodwins name.She looked fine. Her crocus dress she worelowcut, belongings on show.Clove her breath was always in theatre when she bentto ask a question.Told her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papas.Hypnotised,listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle staringdowninto her with his operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty of music youmusthear twice. Nature woman half a look. God made the country man thetune. Met himpike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Rosshis father, at Gorey all hisbrothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys ofWexford, he would. Last ofhis name and race.I too. Last of my race. Milly young student.Well, my fault perhaps. Noson. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still?He bore no hate.Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I amold. Big Ben his voiceunfolded. Great voice Richie Goulding said, a flushstruggling in hispale, to Bloom soon old. But when was young?Ireland comes now. My country above the king.She listens. Who fears tospeak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving. Lookedenough.--_Bless me, father,_ Dollard the croppycried. _Bless me and let mego._Tap.Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up tokill: on eighteen bob a week.Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep yourweathereye open. Thosegirls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirlsromance. Lettersread out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddys ownyMumpsypum.Laughter in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name you.Low sank the music, air and words. Thenhastened. The false priestrustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain.They know it all byheart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap.Tap. Tap.Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy tohear.Blank face. Virgin should say: or fingeredonly. Write something on it:page. If not what becomes of them? Decline,despair. Keeps them young.Even admire themselves. See. Play on her. Lip blow.Body of white woman,a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes, all women.Goddess Ididnt see. They want it. Not too much polite. Thats why he getsthem.Gold in your pocket, brass in your face. Say something. Make her hear.Withlook to look. Songs without words. Molly, that hurdygurdy boy.She knew he meantthe monkey was sick. Or because so like the Spanish.Understand animals too thatway. Solomon did. Gift of nature.Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in mystom. What?Will? You? I. Want. You. To.With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed,swelling in apoplectic bitchsbastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hoursyour time to live,your last.Tap. Tap.Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away atear for martyrs that wantto, dying to, die. For all things dying, for allthings born. Poor MrsPurefoy. Hope shes over. Because their wombs.A liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed undera fence of lashes, calmly,hearing. See real beauty of the eye when she notspeaks. On yonderriver. At each slow satiny heaving bosoms wave (her heavingembon) redrose rose slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats: her breath: breath thatislife. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair.But look. The bright stars fade. O rose!Castile. The morn. Ha. Lidwell.For him then not for. Infatuated. I like that?See her from here though.Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks ofempties.On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydiahand, lightly, plumply, leaveit to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro,to: to, fro: overthe polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) herthumb andfinger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, thenslidso smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protrudingthroughtheir sliding ring.With a cock with a carra.Tap. Tap. Tap.I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury.Traitors swing.The chords consented. Very sad thing. But hadto be. Get out before theend. Thanks, that was heavenly. Wheres my hat. Passby her. Can leavethat Freeman. Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No. Walk,walk,walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice TisntdallFarrell.Waaaaaaalk.Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes.Blmstup. Oer ryehigh blue.Ow. Bloom stood up. Soap feeling rather stickybehind. Must havesweated: music. That lotion, remember. Well, so long. Highgrade. Cardinside. Yes.By deaf Pat in the doorway straining earBloom passed.At Geneva barrack that young man died. AtPassage was his body laid.Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the mournfulchanter called todolorous prayer.By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondlinghand, by slops, by empties,by popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes andmaidenhair, bronze andfaint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, Ifeel so lonelyBloom.Tap. Tap. Tap.Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. Youwho hear in peace. Breathea prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He wasthe croppy boy.Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboyBloom in the Ormond hallwayheard the growls and roars of bravo, fatbackslapping, their boots alltreading, boots not the boots the boy. Generalchorus off for a swill towash it down. Glad I avoided.--Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried. By God,youre as good as ever youwere.--Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchantrendition of that ballad,upon my soul and honour It is.--Lablache, said Father Cowley.Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards thebar, mightily praisefedand all big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his goutyfingers nakkeringcastagnettes in the air.Big Benaben Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.Rrr.And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassionfrom foghorn nose, alllaughing they brought him forth, Ben Dollard, in rightgood cheer.--Youre looking rubicund, George Lidwellsaid.Miss Douce composed her rose to wait.--Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clappingBens fat back shoulderblade.Fit as a fiddle only he has a lot of adiposetissue concealed about hisperson.Rrrrrrrsss.--Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled.Richie rift in the lute alone sat: Goulding,Collis, Ward. Uncertainlyhe waited. Unpaid Pat too.Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips toear of tankard one.--Mr Dollard, they murmured low.--Dollard, murmured tankard.Tank one believed: miss Kenn when she: thatdoll he was: she doll: thetank.He murmured that he knew the name. The name wasfamiliar to him, thatis to say. That was to say he had heard the name of.Dollard, was it?Dollard, yes.Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard.He sang that song lovely,murmured Mina. Mr Dollard. And _The last rose of summer_was a lovelysong. Mina loved that song. Tankard loved the song that Mina.Tis the last rose of summer dollard leftbloom felt wind wound roundinside.Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait.Postoffice near Reuben Jsone and eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge roundby Greek street.Wish I hadnt promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets onyournerves. Beerpull. Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth.Thatrules the world.Far. Far. Far. Far.Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henrywith letter for Mady, withsweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met himpike hoses went Poldyon.Tap blind walked tapping by the tap thecurbstone tapping, tap by tap.Cowley, he stuns himself with it: kind ofdrunkenness. Better give wayonly half way the way of a man with a maid.Instance enthusiasts. Allears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Headnodding in time. Dotty.You darent budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Alwaystalking shop.Fiddlefaddle about notes.All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasantwhen it stops because younever know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynnfifty quid a year.Queer up there in the cockloft, alone, with stops and locksand keys.Seated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himselforthe other fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriek cursing(wantto have wadding or something in his no dont she cried), then allof a softsudden wee little wee little pipy wind.Pwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. InBlooms little wee.--Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning withfetched pipe. I was with himthis morning at poor little Paddy Dignams...--Ay, the Lord have mercy on him.--By the bye theres a tuningfork in there onthe...Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.--The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What?Lidwell asked.--O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said toSimonlionel first I saw,forgot it when he was here.Blind he was she told George Lidwell second Isaw. And played soexquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid, minagold.--Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Singout!--lldo! cried Father Cowley.Rrrrrr.I feel I want...Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap--Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at aheadless sardine.Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of breadone last, one lonely, lastsardine of summer. Bloom alone.--Very, he stared. The lower register, forchoice.Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.Bloom went by Barrys. Wish I could. Wait.That wonderworker if I had.Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. Countedthem. Litigation. Loveone another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pockethave power ofattorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward.But for example the chap that wallops the bigdrum. His vocation: MickeyRooneys band. Wonder how it first struck him.Sitting at home afterpigs cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair.Rehearsing his bandpart. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses skins. Weltthem throughlife, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what youcallyashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tappingcane came taptaptapping byDalys window where a mermaid hair all streaming (buthe couldnt see)blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldnt), mermaid, coolestwhiff ofall.Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands,then blow. Evencomb and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in hershift inLombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade madeitsown, dont you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? _Cloche.Sonnezla._ Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle.Locks and keys!Sweep! Four oclocks alls well! Sleep! All is lostnow. Drum? Pompedy. Wait. Iknow. Towncrier, bumbailiff. Long John.Waken the dead. Pom. Dignam. Poor little_nominedomine._ Pom. It ismusic. I mean of course its all pom pom pom verymuch what they call_da capo._ Still you can hear. As we march, we march along,march along.Pom.I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at abanquet. Just a question ofcustom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop atear. All the samehe must have been a bit of a natural not to see it was ayeoman cap.Muffled up. Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brownmacin. O,the whore of the lane!A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hataskew came glazily in the dayalong the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he sawthat form endearing?Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn.Who hadthe? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst!Anychance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be withyouin the brown costume. Put you off your stroke, that. Appointmentwe made knowingwed never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to homesweet home. Sees me,does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip.Damn her. O, well, she hasto live like the rest. Look in here.In Lionel Markss antique saleshop windowhaughty Henry Lionel Leopolddear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloomenvisaged batteredcandlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain: sixbob. Mightlearn to play. Cheap. Let her pass. Course everything is dear ifyoudont want it. Thats what good salesman is. Make you buy what he wantstosell. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Wanted tocharge me forthe edge he gave it. Shes passing now. Six bob.Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.Near bronze from anear near gold from afarthey chinked their clinkingglasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronzeLydias tempting lastrose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker,Doll, a fifth:Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard.Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero inLionel Markss window. RobertEmmets last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeerthat is.--True men like you men.--Ay, ay, Ben.--Will lift your glass with us.They lifted.Tschink. Tschunk.Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door.He saw not bronze. He sawnot gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor Georgenor tanks nor Richienor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words.Softly. _When my country takesher place among._Prrprr.Must be the bur.Fff! Oo. Rrpr._Nations of the earth._ No-one behind. Shespassed. _Then and not tillthen._ Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming.Krandlkrankran. Imsure its the burgund. Yes. One, two. _Let my epitaph be._Kraaaaaa._Written. I have._Pprrpffrrppffff._Done._ I was just passing the time of day with oldTroy of the D. M. P. at thecorner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloodysweep came alongand he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to lethim havethe weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along StonyBatteronly Joe Hynes.--Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Didyou see that bloodychimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?--Soots luck, says Joe. Whos the oldballocks you were talking to?--Old Troy, says I, was in the force. Im ontwo minds not to give thatfellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfarewith his brooms andladders.--What are you doing round those parts? saysJoe.--Devil a much, says I. Theres a bloody bigfoxy thief beyond by thegarrison church at the corner of Chicken lane--old Troywas just givingme a wrinkle about him--lifted any Gods quantity of tea andsugarto pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down offahop-of-my-thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesburystreet.--Circumcised? says Joe.--Ay, says I. A bit off the top. An oldplumber named Geraghty. Imhanging on to his taw now for the past fortnight andI cant get a pennyout of him.--That the lay youre on now? says Joe.--Ay, says I. How are the mighty fallen!Collector of bad and doubtfuldebts. But thats the most notorious bloody robberyoud meet in a dayswalk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a showerof rain._Tell him,_ says he, _I dare him,_ says he, _and I doubledare himtosend you round here again or if he does,_ says he, _Ill havehim summonsed upbefore the court, so I will, for trading without alicence._ And he afterstuffing himself till hes fit to burst. Jesus,I had to laugh at the littlejewy getting his shirt out. _He drink me myteas. He eat me my sugars. Becausehe no pay me my moneys?_For nonperishable goods bought of MosesHerzog, of 13 Saint Kevinsparade in the city of Dublin, Wood quay ward,merchant, hereinaftercalled the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E.Geraghty,esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city of Dublin, Arran quayward,gentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, fivepoundsavoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence perpoundavoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed crystal,at threepenceper pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to thesaid vendor of one poundfive shillings and sixpence sterling for valuereceived which amount shall bepaid by said purchaser to said vendor inweekly instalments every seven calendardays of three shillings and nopence sterling: and the said nonperishable goodsshall not be pawned orpledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the saidpurchaser but shallbe and remain and be held to be the sole and exclusiveproperty of thesaid vendor to be disposed of at his good will and pleasureuntil thesaid amount shall have been duly paid by the said purchaser to thesaidvendor in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed betweenthesaid vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the onepart and thesaid purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assignsof the other part.--Are you a strict t.t.? says Joe.--Not taking anything between drinks, says I.--What about paying our respects to ourfriend? says Joe.--Who? says I. Sure, hes out in John ofGods off his head, poor man.--Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.--Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.--Come around to Barney Kiernans, says Joe.I want to see the citizen.--Barney mavourneens be it, says I. Anythingstrange or wonderful, Joe?--Not a word, says Joe. I was up at thatmeeting in the City Arms.---What was that, Joe? says I.--Cattle traders, says Joe, about the footand mouth disease. I want togive the citizen the hard word about it.So we went around by the Linenhall barracksand the back of thecourthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellowJoe when hehas it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldnt getoverthat bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading withoutalicence, says he.In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, theland of holy Michan. Thererises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleepthe mighty dead as inlife they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. Apleasant landit is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sportthegurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, thegrilse,the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed coarsefish generallyand other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous tobe enumerated. In themild breezes of the west and of the east the loftytrees wave in differentdirections their firstclass foliage, the waftysycamore, the Lebanonian cedar,the exalted planetree, the eugeniceucalyptus and other ornaments of thearboreal world with whichthat region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovelymaidens sit in closeproximity to the roots of the lovely trees singing the mostlovely songswhile they play with all kinds of lovely objects as for examplegoldeningots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels,codlings,creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. Andheroesvoyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, thepeerlessprinces of unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and ofsmoothsleek Leinster and of Cruahans land and of Armagh the splendid and ofthenoble district of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings.And there rises a shining palace whosecrystal glittering roof is seenby mariners who traverse the extensive sea inbarks built expressly forthat purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlingsand firstfruitsof that land for OConnell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, achieftaindescended from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wainsbringfoison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats ofspinach,pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums offigs,drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale,Yorkand Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets ofmushroomsand custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and redgreen yellow brownrusset sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples andchips of strawberries andsieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious,and strawberries fit for princesand raspberries from their canes.I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him.Come out here, Geraghty, younotorious bloody hill and dale robber!And by that way wend the herds innumerable ofbellwethers and flushedewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese andmedium steersand roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods and storesheepandCuffes prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and thevariousdifferent varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angusheifers and pollybulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with primepremiated milchcows andbeeves: and there is ever heard a trampling,cackling, roaring, lowing,bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting,champing, chewing, of sheep and pigsand heavyhooved kine frompasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines andfrom the streamyvales of Thomond, from the MGillicuddys reeks theinaccessible andlordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from the gentledeclivities of theplace of the race of Kiar, their udders distended withsuperabundance ofmilk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmersfirkins andtargets of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in greathundreds,various in size, the agate with this dun.So we turned into Barney Kiernans and there,sure enough, was thecitizen up in the corner having a great confab with himselfand thatbloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the skywoulddrop in the way of drink.--There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, withhis cruiskeen lawn and hisload of papers, working for the cause.The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of himwould give you the creeps. Bea corporal work of mercy if someone would take thelife of that bloodydog. Im told for a fact he ate a good part of the breechesoff aconstabulary man in Santry that came round one time with a blue paperabouta licence.--Stand and deliver, says he.--Thats all right, citizen, says Joe.Friends here.--Pass, friends, says he.Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he:--Whats your opinion of the times?Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But,begob, Joe was equal tothe occasion.--I think the markets are on a rise, says he,sliding his hand down hisfork.So begob the citizen claps his paw on hisknee and he says:--Foreign wars is the cause of it.And says Joe, sticking his thumb in hispocket:--Its the Russians wish to tyrannise.--Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe,says I. Ive a thirst on meI wouldnt sell for half a crown.--Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.--Wine of the country, says he.--Whats yours? says Joe.--Ditto MacAnaspey, says I.--Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And hows theold heart, citizen? sayshe.--Never better, _a chara_, says he. WhatGarry? Are we going to win? Eh?And with that he took the bloody old towserby the scruff of the neckand, by Jesus, he near throttled him.The figure seated on a large boulder at thefoot of a round tower wasthat of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbedfrankeyed redhairedfreelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosedlongheadeddeepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfacedsinewyarmedhero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells andhisrocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of hisbodywherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair inhue andtoughness similar to the mountain gorse (_Ulex Europeus_).The widewingednostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hueprojected, were of suchcapaciousness that within their cavernousobscurity the fieldlark might easilyhave lodged her nest. The eyesin which a tear and a smile strove ever for themastery were of thedimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful current ofwarm breathissued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of hismouthwhile in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations ofhisformidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit ofthelofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate andtremble.He wore a long unsleeved garment of recentlyflayed oxhide reachingto the knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about hismiddle bya girdle of plaited straw and rushes. Beneath this he wore trewsofdeerskin, roughly stitched with gut. His nether extremities were encasedinhigh Balbriggan buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feet being shodwith broguesof salted cowhide laced with the windpipe of the samebeast. From his girdlehung a row of seastones which jangled at everymovement of his portentous frameand on these were graven with rudeyet striking art the tribal images of manyIrish heroes and heroines ofantiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niallof nine hostages,Brian of Kincora, the ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, Shane ONeill,FatherJohn Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red Hugh ODonnell,Red JimMacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan OGrowney, Michael Dwyer, FrancyHiggins, Henry JoyMCracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas Conneff,Peg Woffington, the VillageBlacksmith, Captain Moonlight, CaptainBoycott, Dante Alighieri, ChristopherColumbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan,Marshal MacMahon, Charlemagne, Theobald WolfeTone, the Mother of theMaccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose ofCastile, the Man forGalway, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Manin the Gap,The Woman Who Didnt, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, JohnL.Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sirThomasLipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride ofLammermoor,Peter the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, PatrickW. Shakespeare, BrianConfucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez,Captain Nemo, Tristan andIsolde, the first Prince of Wales, ThomasCook and Son, the Bold Soldier Boy,Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, LudwigBeethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy,Angus the Culdee, DollyMount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes,Adam and Eve,Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller,GautamaBuddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye,theQueen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, JeremiahODonovanRossa, Don Philip OSullivan Beare. A couched spear ofacuminated granite restedby him while at his feet reposed a savageanimal of the canine tribe whosestertorous gasps announced that he wassunk in uneasy slumber, a suppositionconfirmed by hoarse growls andspasmodic movements which his master repressedfrom time to timeby tranquilising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned outofpaleolithic stone.So anyhow Terry brought the three pints Joewas standing and begob thesight nearly left my eyes when I saw him land out aquid O, as true asIm telling you. A goodlooking sovereign.--And theres more where that came from, sayshe.--Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I.--Sweat of my brow, says Joe. Twas theprudent member gave me thewheeze.--I saw him before I met you, says I, slopingaround by Pill lane andGreek street with his cods eye counting up all the gutsof the fish.Who comes through Michans land, bedight insable armour? OBloom,the son of Rory: it is he. Impervious to fear is Rorysson: he of theprudent soul.--For the old woman of Princes street, saysthe citizen, the subsidisedorgan. The pledgebound party on the floor of thehouse. And look at thisblasted rag, says he. Look at this, says he. _The IrishIndependent,_ ifyou please, founded by Parnell to be the workingmans friend.Listen tothe births and deaths in the _Irish all for Ireland Independent,_andIll thank you and the marriages.And he starts reading them out:--Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter;Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anneson Sea: the wife of William T Redmayne of ason. Hows that, eh? Wrightand Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Mariondaughter of Rosa and thelate George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road,Stockwell, Playwood andRidsdale at Saint Judes, Kensington by the veryreverend Dr Forrest,dean of Worcester. Eh? Deaths. Bristow, at Whitehall lane,London: Carr,Stoke Newington, of gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at theMoathouse, Chepstow...--I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitterexperience.--Cockburn. Dimsey, wife of David Dimsey,late of the admiralty: Miller,Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35Canning street,Liverpool, Isabella Helen. Hows that for a national press, eh,my brownson! Hows that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber?--Ah, well, says Joe, handing round theboose. Thanks be to God they hadthe start of us. Drink that, citizen.--I will, says he, honourable person.--Health, Joe, says I. And all down the form.Ah! Ow! Dont be talking! I was blue mouldyfor the want of that pint.Declare to God I could hear it hit the pit of mystomach with a click.And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, agodlike messenger cameswiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, a comely youthand behind himthere passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing thesacredscrolls of law and with him his lady wife a dame of peerlesslineage,fairest of her race.Little Alf Bergan popped in round the doorand hid behind Barneyssnug, squeezed up with the laughing. And who was sittingup there inthe corner that I hadnt seen snoring drunk blind to the world onlyBobDoran. I didnt know what was up and Alf kept making signs out of thedoor.And begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breenin hisbathslippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxter andthe wifehotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman, trotting like apoodle. I thoughtAlf would split.--Look at him, says he. Breen. Hes traipsingall round Dublin with apostcard someone sent him with U. p: up on it to take ali...And he doubled up.--Take a what? says I.--Libel action, says he, for ten thousandpounds.--O hell! says I.The bloody mongrel began to growl thatd putthe fear of God in youseeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kickin the ribs._--Bi i dho husht,_ says he.--Who? says Joe.--Breen, says Alf. He was in John HenryMentons and then he went roundto Collis and Wards and then Tom Rochford methim and sent him round tothe subsheriffs for a lark. O God, Ive a painlaughing. U. p: up. Thelong fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and nowthe bloody oldlunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man.--When is long John going to hang that fellowin Mountjoy? says Joe.--Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is thatAlf Bergan?--Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I showyou. Here, Terry, give us apony. That bloody old fool! Ten thousand pounds. Youshould have seenlong Johns eye. U. p...And he started laughing.--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Isthat Bergan?--Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.Terence ORyan heard him and straightwaybrought him a crystal cupfull of the foamy ebon ale which the noble twin brothersBungiveagh andBungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as thesons ofdeathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop andmassand sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sourjuices and bringthe must to the sacred fire and cease not night or dayfrom their toil, thosecunning brothers, lords of the vat.Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth,as to the manner born,that nectarous beverage and you offered the crystal cupto him thatthirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals.But he, the young chief of the OBergans,could ill brook to be outdonein generous deeds but gave therefor with graciousgesture a testoon ofcostliest bronze. Thereon embossed in excellent smithworkwas seenthe image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house ofBrunswick,Victoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of God oftheUnited Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the Britishdominionsbeyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India,evenshe, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the wellbeloved, fortheyknew and loved her from the rising of the sun to the going downthereof, thepale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.--Whats that bloody freemason doing, saysthe citizen, prowling up anddown outside?--Whats that? says Joe.--Here you are, says Alf, chucking out therhino. Talking about hanging,Ill show you something you never saw. Hangmensletters. Look at here.So he took a bundle of wisps of letters andenvelopes out of his pocket.--Are you codding? says I.--Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.So Joe took up the letters.--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran.So I saw there was going to be a bit of adust Bobs a queer chap whenthe porters up in him so says I just to make talk:--Hows Willy Murray those times, Alf?--I dont know, says Alf I saw him just nowin Capel street with PaddyDignam. Only I was running after that...--You what? says Joe, throwing down theletters. With who?--With Dignam, says Alf.--Is it Paddy? says Joe.--Yes, says Alf. Why?--Dont you know hes dead? says Joe.--Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf.--Ay, says Joe.--Sure Im after seeing him not five minutesago, says Alf, as plain asa pikestaff.--Whos dead? says Bob Doran.--You saw his ghost then, says Joe, Godbetween us and harm.--What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five...What?... And Willy Murraywith him, the two of them there nearwhatdoyoucallhims... What? Dignamdead?--What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Whostalking about...?--Dead! says Alf. Hes no more dead than youare.--Maybe so, says Joe. They took the libertyof burying him this morninganyhow.--Paddy? says Alf.--Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature,God be merciful to him.--Good Christ! says Alf.Begob he was what you might callflabbergasted.In the darkness spirit hands were felt toflutter and when prayer bytantras had been directed to the proper quarter afaint but increasingluminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, theapparition ofthe etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to thedischargeof jivic rays from the crown of the head and face. Communicationwaseffected through the pituitary body and also by means of the orangefieryandscarlet rays emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus.Questioned byhis earthname as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld hestated that he was nowon the path of pr l ya or return but was stillsubmitted to trial at the handsof certain bloodthirsty entities on thelower astral levels. In reply to a questionas to his first sensationsin the great divide beyond he stated that previouslyhe had seen as in aglass darkly but that those who had passed over had summitpossibilitiesof atmic development opened up to them. Interrogated as to whetherlifethere resembled our experience in the flesh he stated that he had heardfrommore favoured beings now in the spirit that their abodes wereequipped withevery modern home comfort such as talafana, alavatar,hatakalda, wataklasat andthat the highest adepts were steeped inwaves of volupcy of the very purestnature. Having requested a quart ofbuttermilk this was brought and evidentlyafforded relief. Asked if hehad any message for the living he exhorted all whowere still at thewrong side of Maya to acknowledge the true path for it wasreportedin devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were out for mischief ontheeastern angle where the ram has power. It was then queried whether therewereany special desires on the part of the defunct and the reply was:_We greet you,friends of earth, who are still in the body. Mind C. K.doesnt pile it on._ Itwas ascertained that the reference was to MrCornelius Kelleher, manager ofMessrs H. J. ONeills popularfuneral establishment, a personal friend of thedefunct, who had beenresponsible for the carrying out of the intermentarrangements. Beforedeparting he requested that it should be told to his dearson Patsy thatthe other boot which he had been looking for was at present underthecommode in the return room and that the pair should be sent to Cullensto besoled only as the heels were still good. He stated that this hadgreatlyperturbed his peace of mind in the other region and earnestlyrequested that hisdesire should be made known.Assurances were given that the matter wouldbe attended to and it wasintimated that this had given satisfaction.He is gone from mortal haunts: ODignam, sunof our morning. Fleet washis foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow.Wail, Banba, withyour wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.--There he is again, says the citizen,staring out.--Who? says I.--Bloom, says he. Hes on point duty up anddown there for the last tenminutes.And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in andthen slidder off again.Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, hewas.--Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn itwas him.And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the backof his poll, lowestblackguard in Dublin when hes under the influence:--Who said Christ is good?--I beg your parsnips, says Alf.--Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, totake away poor little WillyDignam?--Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off.Hes over all his troubles.But Bob Doran shouts out of him.--Hes a bloody ruffian, I say, to take awaypoor little Willy Dignam.Terry came down and tipped him the wink tokeep quiet, that they didntwant that kind of talk in a respectable licensedpremises. And Bob Doranstarts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true asyoure there.--The finest man, says he, snivelling, thefinest purest character.The tear is bloody near your eye. Talkingthrough his bloody hat. Fitterfor him go home to the little sleepwalking bitchhe married, Mooney, thebumbailiffs daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwickestreet, thatused to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told me thatwasstopping there at two in the morning without a stitch on her, exposingherperson, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.--The noblest, the truest, says he. And hesgone, poor little Willy,poor little Paddy Dignam.And mournful and with a heavy heart he beweptthe extinction of thatbeam of heaven.Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloomthat was skeezing roundthe door.--Come in, come on, he wont eat you, saysthe citizen.So Bloom slopes in with his cods eye on thedog and he asks Terry wasMartin Cunningham there.--O, Christ MKeown, says Joe, reading one ofthe letters. Listen tothis, will you?And he starts reading out one._7 Hunter Street, Liverpool. To the HighSheriff of Dublin, Dublin.__Honoured sir i beg to offer my services inthe abovementioned painfulcase i hanged Joe Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 ofFebuary 1900 and ihanged..._--Show us, Joe, says I.--_... private Arthur Chace for fowl murderof Jessie Tilsit inPentonville prison and i was assistant when..._--Jesus, says I.--_... Billington executed the awful murdererToad Smith..._The citizen made a grab at the letter.--Hold hard, says Joe, _i have a special nackof putting the noose oncein he cant get out hoping to be favoured i remain,honoured sir, myterms is five ginnees.__H. RUMBOLD, MASTER BARBER._--And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too,says the citizen.--And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, saysJoe. Here, says he, take themto hell out of my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, sayshe, what will you have?So they started arguing about the point,Bloom saying he wouldnt and hecouldnt and excuse him no offence and all tothat and then he said wellhed just take a cigar. Gob, hes a prudent memberand no mistake.--Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry,says Joe.And Alf was telling us there was one chapsent in a mourning card with ablack border round it.--Theyre all barbers, says he, from theblack country that would hangtheir own fathers for five quid down andtravelling expenses.And he was telling us theres two fellowswaiting below to pull hisheels down when he gets the drop and choke himproperly and then theychop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob askull.In the dark land they bide, the vengefulknights of the razor. Theirdeadly coil they grasp: yea, and therein they leadto Erebus whatsoeverwight hath done a deed of blood for I will on nowise sufferit even sosaith the Lord.So they started talking about capitalpunishment and of course Bloomcomes out with the why and the wherefore and allthe codology of thebusiness and the old dog smelling him all the time Im toldthose jewiesdoes have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs about Idontknow what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on.--Theres one thing it hasnt a deterrenteffect on, says Alf.--Whats that? says Joe.--The poor buggers tool thats being hanged,says Alf.--That so? says Joe.--Gods truth, says Alf. I heard that fromthe head warder that was inKilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, theinvincible. He told me whenthey cut him down after the drop it was standing upin their faces likea poker.--Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe,as someone said.--That can be explained by science, saysBloom. Its only a naturalphenomenon, dont you see, because on account ofthe...And then he starts with his jawbreakers aboutphenomenon and science andthis phenomenon and the other phenomenon.The distinguished scientist Herr ProfessorLuitpold Blumenduft tenderedmedical evidence to the effect that theinstantaneous fracture of thecervical vertebrae and consequent scission of thespinal cord would,according to the best approved tradition of medical science,becalculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violentganglionicstimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus,thereby causing theelastic pores of the _corpora cavernosa_ to rapidlydilate in such a way as toinstantaneously facilitate the flow of bloodto that part of the human anatomyknown as the penis or male organresulting in the phenomenon which has beendenominated by the facultya morbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitiveerection _in articulomortis per diminutionem capitis._So of course the citizen was only waiting forthe wink of the word andhe starts gassing out of him about the invincibles andthe old guard andthe men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeightand Joe withhim about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transportedforthe cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, thatandthe other. Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a newdog so heought. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing all roundthe place andscratching his scabs. And round he goes to Bob Doran thatwas standing Alf ahalf one sucking up for what he could get. So ofcourse Bob Doran starts doingthe bloody fool with him:--Give us the paw! Give the paw, doggy! Goodold doggy! Give the pawhere! Give us the paw!Arrah, bloody end to the paw hed paw and Alftrying to keep him fromtumbling off the bloody stool atop of the bloody old dogand he talkingall kinds of drivel about training by kindness and thoroughbreddog andintelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. Then he starts scraping afewbits of old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacobs tin he told Terrytobring. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hangingout ofhim a yard long for more. Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloodymongrel.And the citizen and Bloom having an argumentabout the point, thebrothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill andRobert Emmetand die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara Curranandshes far from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedowncigarputting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon! The fat heap hemarried is anice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley.Time they were stoppingup in the _City Arms_ pisser Burke told me therewas an old one there with acracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloomtrying to get the soft side of her doingthe mollycoddle playing b√©ziqueto come in for a bit of the wampum in her willand not eating meat of aFriday because the old one was always thumping her crawand taking thelout out for a walk. And one time he led him the rounds of Dublinand,by the holy farmer, he never cried crack till he brought him home asdrunkas a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils ofalcohol and byherrings, if the three women didnt near roast him, itsa queer story, the oldone, Blooms wife and Mrs ODowd that kept thehotel. Jesus, I had to laugh atpisser Burke taking them off chewingthe fat. And Bloom with his _but dont yousee?_ and _but on the otherhand_. And sure, more be token, the lout Im toldwas in Powers after,the blenders, round in Cope street going home footless ina cab fivetimes in the week after drinking his way through all the samples inthebloody establishment. Phenomenon!--The memory of the dead, says the citizentaking up his pintglass andglaring at Bloom.--Ay, ay, says Joe.--You dont grasp my point, says Bloom. WhatI mean is...--_Sinn Fein!_ says the citizen. _Sinn Feinamhain!_ The friends we loveare by our side and the foes we hate before us.The last farewell was affecting in theextreme. From the belfries farand near the funereal deathbell tolledunceasingly while all around thegloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning ofa hundred muffled drumspunctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance.The deafeningclaps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit uptheghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent itssupernaturalpomp to the already gruesome spectacle. A torrential rainpoured down from thefloodgates of the angry heavens upon thebared heads of the assembled multitudewhich numbered at thelowest computation five hundred thousand persons. A posseof DublinMetropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner inpersonmaintained order in the vast throng for whom the York street brassandreed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering ontheirblackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us fromthe cradle bySperanzas plaintive muse. Special quick excursion trainsand upholsteredcharabancs had been provided for the comfort of ourcountry cousins of whom therewere large contingents. Considerableamusement was caused by the favouriteDublin streetsingers L-n-h-n andM-ll-g-n who sang _The Night before Larry wasstretched_ in their usualmirth-provoking fashion. Our two inimitable drolls dida roaring tradewith their broadsheets among lovers of the comedy element andnobodywho has a corner in his heart for real Irish fun without vulgaritywillgrudge them their hardearned pennies. The children of the Male andFemaleFoundling Hospital who thronged the windows overlooking the scenewere delightedwith this unexpected addition to the days entertainmentand a word of praise isdue to the Little Sisters of the Poor for theirexcellent idea of affording thepoor fatherless and motherless childrena genuinely instructive treat. Theviceregal houseparty which includedmany wellknown ladies was chaperoned byTheir Excellencies to the mostfavourable positions on the grandstand while thepicturesque foreigndelegation known as the Friends of the Emerald Isle wasaccommodatedon a tribune directly opposite. The delegation, present in fullforce,consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone (the semiparalysed_doyen_of the party who had to be assisted to his seat by the aid of apowerful steamcrane), Monsieur Pierrepaul Petit√©patant, the GrandjokerVladinmirePokethankertscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph vonSchwanzenbad-Hodenthaler,Countess Marha Vir√°ga Kis√°szony Putr√°pesthi,Hiram Y. Bomboost, CountAthanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba BacksheeshRahat Lokum Effendi, Senor HidalgoCaballero Don Pecadillo y Palabrasy Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria,Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi HungChang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps,Pan PoleaxePaddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchisitch,BorusHupinkoff, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident HansChuechli-Steuerli,Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocent-generalhistoryspecialprofessordoctorKriegfried Ueberallgemein. All thedelegates without exception expressedthemselves in the strongestpossible heterogeneous terms concerning the namelessbarbarity whichthey had been called upon to witness. An animated altercation(in whichall took part) ensued among the F. O. T. E. I. as to whether theeighthor the ninth of March was the correct date of the birth of Irelandspatronsaint. In the course of the argument cannonballs, scimitars,boomerangs,blunderbusses, stinkpots, meatchoppers, umbrellas,catapults, knuckledusters,sandbags, lumps of pig iron were resorted toand blows were freely exchanged.The baby policeman, ConstableMacFadden, summoned by special courier fromBooterstown, quicklyrestored order and with lightning promptitude proposed theseventeenthof the month as a solution equally honourable for bothcontendingparties. The readywitted ninefooters suggestion at once appealed toalland was unanimously accepted. Constable MacFadden was heartilycongratulatedby all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleedingprofusely. CommendatoreBeninobenone having been extricated fromunderneath the presidential armchair,it was explained by his legaladviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the variousarticles secreted in histhirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by him during theaffray from thepockets of his junior colleagues in the hope of bringing them totheirsenses. The objects (which included several hundred ladies andgentlemensgold and silver watches) were promptly restored to theirrightful owners andgeneral harmony reigned supreme.Quietly, unassumingly Rumbold stepped on tothe scaffold in faultlessmorning dress and wearing his favourite flower, the_GladiolusCruentus_. He announced his presence by that gentle Rumboldiancoughwhich so many have tried (unsuccessfully) to imitate--short,painstakingyet withal so characteristic of the man. The arrival of theworldrenowned headsmanwas greeted by a roar of acclamation from thehuge concourse, the viceregalladies waving their handkerchiefs intheir excitement while the even moreexcitable foreign delegatescheered vociferously in a medley of cries, _hoch,banzai, eljen, zivio,chinchin, polla kronia, hiphip, vive, Allah_, amid whichthe ringing_evviva_ of the delegate of the land of song (a high double Frecallingthose piercingly lovely notes with which the eunuch Catalanibeglamouredour greatgreatgrandmothers) was easily distinguishable. It wasexactlyseventeen oclock. The signal for prayer was then promptly givenbymegaphone and in an instant all heads were bared, thecommendatorespatriarchal sombrero, which has been in the possession of hisfamilysince the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by his medical adviserinattendance, Dr Pippi. The learned prelate who administered the lastcomforts ofholy religion to the hero martyr when about to pay the deathpenalty knelt in amost christian spirit in a pool of rainwater, hiscassock above his hoary head,and offered up to the throne of gracefervent prayers of supplication. Hand bythe block stood the grim figureof the executioner, his visage being concealedin a tengallon potwith two circular perforated apertures through which his eyesgloweredfuriously. As he awaited the fatal signal he tested the edge ofhishorrible weapon by honing it upon his brawny forearm or decapitatedin rapidsuccession a flock of sheep which had been provided by theadmirers of his fellbut necessary office. On a handsome mahogany tablenear him were neatly arrangedthe quartering knife, the variousfinely tempered disembowelling appliances(specially supplied by theworldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round andSons, Sheffield),a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the duodenum,colon,blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted andtwocommodious milkjugs destined to receive the most precious blood of themostprecious victim. The housesteward of the amalgamated cats anddogs home was inattendance to convey these vessels when replenishedto that beneficentinstitution. Quite an excellent repast consisting ofrashers and eggs, friedsteak and onions, done to a nicety, delicioushot breakfast rolls andinvigorating tea had been considerately providedby the authorities for theconsumption of the central figure of thetragedy who was in capital spirits whenprepared for death and evincedthe keenest interest in the proceedings frombeginning to end but he,with an abnegation rare in these our times, rose noblyto the occasionand expressed the dying wish (immediately acceded to) that themealshould be divided in aliquot parts among the members of the sickandindigent roomkeepers association as a token of his regard and esteem.The_nec_ and _non plus ultra_ of emotion were reached when the blushingbride electburst her way through the serried ranks of the bystandersand flung herself uponthe muscular bosom of him who was about to belaunched into eternity for hersake. The hero folded her willowy form ina loving embrace murmuring fondly_Sheila, my own_. Encouraged bythis use of her christian name she kissedpassionately all the varioussuitable areas of his person which the decencies ofprison garbpermitted her ardour to reach. She swore to him as they mingled thesaltstreams of their tears that she would ever cherish his memory, thatshewould never forget her hero boy who went to his death with a song on hislipsas if he were but going to a hurling match in Clonturk park. Shebrought back tohis recollection the happy days of blissful childhoodtogether on the banks ofAnna Liffey when they had indulged in theinnocent pastimes of the young and,oblivious of the dreadful present,they both laughed heartily, all thespectators, including the venerablepastor, joining in the general merriment.That monster audience simplyrocked with delight. But anon they were overcomewith grief and claspedtheir hands for the last time. A fresh torrent of tearsburst from theirlachrymal ducts and the vast concourse of people, touched tothe inmostcore, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least affected beingtheaged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of the peace andgenialgiants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use oftheirhandkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was not a dry eyein that recordassemblage. A most romantic incident occurred when ahandsome young Oxfordgraduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fairsex, stepped forward and,presenting his visiting card, bankbookand genealogical tree, solicited the handof the hapless young lady,requesting her to name the day, and was accepted onthe spot. Every ladyin the audience was presented with a tasteful souvenir ofthe occasionin the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a timely and generousactwhich evoked a fresh outburst of emotion: and when the gallant youngOxonian(the bearer, by the way, of one of the most timehonoured namesin Albionshistory) placed on the finger of his blushing _fianc√©e_ anexpensive engagementring with emeralds set in the form of afourleaved shamrock the excitement knewno bounds. Nay, even thester provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-MaxwellffrenchmullanTomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had blownaconsiderable number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching,could notnow restrain his natural emotion. With his mailed gauntlethe brushed away afurtive tear and was overheard, by those privilegedburghers who happened to bein his immediate _entourage,_ to murmur tohimself in a faltering undertone:--God blimey if she aint a clinker, thatthere bleeding tart. Blimey itmakes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does,when I sees her causeI thinks of my old mashtub whats waiting for me downLimehouse way.So then the citizen begins talking about theIrish language and thecorporation meeting and all to that and the shoneens thatcant speaktheir own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone foraquid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump thathe cadged offof Joe and talking about the Gaelic league and theantitreating league anddrink, the curse of Ireland. Antitreating isabout the size of it. Gob, hed letyou pour all manner of drink downhis throat till the Lord would call him beforeyoud ever see the frothof his pint. And one night I went in with a fellow intoone of theirmusical evenings, song and dance about she could get up on a trussofhay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow with a Ballyhoolyblueribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish and a lot of colleenbawns going aboutwith temperance beverages and selling medalsand oranges and lemonade and a fewold dry buns, gob, flahoolaghentertainment, dont be talking. Ireland sober isIreland free. Andthen an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and allthe gougersshuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one ortwosky pilots having an eye around that there was no goings on with thefemales,hitting below the belt.So howandever, as I was saying, the old dogseeing the tin was emptystarts mousing around by Joe and me. Id train him bykindness, so Iwould, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now andagainwhere it wouldnt blind him.--Afraid hell bite you? says the citizen,jeering.--No, says I. But he might take my leg for alamppost.So he calls the old dog over.--Whats on you, Garry? says he.Then he starts hauling and mauling andtalking to him in Irish and theold towser growling, letting on to answer, likea duet in the opera.Such growling you never heard as they let off between them.Someone thathas nothing better to do ought to write a letter _pro bono publico_tothe papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of that. Growlingandgrousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and thehydrophobiadropping out of his jaws.All those who are interested in the spread ofhuman culture among thelower animals (and their name is legion) should make apoint of notmissing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given bythefamous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the _sobriquet_ofGarryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friendsandacquaintances Owen Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of yearsoftraining by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system,comprises, amongother achievements, the recitation of verse. Ourgreatest living phonetic expert(wild horses shall not drag it from us!)has left no stone unturned in hisefforts to delucidate and comparethe verse recited and has found it bears a _striking_resemblance (theitalics are ours) to the ranns of ancient Celtic bards. We arenotspeaking so much of those delightful lovesongs with which the writerwhoconceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym of the LittleSweet Branchhas familiarised the bookloving world but rather (asa contributor D. O. C.points out in an interesting communicationpublished by an evening contemporary)of the harsher and more personalnote which is found in the satirical effusionsof the famous Raftery andof Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a more modernlyrist at presentvery much in the public eye. We subjoin a specimen which hasbeenrendered into English by an eminent scholar whose name for the moment wearenot at liberty to disclose though we believe that our readers willfind thetopical allusion rather more than an indication. The metricalsystem of thecanine original, which recalls the intricate alliterativeand isosyllabic rulesof the Welsh englyn, is infinitely morecomplicated but we believe our readerswill agree that the spirit hasbeen well caught. Perhaps it should be added thatthe effect is greatlyincreased if Owens verse be spoken somewhat slowly andindistinctly ina tone suggestive of suppressed rancour.  _The curse of mycurses  Seven days every day  Andseven dry Thursdays  On you, BarneyKiernan,  Has no sup of water  Tocool my courage,  And my guts redroaring  After Lowrys lights._So he told Terry to bring some water for thedog and, gob, you couldhear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked himwould he haveanother.--I will, says he, _a chara_, to show theresno ill feeling.Gob, hes not as green as hescabbagelooking. Arsing around from onepub to another, leaving it to your ownhonour, with old Giltraps dogand getting fed up by the ratepayers andcorporators. Entertainment forman and beast. And says Joe:--Could you make a hole in another pint?--Could a swim duck? says I.--Same again, Terry, says Joe. Are you sureyou wont have anything inthe way of liquid refreshment? says he.--Thank you, no, says Bloom. As a matter offact I just wanted to meetMartin Cunningham, dont you see, about thisinsurance of poor Dignams.Martin asked me to go to the house. You see, he,Dignam, I mean, didntserve any notice of the assignment on the company at thetime andnominally under the act the mortgagee cant recover on the policy.--Holy Wars, says Joe, laughing, thats agood one if old Shylock islanded. So the wife comes out top dog, what?--Well, thats a point, says Bloom, for thewifes admirers.--Whose admirers? says Joe.--The wifes advisers, I mean, says Bloom.Then he starts all confused mucking it upabout mortgagor under the actlike the lord chancellor giving it out on thebench and for the benefitof the wife and that a trust is created but on theother hand thatDignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or thewidowcontested the mortgagees right till he near had the head of me addledwithhis mortgagor under the act. He was bloody safe he wasnt run inhimself underthe act that time as a rogue and vagabond only he had afriend in court. Sellingbazaar tickets or what do you call it royalHungarian privileged lottery. Trueas youre there. O, commend me to anisraelite! Royal and privileged Hungarianrobbery.So Bob Doran comes lurching around askingBloom to tell Mrs Dignam hewas sorry for her trouble and he was very sorryabout the funeral andto tell her that he said and everyone who knew him saidthat there wasnever a truer, a finer than poor little Willy thats dead to tellher.Choking with bloody foolery. And shaking Blooms hand doing the tragictotell her that. Shake hands, brother. Youre a rogue and Im another.--Let me, said he, so far presume upon ouracquaintance which, howeverslight it may appear if judged by the standard ofmere time, is founded,as I hope and believe, on a sentiment of mutual esteem asto request ofyou this favour. But, should I have overstepped the limits ofreservelet the sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my boldness.--No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to thefull the motives whichactuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office youentrust tome consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one ofsorrow,this proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitternessofthe cup.--Then suffer me to take your hand, said he.The goodness of your heart,I feel sure, will dictate to you better than myinadequate wordsthe expressions which are most suitable to convey an emotionwhosepoignancy, were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me evenofspeech.And off with him and out trying to walkstraight. Boosed at fiveoclock. Night he was near being lagged only PaddyLeonard knew thebobby, 14A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride streetafterclosing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard,drinkingporter out of teacups. And calling himself a Frenchy for theshawls,Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and heservingmass in Adam and Eves when he was young with his eyes shut, whowrotethe new testament, and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. Andthetwo shawls killed with the laughing, picking his pockets, the bloodyfool and hespilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawlsscreeching laughing at oneanother. _How is your testament? Have you gotan old testament?_ Only Paddy waspassing there, I tell you what. Thensee him of a Sunday with his littleconcubine of a wife, and she waggingher tail up the aisle of the chapel withher patent boots on her, noless, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the littlelady. Jack Mooneyssister. And the old prostitute of a mother procuring roomsto streetcouples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told him if he didnt patchupthe pot, Jesus, hed kick the shite out of him.So Terry brought the three pints.--Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here,citizen.--_Slan leat_, says he.--Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.Gob, he had his mouth half way down thetumbler already. Want a smallfortune to keep him in drinks.--Who is the long fellow running for themayoralty, Alf? says Joe.--Friend of yours, says Alf.--Nannan? says Joe. The mimber?--I wont mention any names, says Alf.--I thought so, says Joe. I saw him up atthat meeting now with WilliamField, M. P., the cattle traders.--Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, thatexploded volcano, the darling ofall countries and the idol of his own.So Joe starts telling the citizen about thefoot and mouth diseaseand the cattle traders and taking action in the matterand the citizensending them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out withhissheepdip for the scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves andtheguaranteed remedy for timber tongue. Because he was up one time inaknackers yard. Walking about with his book and pencil heres my headand myheels are coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the bootfor giving lip toa grazier. Mister Knowall. Teach your grandmother howto milk ducks. PisserBurke was telling me in the hotel the wife usedto be in rivers of tears sometimes with Mrs ODowd crying her eyes outwith her eight inches of fat all overher. Couldnt loosen her fartingstrings but old cods eye was waltzing aroundher showing her how to doit. Whats your programme today? Ay. Humane methods.Because the pooranimals suffer and experts say and the best known remedy thatdoesntcause pain to the animal and on the sore spot administer gently.Gob,hed have a soft hand under a hen.Ga Ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz isour hen. She lays eggs forus. When she lays her egg she is so glad. Gara. KlookKlook Klook. Thencomes good uncle Leo. He puts his hand under black Liz andtakes herfresh egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook.--Anyhow, says Joe, Field and Nannetti aregoing over tonight to Londonto ask about it on the floor of the house ofcommons.--Are you sure, says Bloom, the councillor isgoing? I wanted to seehim, as it happens.--Well, hes going off by the mailboat, saysJoe, tonight.--Thats too bad, says Bloom. I wantedparticularly. Perhaps only MrField is going. I couldnt phone. No. Youre sure?--Nannans going too, says Joe. The leaguetold him to ask a questiontomorrow about the commissioner of police forbiddingIrish games in thepark. What do you think of that, citizen? _The Sluagh nah-Eireann_.Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arisingout of the question ofmy honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may Iask the righthonourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders thattheseanimals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcomingasto their pathological condition?Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourablemembers are already inpossession of the evidence produced before a committee ofthe wholehouse. I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. The answer tothehonourable members question is in the affirmative.Mr Orelli OReilly (Montenotte. Nat.): Havesimilar orders been issuedfor the slaughter of human animals who dare to playIrish games in thePhoenix park?Mr Allfours: The answer is in the negative.Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourablegentlemans famousMitchelstown telegram inspired the policy of gentlemen on theTreasurybench? (O! O!)Mr Allfours: I must have notice of thatquestion.Mr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Dont hesitateto shoot.(Ironical opposition cheers.)The speaker: Order! Order!(The house rises. Cheers.)--Theres the man, says Joe, that made theGaelic sports revival. Therehe is sitting there. The man that got away JamesStephens. The championof all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot. Whatwas your bestthrow, citizen?--_Na bacleis_, says the citizen, letting onto be modest. There was atime I was as good as the next fellow anyhow.--Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You wereand a bloody sight better.--Is that really a fact? says Alf.--Yes, says Bloom. Thats well known. Did younot know that?So off they started about Irish sports andshoneen games the like oflawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone andracy of the soiland building up a nation once again and all to that. And ofcourse Bloomhad to have his say too about if a fellow had a rowers heartviolentexercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up astrawfrom the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: _Look at, Bloom. Do youseethat straw? Thats a straw_. Declare to my aunt hed talk about itfor an hourso he would and talk steady.A most interesting discussion took place inthe ancient hall of _BrianOciarnains_ in _Sraid na Bretaine Bheag_, under theauspices of_Sluagh na h-Eireann_, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports andtheimportance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece andancientRome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the race.The venerablepresident of the noble order was in the chair and theattendance was of largedimensions. After an instructive discourse bythe chairman, a magnificentoration eloquently and forcibly expressed,a most interesting and instructivediscussion of the usual high standardof excellence ensued as to thedesirability of the revivability ofthe ancient games and sports of our ancientPanceltic forefathers. Thewellknown and highly respected worker in the cause ofour old tongue, MrJoseph MCarthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for theresuscitation ofthe ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised morning andeveningby Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the best traditions ofmanlystrength and prowess handed down to us from ancient ages. L. Bloom, whometwith a mixed reception of applause and hisses, having espoused thenegative thevocalist chairman brought the discussion to a close, inresponse to repeatedrequests and hearty plaudits from all parts ofa bumper house, by a remarkablynoteworthy rendering of the immortalThomas Osborne Davis evergreen verses(happily too familiar to needrecalling here) _A nation once again_ in theexecution of which theveteran patriot champion may be said without fear ofcontradictionto have fairly excelled himself. The Irish Caruso-Garibaldi wasinsuperlative form and his stentorian notes were heard to the greatestadvantagein the timehonoured anthem sung as only our citizen can singit. His superbhighclass vocalism, which by its superquality greatlyenhanced his alreadyinternational reputation, was vociferouslyapplauded by the large audience amongwhich were to be noticed manyprominent members of the clergy as well asrepresentatives of the pressand the bar and the other learned professions. Theproceedings thenterminated.Amongst the clergy present were the very rev.William Delany, S. J., L.L. D.; the rt rev. Gerald Molloy, D. D.; the rev. P.J. Kavanagh, C. S.Sp.; the rev. T. Waters, C. C.; the rev. John M. Ivers, P.P.; the rev.P. J. Cleary, O. S. F.; the rev. L. J. Hickey, O. P.; the very rev.Fr.Nicholas, O. S. F. C.; the very rev. B. Gorman, O. D. C.; the rev. T.Maher,S. J.; the very rev. James Murphy, S. J.; the rev. John Lavery,V. F.; the veryrev. William Doherty, D. D.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O.M.; the rev. T. Brangan,O. S. A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C. C.; therev. M. A. Hackett, C. C.; the rev. W.Hurley, C. C.; the rt rev. MgrMManus, V. G.; the rev. B. R. Slattery, O. M.I.; the very rev. M.D. Scally, P. P.; the rev. F. T. Purcell, O. P.; the veryrev. Timothycanon Gorman, P. P.; the rev. J. Flanagan, C. C. The laity includedP.Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc.--Talking about violent exercise, says Alf,were you at thatKeogh-Bennett match?--No, says Joe.--I heard So and So made a cool hundred quidover it, says Alf.--Who? Blazes? says Joe.And says Bloom:--What I meant about tennis, for example, isthe agility and trainingthe eye.--Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Mylerwas on the beer to run upthe odds and he swatting all the time.--We know him, says the citizen. Thetraitors son. We know what putEnglish gold in his pocket.---True for you, says Joe.And Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis andthe circulation of theblood, asking Alf:--Now, dont you think, Bergan?--Myler dusted the floor with him, says Alf.Heenan and Sayers was onlya bloody fool to it. Handed him the father and motherof a beating. Seethe little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellowswiping. God,he gave him one last puck in the wind, Queensberry rules and all,madehim puke what he never ate.It was a historic and a hefty battle whenMyler and Percy were scheduledto don the gloves for the purse of fiftysovereigns. Handicapped as hewas by lack of poundage, Dublins pet lamb made upfor it by superlativeskill in ringcraft. The final bout of fireworks was agruelling for bothchampions. The welterweight sergeantmajor had tapped somelively claretin the previous mixup during which Keogh had been receivergeneralofrights and lefts, the artilleryman putting in some neat work on thepetsnose, and Myler came on looking groggy. The soldier got tobusiness, leading offwith a powerful left jab to which the Irishgladiator retaliated by shooting outa stiff one flush to the point ofBennetts jaw. The redcoat ducked but theDubliner lifted him with aleft hook, the body punch being a fine one. The mencame to handigrips.Myler quickly became busy and got his man under, the boutending withthe bulkier man on the ropes, Myler punishing him. The Englishman,whoseright eye was nearly closed, took his corner where he wasliberallydrenched with water and when the bell went came on gamey and brimfulofpluck, confident of knocking out the fistic Eblanite in jigtime. It wasafight to a finish and the best man for it. The two fought like tigersandexcitement ran fever high. The referee twice cautioned Pucking Percyfor holdingbut the pet was tricky and his footwork a treat to watch.After a brisk exchangeof courtesies during which a smart upper cut ofthe military man brought bloodfreely from his opponents mouth thelamb suddenly waded in all over his man andlanded a terrific left toBattling Bennetts stomach, flooring him flat. It wasa knockout cleanand clever. Amid tense expectation the Portobello bruiser wasbeingcounted out when Bennetts second Ole Pfotts Wettstein threw in thetoweland the Santry boy was declared victor to the frenzied cheers ofthe public whobroke through the ringropes and fairly mobbed him withdelight.--He knows which side his bread is buttered,says Alf. I hear hesrunning a concert tour now up in the north.--He is, says Joe. Isnt he?--Who? says Bloom. Ah, yes. Thats quitetrue. Yes, a kind of summertour, you see. Just a holiday.--Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isntshe? says Joe.--My wife? says Bloom. Shes singing, yes. Ithink it will be a successtoo.Hes an excellent man to organise. Excellent.Hoho begob says I to myself says I. Thatexplains the milk in thecocoanut and absence of hair on the animals chest.Blazes doing thetootle on the flute. Concert tour. Dirty Dan the dodgers sonoff Islandbridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government tofightthe Boers. Old Whatwhat. I called about the poor and water rate, MrBoylan.You what? The water rate, Mr Boylan. You whatwhat? Thats thebucko thatllorganise her, take my tip. Twixt me and you Caddareesh.Pride of Calpes rocky mount, the ravenhaireddaughter of Tweedy. Theregrew she to peerless beauty where loquat and almondscent the air. Thegardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of olives knewand bowed.The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms.And lo, there entered one of the clan of theOMolloys, a comely heroof white face yet withal somewhat ruddy, his majestyscounsel learnedin the law, and with him the prince and heir of the noble lineofLambert.--Hello, Ned.--Hello, Alf.--Hello, Jack.--Hello, Joe.--God save you, says the citizen.--Save you kindly, says J. J. Whatll it be,Ned?--Half one, says Ned.So J. J. ordered the drinks.--Were you round at the court? says Joe.--Yes, says J. J. Hell square that, Ned,says he.--Hope so, says Ned.Now what were those two at? J. J. getting himoff the grand jury listand the other give him a leg over the stile. With hisname in Stubbss.Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glassin theireye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnisheeorders.Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street where no-onewouldknow him in the private office when I was there with Pisser releasinghisboots out of the pop. Whats your name, sir? Dunne, says he. Ay, anddone saysI. Gob, hell come home by weeping cross one of those days,Im thinking.--Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen roundthere? says Alf. U. p: up.--Yes, says J. J. Looking for a privatedetective.--Ay, says Ned. And he wanted right go wrongto address the court onlyCorny Kelleher got round him telling him to get thehandwriting examinedfirst.--Ten thousand pounds, says Alf, laughing.God, Id give anything tohear him before a judge and jury.--Was it you did it, Alf? says Joe. Thetruth, the whole truth andnothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.--Me? says Alf. Dont cast your nasturtiumson my character.--Whatever statement you make, says Joe, willbe taken down in evidenceagainst you.--Of course an action would lie, says J. J.It implies that he is not_compos mentis_. U. p: up._--Compos_ your eye! says Alf, laughing. Doyou know that hes balmy?Look at his head. Do you know that some mornings hehas to get his haton with a shoehorn.--Yes, says J. J., but the truth of a libelis no defence to anindictment for publishing it in the eyes of the law.--Ha ha, Alf, says Joe.--Still, says Bloom, on account of the poorwoman, I mean his wife.--Pity about her, says the citizen. Or anyother woman marries a halfand half.--How half and half? says Bloom. Do you meanhe...--Half and half I mean, says the citizen. Afellow thats neither fishnor flesh.--Nor good red herring, says Joe.--That whats I mean, says the citizen. Apishogue, if you know whatthat is.Begob I saw there was trouble coming. AndBloom explaining he meant onaccount of it being cruel for the wife having to goround after theold stuttering fool. Cruelty to animals so it is to let thatbloodypovertystricken Breen out on grass with his beard out trippinghim,bringing down the rain. And she with her nose cockahoop after shemarriedhim because a cousin of his old fellows was pewopener to thepope. Picture ofhim on the wall with his Smashall Sweeneys moustaches,the signior Brini fromSummerhill, the eyetallyano, papal Zouave to theHoly Father, has left the quayand gone to Moss street. And who washe, tell us? A nobody, two pair back andpassages, at seven shillings aweek, and he covered with all kinds ofbreastplates bidding defiance tothe world.--And moreover, says J. J., a postcard ispublication. It was held tobe sufficient evidence of malice in the testcaseSadgrove v. Hole. In myopinion an action might lie.Six and eightpence, please. Who wants youropinion? Let us drink ourpints in peace. Gob, we wont be let even do that muchitself.--Well, good health, Jack, says Ned.--Good health, Ned, says J. J.---There he is again, says Joe.--Where? says Alf.And begob there he was passing the door withhis books under his oxterand the wife beside him and Corny Kelleher with hiswall eye looking inas they went past, talking to him like a father, trying tosell him asecondhand coffin.--How did that Canada swindle case go off?says Joe.--Remanded, says J. J.One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was wentby the name of JamesWought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad inthe paperssaying hed give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. What? Do youseeany green in the white of my eye? Course it was a bloody barney.What?Swindled them all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, andhisown kidney too. J. J. was telling us there was an ancient HebrewZaretsky orsomething weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on him,swearing by the holyMoses he was stuck for two quid.--Who tried the case? says Joe.--Recorder, says Ned.--Poor old sir Frederick, says Alf, you cancod him up to the two eyes.--Heart as big as a lion, says Ned. Tell hima tale of woe about arrearsof rent and a sick wife and a squad of kids and,faith, hell dissolvein tears on the bench.--Ay, says Alf. Reuben J was bloody lucky hedidnt clap him in the dockthe other day for suing poor little Gumley thatsminding stones, forthe corporation there near Butt bridge.And he starts taking off the old recorderletting on to cry:--A most scandalous thing! This poor hardworkingman! How many children?Ten, did you say?--Yes, your worship. And my wife has thetyphoid.--And the wife with typhoid fever!Scandalous! Leave the courtimmediately, sir. No, sir, Ill make no order forpayment. How dare you,sir, come up before me and ask me to make an order! Apoor hardworkingindustrious man! I dismiss the case.And whereas on the sixteenth day of the monthof the oxeyed goddess andin the third week after the feastday of the Holy andUndivided Trinity,the daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in herfirstquarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them tothehalls of law. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gavehisrede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in theprobate court,weighed well and pondered the claim of the firstchargeant upon the property inthe matter of the will propounded andfinal testamentary disposition _in re_ thereal and personal estate ofthe late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased,versus Livingstone,an infant, of unsound mind, and another. And to the solemncourt ofGreen street there came sir Frederick the Falconer. And he sat himthereabout the hour of five oclock to administer the law of the brehons atthecommission for all that and those parts to be holden in and for thecounty ofthe city of Dublin. And there sat with him the high sinhedrimof the twelvetribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the tribe ofPatrick and of the tribeof Hugh and of the tribe of Owen and of thetribe of Conn and of the tribe ofOscar and of the tribe of Fergus andof the tribe of Finn and of the tribe ofDermot and of the tribe ofCormac and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe ofCaolte and of thetribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men and true.And heconjured them by Him who died on rood that they should well andtruly tryand true deliverance make in the issue joined between theirsovereign lord theking and the prisoner at the bar and true verdictgive according to the evidenceso help them God and kiss the book. Andthey rose in their seats, those twelveof Iar, and they swore bythe name of Him Who is from everlasting that theywould do Hisrightwiseness. And straightway the minions of the law led forthfromtheir donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehendedinconsequence of information received. And they shackled him hand andfoot andwould take of him ne bail ne mainprise but preferred a chargeagainst him for hewas a malefactor.--Those are nice things, says the citizen,coming over here to Irelandfilling the country with bugs.So Bloom lets on he heard nothing and hestarts talking with Joe,telling him he neednt trouble about that little mattertill the firstbut if he would just say a word to Mr Crawford. And so Joe sworehighand holy by this and by that hed do the devil and all.--Because, you see, says Bloom, for anadvertisement you must haverepetition. Thats the whole secret.--Rely on me, says Joe.--Swindling the peasants, says the citizen,and the poor of Ireland. Wewant no more strangers in our house.--O, Im sure that will be all right, Hynes,says Bloom. Its just thatKeyes, you see.--Consider that done, says Joe.--Very kind of you, says Bloom.--The strangers, says the citizen. Our ownfault. We let them come in.We brought them in. The adulteress and her paramourbrought the Saxonrobbers here.--Decree _nisi,_ says J. J.And Bloom letting on to be awfully deeplyinterested in nothing, aspiders web in the corner behind the barrel, and thecitizen scowlingafter him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who tobite andwhen.--A dishonoured wife, says the citizen,thats whats the cause of allour misfortunes.--And here she is, says Alf, that wasgiggling over the _Police Gazette_with Terry on the counter, in all herwarpaint.--Give us a squint at her, says I.And what was it only one of the smutty yankeepictures Terry borrows offof Corny Kelleher. Secrets for enlarging your privateparts. Misconductof society belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy Chicago contractor,findspretty but faithless wife in lap of officer Taylor. Belle in herbloomersmisconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for her ticklesand Norman W.Tupper bouncing in with his peashooter just in time to belate after she doingthe trick of the loop with officer Taylor.--O jakers, Jenny, says Joe, how short yourshirt is!--Theres hair, Joe, says I. Get a queer oldtailend of corned beef offof that one, what?So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehanwith him with a face onhim as long as a late breakfast.--Well, says the citizen, whats the latestfrom the scene of action?What did those tinkers in the city hall at theircaucus meeting decideabout the Irish language?ONolan, clad in shining armour, low bendingmade obeisance to thepuissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did himto wit ofthat which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the mostobedientcity, second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there,afterdue prayers to the gods who dwell in ether supernal, had takensolemncounsel whereby they might, if so be it might be, bring once moreintohonour among mortal men the winged speech of the seadivided Gael.--Its on the march, says the citizen. Tohell with the bloody brutalSassenachs and their _patois._So J. J. puts in a word, doing the toff aboutone story was good tillyou heard another and blinking facts and the Nelsonpolicy, putting yourblind eye to the telescope and drawing up a bill ofattainder to impeacha nation, and Bloom trying to back him up moderation andbotheration andtheir colonies and their civilisation.--Their syphilisation, you mean, says thecitizen. To hell withthem! The curse of a goodfornothing God light sideways onthe bloodythicklugged sons of whores gets! No music and no art and no literatureworthyof the name. Any civilisation they have they stole from us.Tonguetied sons ofbastards ghosts.--The European family, says J. J....--Theyre not European, says the citizen. Iwas in Europe with KevinEgan of Paris. You wouldnt see a trace of them ortheir languageanywhere in Europe except in a _cabinet daisance._And says John Wyse:--Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.And says Lenehan that knows a bit of thelingo:--_Conspuez les Anglais! Perfide Albion!_He said and then lifted he in his rude greatbrawny strengthy hands themedher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering histribal slogan _LamhDearg Abu_, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race ofmightyvalorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones ofalabastersilent as the deathless gods.--Whats up with you, says I to Lenehan. Youlook like a fellow that hadlost a bob and found a tanner.--Gold cup, says he.--Who won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry._--Throwaway,_ says he, at twenty to one. Arank outsider. And the restnowhere.--And Basss mare? says Terry.--Still running, says he. Were all in acart. Boylan plunged two quidon my tip _Sceptre_ for himself and a lady friend.--I had half a crown myself, says Terry, on_Zinfandel_ that Mr Flynngave me. Lord Howard de Waldens.--Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is lifein an outhouse. _Throwaway,_says he. Takes the biscuit, and talking aboutbunions. Frailty, thy nameis _Sceptre._So he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doranleft to see if there wasanything he could lift on the nod, the old cur afterhim backing hisluck with his mangy snout up. Old Mother Hubbard went to thecupboard.--Not there, my child, says he.--Keep your pecker up, says Joe. Shed havewon the money only for theother dog.And J. J. and the citizen arguing about lawand history with Bloomsticking in an odd word.--Some people, says Bloom, can see the motein others eyes but theycant see the beam in their own.--_Raimeis_, says the citizen. Theres no-oneas blind as the fellowthat wont see, if you know what that means. Where areour missingtwenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four, ourlosttribes? And our potteries and textiles, the finest in the whole world!Andour wool that was sold in Rome in the time of Juvenal and our flaxand ourdamask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick lace, ourtanneries and ourwhite flint glass down there by Ballybough and ourHuguenot poplin that we havesince Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silkand our Foxford tweeds and ivoryraised point from the Carmelite conventin New Ross, nothing like it in thewhole wide world. Where are theGreek merchants that came through the pillars ofHercules, the Gibraltarnow grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and Tyrianpurple tosell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? Read Tacitus and Ptolemy,evenGiraldus Cambrensis. Wine, peltries, Connemara marble, silverfromTipperary, second to none, our farfamed horses even today, theIrishhobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering to pay customs duties fortheright to fish in our waters. What do the yellowjohns of Anglia oweus for ourruined trade and our ruined hearths? And the beds of theBarrow and Shannon theywont deepen with millions of acres of marsh andbog to make us all die ofconsumption?--As treeless as Portugal well be soon, saysJohn Wyse, or Heligolandwith its one tree if something is not done toreafforest the land.Larches, firs, all the trees of the conifer family aregoing fast. I wasreading a report of lord Castletowns...--Save them, says the citizen, the giant ashof Galway and the chieftainelm of Kildare with a fortyfoot bole and an acre offoliage. Save thetrees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fairhills ofEire, O.--Europe has its eyes on you, says Lenehan.The fashionable international world attendedEN MASSE this afternoonat the wedding of the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan,grand high chiefranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Coniferof PineValley. Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash,MrsHolly Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, MrsClydeTwelvetrees, Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, MissVirginiaCreeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss Blanche Maple,MrsMaud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla Elderflower, MissBeeHoneysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa San, Miss RachelCedarfrond, theMisses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity Aspenall,Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse,Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs LianaForrest, Mrs ArabellaBlackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regisgraced the ceremony by theirpresence. The bride who was given away byher father, the MConifer of theGlands, looked exquisitely charming ina creation carried out in greenmercerised silk, moulded on an underslipof gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke ofbroad emerald and finished witha triple flounce of darkerhued fringe, thescheme being relieved bybretelles and hip insertions of acorn bronze. The maidsof honour, MissLarch Conifer and Miss Spruce Conifer, sisters of the bride,wore verybecoming costumes in the same tone, a dainty _motif_ of plume rosebeingworked into the pleats in a pinstripe and repeated capriciously inthejadegreen toques in the form of heron feathers of paletinted coral.SenhorEnrique Flor presided at the organ with his wellknown abilityand, in additionto the prescribed numbers of the nuptial mass, playeda new and strikingarrangement of _Woodman, spare that tree_ at theconclusion of the service. Onleaving the church of Saint Fiacre _inHorto_ after the papal blessing the happypair were subjected to aplayful crossfire of hazelnuts, beechmast, bayleaves,catkins of willow,ivytod, hollyberries, mistletoe sprigs and quicken shoots. Mrand MrsWyse Conifer Neaulan will spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest.--And our eyes are on Europe, says thecitizen. We had our trade withSpain and the French and with the Flemings beforethose mongrels werepupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedarkwaterway.--And will again, says Joe.--And with the help of the holy mother of Godwe will again, says thecitizen, clapping his thigh, our harbours that are emptywill be fullagain, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in thekingdomof Kerry, Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world withafleet of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan OReillys and theOKennedysof Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty withthe emperor Charlesthe Fifth himself. And will again, says he, when thefirst Irish battleship isseen breasting the waves with our own flag tothe fore, none of your HenryTudors harps, no, the oldest flag afloat,the flag of the province of Desmondand Thomond, three crowns on a bluefield, the three sons of Milesius.And he took the last swig out of the pint. Moya.All wind and piss likea tanyard cat. Cows in Connacht have long horns. As muchas his bloodylife is worth to go down and address his tall talk to theassembledmultitude in Shanagolden where he darent show his nose with theMollyMaguires looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbingtheholding of an evicted tenant.--Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. Whatwill you have?--An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, tocelebrate the occasion.--Half one, Terry, says John Wyse, and ahands up. Terry! Are youasleep?--Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky andbottle of Allsop. Right, sir.Hanging over the bloody paper with Alflooking for spicy bits instead ofattending to the general public. Picture of abutting match, trying tocrack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the otherwith his headdown like a bull at a gate. And another one: _Black Beast BurnedinOmaha, Ga_. A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at aSambostrung up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire underhim. Gob, they oughtto drown him in the sea after and electrocute andcrucify him to make sure oftheir job.--But what about the fighting navy, says Ned,that keeps our foes atbay?--Ill tell you what about it, says thecitizen. Hell upon earth it is.Read the revelations thats going on in thepapers about flogging onthe training ships at Portsmouth. A fellow writes thatcalls himself_Disgusted One_.So he starts telling us about corporalpunishment and about the crewof tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up incocked hats and theparson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and ayoung ladbrought out, howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the buttendofa gun.--A rump and dozen, says the citizen, waswhat that old ruffian sir JohnBeresford called it but the modern GodsEnglishman calls it caning onthe breech.And says John Wyse:--Tis a custom more honoured in the breachthan in the observance.Then he was telling us the master at armscomes along with a long caneand he draws out and he flogs the bloody backsideoff of the poor ladtill he yells meila murder.--Thats your glorious British navy, says thecitizen, that bosses theearth.The fellows that never will be slaves, withthe only hereditary chamberon the face of Gods earth and their land in thehands of a dozengamehogs and cottonball barons. Thats the great empire theyboast aboutof drudges and whipped serfs.--On which the sun never rises, says Joe.--And the tragedy of it is, says the citizen,they believe it. Theunfortunate yahoos believe it.They believe in rod, the scourger almighty,creator of hell upon earth,and in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who wasconceived of unholy boast,born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump anddozen, was scarified,flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third dayhe aroseagain from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamendtillfurther orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid.--But, says Bloom, isnt discipline the sameeverywhere. I mean wouldntit be the same here if you put force against force?Didnt I tell you? As true as Im drinkingthis porter if he was at hislast gasp hed try to downface you that dying wasliving.--Well put force against force, says thecitizen. We have our greaterIreland beyond the sea. They were driven out ofhouse and home in theblack 47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by theroadside were laidlow by the batteringram and the _Times_ rubbed its hands andtold thewhitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland asredskinsin America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But theSassenach tried tostarve the nation at home while the land was fullof crops that the Britishhyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay,they drove out the peasants inhordes. Twenty thousand of them died inthe coffinships. But those that came tothe land of the free rememberthe land of bondage. And they will come again andwith a vengeance, nocravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleenni Houlihan.--Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my pointwas...--We are a long time waiting for that day,citizen, says Ned. Since thepoor old woman told us that the French were on thesea and landed atKillala.--Ay, says John Wyse. We fought for the royalStuarts that reneged usagainst the Williamites and they betrayed us. RememberLimerick and thebroken treatystone. We gave our best blood to France and Spain,thewild geese. Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield and ODonnell, duke of TetuaninSpain, and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to MariaTeresa. Butwhat did we ever get for it?--The French! says the citizen. Set ofdancing masters! Do you knowwhat it is? They were never worth a roasted fart toIreland. Arent theytrying to make an _Entente cordiale_ now at Tay Paysdinnerparty withperfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were.--_Conspuez les Fran√ßais_, says Lenehan,nobbling his beer.--And as for the Prooshians and theHanoverians, says Joe, havent wehad enough of those sausageeating bastards onthe throne from George theelector down to the German lad and the flatulent oldbitch thats dead?Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came outwith that about the old onewith the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royalpalace every night ofGod, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and hercoachman cartingher up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him bythewhiskers and singing him old bits of songs about _Ehren on the Rhine_andcome where the boose is cheaper.--Well, says J. J. We have Edward thepeacemaker now.--Tell that to a fool, says the citizen.Theres a bloody sight more poxthan pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin!--And what do you think, says Joe, of theholy boys, the priestsand bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth inHis SatanicMajestys racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horseshisjockeys rode. The earl of Dublin, no less.--They ought to have stuck up all the womenhe rode himself, says littleAlf.And says J. J.:--Considerations of space influenced theirlordships decision.--Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.--Yes, sir, says he. I will.--You? says Joe.--Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May yourshadow never grow less.--Repeat that dose, says Joe.Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyseand he quite excited withhis dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his oldplumeyes rolling about.--Persecution, says he, all the history ofthe world is full of it.Perpetuating national hatred among nations.--But do you know what a nation means? saysJohn Wyse.--Yes, says Bloom.--What is it? says John Wyse.--A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the samepeople living in the sameplace.--By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if thatsso Im a nation for Imliving in the same place for the past five years.So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloomand says he, trying to muckout of it:--Or also living in different places.--That covers my case, says Joe.--What is your nation if I may ask? says thecitizen.--Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here.Ireland.The citizen said nothing only cleared thespit out of his gullet and,gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right inthe corner.--After you with the push, Joe, says he,taking out his handkerchief toswab himself dry.--Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take thatin your right hand andrepeat after me the following words.The muchtreasured and intricately embroideredancient Irish faceclothattributed to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach ogMacDonogh, authorsof the Book of Ballymote, was then carefully produced and calledforthprolonged admiration. No need to dwell on the legendary beauty ofthecornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can distinctly discern eachof thefour evangelists in turn presenting to each of the four mastershis evangelicalsymbol, a bogoak sceptre, a North American puma (a farnobler king of beaststhan the British article, be it said in passing),a Kerry calf and a goldeneagle from Carrantuohill. The scenes depictedon the emunctory field, showingour ancient duns and raths and cromlechsand grianauns and seats of learning andmaledictive stones, are aswonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate aswhen the Sligoilluminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy long longago inthe time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovely lakes ofKillarney,the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the TwelvePins,Irelands Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh Patrick, the breweryofMessrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company (Limited), Lough Neaghsbanks, the valeof Ovoca, Isoldes tower, the Mapas obelisk, Sir PatrickDuns hospital, CapeClear, the glen of Aherlow, Lynchs castle, theScotch house, Rathdown UnionWorkhouse at Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail,Castleconnel rapids,Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice,Jurys Hotel, S. PatricksPurgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth collegerefectory, Curleys hole, the threebirthplaces of the first duke ofWellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog ofAllen, the Henry StreetWarehouse, Fingals Cave--all these moving scenes arestill there for ustoday rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrowwhich havepassed over them and by the rich incrustations of time.--Show us over the drink, says I. Which iswhich?--Thats mine, says Joe, as the devil said tothe dead policeman.--And I belong to a race too, says Bloom,that is hated and persecuted.Also now. This very moment. This very instant.Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the buttof his old cigar.--Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted.Persecuted. Taking what belongsto us by right. At this very moment, says he,putting up his fist, soldby auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle.--Are you talking about the new Jerusalem?says the citizen.--Im talking about injustice, says Bloom.--Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it thenwith force like men.Thats an almanac picture for you. Mark for asoftnosed bullet. Oldlardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob,hed adorn asweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurses apron on him.Andthen he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, aslimpas a wet rag.--But its no use, says he. Force, hatred,history, all that. Thats notlife for men and women, insult and hatred. Andeverybody knows that itsthe very opposite of that that is really life.--What? says Alf.--Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite ofhatred. I must go now, sayshe to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment tosee if Martin isthere. If he comes just say Ill be back in a second. Just amoment.Whos hindering you? And off he pops likegreased lightning.--A new apostle to the gentiles, says thecitizen. Universal love.--Well, says John Wyse. Isnt that what weretold. Love your neighbour.--That chap? says the citizen. Beggar myneighbour is his motto. Love,moya! Hes a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the newchemist. Constable 14Aloves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that hasthe bicycle. M.B. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha PuChow. Jumbo,the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with theeartrumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in thebrownmacintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves HerMajesty theQueen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You lovea certain person. Andthis person loves that other person becauseeverybody loves somebody but Godloves everybody.--Well, Joe, says I, your very good healthand song. More power,citizen.--Hurrah, there, says Joe.--The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick onyou, says the citizen.And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.--We know those canters, says he, preachingand picking your pocket.What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsidesthat put the womenand children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text_God is love_pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did you read thatskitin the _United Irishman_ today about that Zulu chief thatsvisitingEngland?--Whats that? says Joe.So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernaliapapers and he startsreading out:--A delegation of the chief cotton magnatesof Manchester was presentedyesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta byGold Stick in Waiting,Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majestythe heartfeltthanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them inhisdominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of whichthedusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech, freely translatedby theBritish chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod Barebones,tendered his bestthanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the cordialrelations existing betweenAbeakuta and the British empire, stating thathe treasured as one of his dearestpossessions an illuminated bible,the volume of the word of God and the secretof Englands greatness,graciously presented to him by the white chief woman,the great squawVictoria, with a personal dedication from the august hand of theRoyalDonor. The Alaki then drank a lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh tothetoast _Black and White_ from the skull of his immediate predecessor inthedynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty Warts, after which he visitedthe chieffactory of Cottonopolis and signed his mark in the visitorsbook, subsequentlyexecuting a charming old Abeakutic wardance, in thecourse of which he swallowedseveral knives and forks, amid hilariousapplause from the girl hands.--Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldnt doubther. Wonder did he put thatbible to the same use as I would.--Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafterin that fruitful landthe broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.--Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse.--No, says the citizen. Its not signedShanganagh. Its onlyinitialled: P.--And a very good initial too, says Joe.--Thats how its worked, says the citizen.Trade follows the flag.--Well, says J. J., if theyre any worse thanthose Belgians in theCongo Free State they must be bad. Did you read thatreport by a manwhats this his name is?--Casement, says the citizen. Hes anIrishman.--Yes, thats the man, says J. J. Raping thewomen and girls andflogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the redrubber they canout of them.--I know where hes gone, says Lenehan,cracking his fingers.--Who? says I.--Bloom, says he. The courthouse is a blind.He had a few bob on_Throwaway_ and hes gone to gather in the shekels.--Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says thecitizen, that never backed ahorse in anger in his life?--Thats where hes gone, says Lenehan. I metBantam Lyons going to backthat horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloomgave him the tip.Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on.Hes theonly man in Dublin has it. A dark horse.--Hes a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe.--Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entranceout.--There you are, says Terry.Goodbye Ireland Im going to Gort. So I justwent round the back ofthe yard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings tofive) while I wasletting off my _(Throwaway_ twenty to) letting off my load gobsays Ito myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and oneinSlatterys off) in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillingsis fivequid) and when they were in the (dark horse) pisser Burke wastelling me cardparty and letting on the child was sick (gob, must havedone about a gallon)flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube _shesbetter_ or _shes_ (ow!) alla plan so he could vamoose with the pool ifhe won or (Jesus, full up I was)trading without a licence (ow!) Irelandmy nation says he (hoik! phthook!) neverbe up to those bloody (theresthe last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) cuckoos.So anyhow when I got back they were at itdingdong, John Wyse saying itwas Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffithto put in his paperall kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling thetaxes offof the government and appointing consuls all over the world towalkabout selling Irish industries. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Gob, thatputsthe bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show.Give us abloody chance. God save Ireland from the likes of that bloodymouseabout. MrBloom with his argol bargol. And his old fellow beforehim perpetrating frauds,old Methusalem Bloom, the robbing bagman, thatpoisoned himself with the prussicacid after he swamping the countrywith his baubles and his penny diamonds.Loans by post on easy terms.Any amount of money advanced on note of hand.Distance no object. Nosecurity. Gob, hes like Lanty MacHales goat thatd go apiece of theroad with every one.--Well, its a fact, says John Wyse. Andtheres the man now thatlltell you all about it, Martin Cunningham.Sure enough the castle car drove up withMartin on it and Jack Powerwith him and a fellow named Crofter or Crofton,pensioner out ofthe collector generals, an orangeman Blackburn does have ontheregistration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting aroundthecountry at the kings expense.Our travellers reached the rustic hostelryand alighted from theirpalfreys.--Ho, varlet! cried he, who by his mien seemedthe leader of the party.Saucy knave! To us!So saying he knocked loudly with hisswordhilt upon the open lattice.Mine host came forth at the summons, girdinghim with his tabard.--Give you good den, my masters, said he withan obsequious bow.--Bestir thyself, sirrah! cried he who hadknocked. Look to our steeds.And for ourselves give us of your best for ifaithwe need it.--Lackaday, good masters, said the host, mypoor house has but a barelarder. I know not what to offer your lordships.--How now, fellow? cried the second of theparty, a man of pleasantcountenance, So servest thou the kings messengers,master Taptun?An instantaneous change overspread thelandlords visage.--Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly.An you be the kingsmessengers (God shield His Majesty!) you shall not want foraught. Thekings friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go afasting inmyhouse I warrant me.--Then about! cried the traveller who had notspoken, a lustytrencherman by his aspect. Hast aught to give us?Mine host bowed again as he made answer:--What say you, good masters, to a squabpigeon pasty, some collops ofvenison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisphogs bacon, a boars headwith pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlartansy and a flagonof old Rhenish?--Gadzooks! cried the last speaker. Thatlikes me well. Pistachios!--Aha! cried he of the pleasant countenance.A poor house and a barelarder, quotha! Tis a merry rogue.So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom.--Where is he? says Lenehan. Defraudingwidows and orphans.--Isnt that a fact, says John Wyse, what Iwas telling the citizenabout Bloom and the Sinn Fein?--Thats so, says Martin. Or so they allege.--Who made those allegations? says Alf.--I, says Joe. Im the alligator.--And after all, says John Wyse, why cant ajew love his country likethe next fellow?--Why not? says J. J., when hes quite surewhich country it is.--Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman ora swaddler or what thehell is he? says Ned. Or who is he? No offence, Crofton.--Who is Junius? says J. J.--We dont want him, says Crofter theOrangeman or presbyterian.--Hes a perverted jew, says Martin, from aplace in Hungary and it washe drew up all the plans according to the Hungariansystem. We know thatin the castle.--Isnt he a cousin of Bloom the dentist?says Jack Power.--Not at all, says Martin. Only namesakes.His name was Virag, thefathers name that poisoned himself. He changed it bydeedpoll, thefather did.--Thats the new Messiah for Ireland! saysthe citizen. Island of saintsand sages!--Well, theyre still waiting for theirredeemer, says Martin. For thatmatter so are we.--Yes, says J. J., and every male thats bornthey think it may be theirMessiah. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement,I believe, tillhe knows if hes a father or a mother.--Expecting every moment will be his next,says Lenehan.--O, by God, says Ned, you should have seenBloom before that son of histhat died was born. I met him one day in the southcity markets buying atin of Neaves food six weeks before the wife wasdelivered.--_En ventre sa m√®re_, says J. J.--Do you call that a man? says the citizen.--I wonder did he ever put it out of sight,says Joe.--Well, there were two children born anyhow,says Jack Power.--And who does he suspect? says the citizen.Gob, theres many a true word spoken in jest.One of those mixedmiddlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling meonce amonth with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what Imtellingyou? Itd be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the likeof that and throwhim in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so itwould. Then sloping off withhis five quid without putting up a pint ofstuff like a man. Give us yourblessing. Not as much as would blind youreye.--Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. Butwhere is he? We cant wait.--A wolf in sheeps clothing, says thecitizen. Thats what he is. Viragfrom Hungary! Ahasuerus I call him. Cursed byGod.--Have you time for a brief libation, Martin?says Ned.--Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J.J. and S.--You, Jack? Crofton? Three half ones, Terry.--Saint Patrick would want to land again atBallykinlar and convert us,says the citizen, after allowing things like that tocontaminate ourshores.--Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass.God bless all here is myprayer.--Amen, says the citizen.--And Im sure He will, says Joe.And at the sound of the sacring bell, headedby a crucifer withacolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deaconsandsubdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priorsandguardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto,Carthusiansand Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratoriansand Vallombrosans, andthe friars of Augustine, Brigittines,Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians,and the children of PeterNolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the childrenof Elijah prophetled by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced and other:andfriars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers,minimesand observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons ofDominic, the friarspreachers, and the sons of Vincent: and the monksof S. Wolstan: and Ignatiushis children: and the confraternity of thechristian brothers led by thereverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice. Andafter came all saints and martyrs,virgins and confessors: S. Cyr andS. Isidore Arator and S. James the Less andS. Phocas of Sinope and S.Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S.Simon Stylites andS. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and S. Ferreol andS. Leugardeand S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de PaulandS. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph andS.Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terenceand S.Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymousand S.Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S.Synonymous and S.Laurence OToole and S. James of Dingle andCompostella and S. Columcille and S.Columba and S. Celestine and S.Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S.Frigidian and S. Senan and S.Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S.Fursey and S. Fintan and S.Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas andS. Ives of Brittanyand S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons ofholy youthS. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmansandthe saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and S. Bride and S.Kieran and S.Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuam and S. Finbarrand S. Pappin ofBallymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificus and BrotherLouis Bellicosus and thesaints Rose of Lima and of Viterbo and S.Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egyptand S. Lucy and S. Brigid andS. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. MarionCalpensis andthe Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara andS.Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. And all camewithnimbi and aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swordsand olivecrowns, in robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols oftheir efficacies,inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters, axes,trees, bridges, babes in abathtub, shells, wallets, shears, keys,dragons, lilies, buckshot, beards, hogs,lamps, bellows, beehives,soupladles, stars, snakes, anvils, boxes of vaseline,bells, crutches,forceps, stags horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones,eyes on adish, wax candles, aspergills, unicorns. And as they wended their waybyNelsons Pillar, Henry street, Mary street, Capel street, LittleBritainstreet chanting the introit in _Epiphania Domini_ which beginneth_Surge,illuminare_ and thereafter most sweetly the gradual _Omnes_which saith _de Sabavenient_ they did divers wonders such as castingout devils, raising the dead tolife, multiplying fishes, healing thehalt and the blind, discovering variousarticles which had been mislaid,interpreting and fulfilling the scriptures,blessing and prophesying.And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came thereverend FatherOFlynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. And when the goodfathershad reached the appointed place, the house of Bernard Kiernan andCo,limited, 8, 9 and 10 little Britain street, wholesale grocers, wineandbrandy shippers, licensed fo the sale of beer, wine and spirits forconsumptionon the premises, the celebrant blessed the house and censedthe mullionedwindows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises andthe capitals and thepediments and the cornices and the engrailed archesand the spires and thecupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof withblessed water and prayed that Godmight bless that house as he hadblessed the house of Abraham and Isaac andJacob and make the angels ofHis light to inhabit therein. And entering heblessed the viands and thebeverages and the company of all the blessed answeredhis prayers.--_Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini._--_Qui fecit coelum et terram._--_Dominus vobiscum._--_Et cum spiritu tuo._And he laid his hands upon that he blessedand gave thanks and he prayedand they all with him prayed:--_Deus, cuius verbo sanctificantur omnia,benedictionem tuam effundesuper creaturas istas: et praesta ut quisquis eissecundum legem etvoluntatem Tuam cum gratiarum actione usus fuerit perinvocationemsanctissimi nominis Tui corporis sanitatem et animae tutelam Teauctorepercipiat per Christum Dominum nostrum._--And so say all of us, says Jack.--Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton orCrawford.--Right, says Ned, taking up his JohnJameson. And butter for fish.I was just looking around to see who thehappy thought would strike whenbe damned but in he comes again letting on to bein a hell of a hurry.--I was just round at the courthouse, sayshe, looking for you. I hopeIm not...--No, says Martin, were ready.Courthouse my eye and your pockets hangingdown with gold and silver.Mean bloody scut. Stand us a drink itself. Devil asweet fear! Theresa jew for you! All for number one. Cute as a shithouse rat.Hundred tofive.--Dont tell anyone, says the citizen,--Beg your pardon, says he.--Come on boys, says Martin, seeing it waslooking blue. Come along now.--Dont tell anyone, says the citizen,letting a bawl out of him. Its asecret.And the bloody dog woke up and let a growl.--Bye bye all, says Martin.And he got them out as quick as he could,Jack Power and Crofton orwhatever you call him and him in the middle of themletting on to be allat sea and up with them on the bloody jaunting car.---Off with you, saysMartin to the jarvey.The milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and,rising in the golden poop thehelmsman spread the bellying sail upon the windand stood off forwardwith all sail set, the spinnaker to larboard. A manycomely nymphs drewnigh to starboard and to larboard and, clinging to the sidesofthe noble bark, they linked their shining forms as doth thecunningwheelwright when he fashions about the heart of his wheel theequidistantrays whereof each one is sister to another and he binds themall with an outerring and giveth speed to the feet of men whenas theyride to a hosting orcontend for the smile of ladies fair. Even so didthey come and set them, thosewilling nymphs, the undying sisters. Andthey laughed, sporting in a circle oftheir foam: and the bark clave thewaves.But begob I was just lowering the heel of thepint when I saw thecitizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing andblowing with thedropsy, and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, bookandcandle in Irish, spitting and spatting out of him and Joe and littleAlfround him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.--Let me alone, says he.And begob he got as far as the door and theyholding him and he bawlsout of him:--Three cheers for Israel!Arrah, sit down on the parliamentary side ofyour arse for Christ sakeand dont be making a public exhibition of yourself.Jesus, theresalways some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murderaboutbloody nothing. Gob, itd turn the porter sour in your guts, so itwould.And all the ragamuffins and sluts of thenation round the door andMartin telling the jarvey to drive ahead and thecitizen bawling and Alfand Joe at him to whisht and he on his high horse aboutthe jews andthe loafers calling for a speech and Jack Power trying to get himto sitdown on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch overhiseye starts singing _If the man in the moon was a jew, jew, jew_ anda slutshouts out of her:--Eh, mister! Your fly is open, mister!And says he:--Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx andMercadante and Spinoza. Andthe Saviour was a jew and his father was a jew. YourGod.--He had no father, says Martin. Thatll donow. Drive ahead.--Whose God? says the citizen.--Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. YourGod was a jew. Christ was ajew like me.Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into theshop.--By Jesus, says he, Ill brain that bloodyjewman for using the holyname.By Jesus, Ill crucify him so I will. Give usthat biscuitbox here.--Stop! Stop! says Joe.A large and appreciative gathering of friendsand acquaintances fromthe metropolis and greater Dublin assembled in theirthousands to bidfarewell to Nagyasagos uram Lipoti Virag, late of MessrsAlexanderThoms, printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departureforthe distant clime of Szazharminczbrojugulyas-Dugulas (Meadow ofMurmuringWaters). The ceremony which went off with great _√©clat_ wascharacterised bythe most affecting cordiality. An illuminated scrollof ancient Irish vellum,the work of Irish artists, was presented tothe distinguished phenomenologist onbehalf of a large section of thecommunity and was accompanied by the gift of asilver casket, tastefullyexecuted in the style of ancient Celtic ornament, awork which reflectsevery credit on the makers, Messrs Jacob _agus_ Jacob. Thedepartingguest was the recipient of a hearty ovation, many of those whowerepresent being visibly moved when the select orchestra of Irish pipesstruckup the wellknown strains of _Come back to Erin_, followedimmediately by_Rakoczsys March_. Tarbarrels and bonfires were lightedalong the coastline ofthe four seas on the summits of the Hill ofHowth, Three Rock Mountain,Sugarloaf, Bray Head, the mountains ofMourne, the Galtees, the Ox and Donegaland Sperrin peaks, the Naglesand the Bograghs, the Connemara hills, the reeksof M Gillicuddy, SlieveAughty, Slieve Bernagh and Slieve Bloom. Amid cheersthat rent thewelkin, responded to by answering cheers from a big musterofhenchmen on the distant Cambrian and Caledonian hills, themastodonticpleasureship slowly moved away saluted by a final floral tributefromthe representatives of the fair sex who were present in large numberswhile,as it proceeded down the river, escorted by a flotilla of barges,the flags ofthe Ballast office and Custom House were dipped in saluteas were also those of theelectrical power station at thePigeonhouse and the Poolbeg Light._Visszontl√°t√°sra, kedves bar√°ton!Visszontl√°t√°sra!_ Gone but not forgotten.Gob, the devil wouldnt stop him till he gothold of the bloody tinanyhow and out with him and little Alf hanging on to hiselbow and heshouting like a stuck pig, as good as any bloody play in theQueensroyal theatre:--Where is he till I murder him?And Ned and J. J. paralysed with thelaughing.--Bloody wars, says I, Ill be in for thelast gospel.But as luck would have it the jarvey got thenags head round the otherway and off with him.--Hold on, citizen, says Joe. Stop!Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe andlet fly. Mercy of God thesun was in his eyes or hed have left him for dead.Gob, he near sent itinto the county Longford. The bloody nag took fright andthe oldmongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the populace shoutingandlaughing and the old tinbox clattering along the street.The catastrophe was terrific andinstantaneous in its effect. Theobservatory of Dunsink registered in all elevenshocks, all of the fifthgrade of Mercallis scale, and there is no recordextant of a similarseismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of1534, the yearof the rebellion of Silken Thomas. The epicentre appears to havebeenthat part of the metropolis which constitutes the Inns Quay ward andparishof Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roodsand one squarepole or perch. All the lordly residences in the vicinityof the palace ofjustice were demolished and that noble edifice itself,in which at the time ofthe catastrophe important legal debates were inprogress, is literally a mass ofruins beneath which it is to befeared all the occupants have been buried alive.From the reports ofeyewitnesses it transpires that the seismic waves wereaccompanied bya violent atmospheric perturbation of cyclonic character. Anarticle ofheadgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk ofthecrown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handlewiththe engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number ofthe erudite andworshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir FrederickFalkiner, recorder ofDublin, have been discovered by search partiesin remote parts of the islandrespectively, the former on the thirdbasaltic ridge of the giants causeway,the latter embedded to theextent of one foot three inches in the sandy beach ofHoleopen bay nearthe old head of Kinsale. Other eyewitnesses depose that theyobservedan incandescent object of enormous proportions hurtling throughtheatmosphere at a terrifying velocity in a trajectory directed southwestbywest. Messages of condolence and sympathy are being hourly receivedfrom allparts of the different continents and the sovereign pontiff hasbeen graciouslypleased to decree that a special _missa pro defunctis_shall be celebratedsimultaneously by the ordinaries of each and everycathedral church of all theepiscopal dioceses subject to the spiritualauthority of the Holy See insuffrage of the souls of those faithfuldeparted who have been so unexpectedlycalled away from our midst.The work of salvage, removal of _d√©bris,_ humanremains etc has beenentrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son, 159 GreatBrunswick street,and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77, 78, 79 and 80 North Wall,assisted bythe men and officers of the Duke of Cornwalls light infantry underthegeneral supervision of H. R. H., rear admiral, the right honourablesirHercules Hannibal Habeas Corpus Anderson, K. G., K. P., K. T., P. C., K.C.B., M. P, J. P., M. B., D. S. O., S. O. D., M. F. H., M. R. I. A., B.L., Mus.Doc., P. L. G., F. T. C. D., F. R. U. I., F. R. C. P. I. and F.R. C. S. I.You never saw the like of it in all your bornpuff. Gob, if he got thatlottery ticket on the side of his poll hed rememberthe gold cup, hewould so, but begob the citizen would have been lagged forassault andbattery and Joe for aiding and abetting. The jarvey saved his lifebyfurious driving as sure as God made Moses. What? O, Jesus, he did. Andhe leta volley of oaths after him.--Did I kill him, says he, or what?And he shouting to the bloody dog:--After him, Garry! After him, boy!And the last we saw was the bloody carrounding the corner and oldsheepsface on it gesticulating and the bloodymongrel after it with hislugs back for all he was bloody well worth to tear himlimb from limb.Hundred to five! Jesus, he took the value of it out of him, Ipromiseyou.When, lo, there came about them all a greatbrightness and they beheldthe chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. Andthey beheld Him inthe chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness,having raimentas of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe theydurst notlook upon Him. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling:_Elijah!Elijah!_ And He answered with a main cry: _Abba! Adonai!_ Andtheybeheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascendto theglory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees overDonohoes inLittle Green street like a shot off a shovel. The summer evening had begun to fold theworld in its mysteriousembrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting andthe last glow ofall too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, onthe proudpromontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay,onthe weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, onthequiet church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillnessthe voiceof prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever tothe stormtossedheart of man, Mary, star of the sea.The three girl friends were seated on therocks, enjoying the eveningscene and the air which was fresh but not toochilly. Many a time andoft were they wont to come there to that favourite nookto have a cosychat beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters feminine,CissyCaffrey and Edy Boardman with the baby in the pushcar and Tommy andJackyCaffrey, two little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits withcaps to matchand the name H.M.S. Belleisle printed on both. For Tommyand Jacky Caffrey weretwins, scarce four years old and very noisy andspoiled twins sometimes but forall that darling little fellows withbright merry faces and endearing ways aboutthem. They were dabbling inthe sand with their spades and buckets, buildingcastles as children do,or playing with their big coloured ball, happy as theday was long. AndEdy Boardman was rocking the chubby baby to and fro in thepushcar whilethat young gentleman fairly chuckled with delight. He was butelevenmonths and nine days old and, though still a tiny toddler, wasjustbeginning to lisp his first babyish words. Cissy Caffrey bent over tohim totease his fat little plucks and the dainty dimple in his chin.--Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out big,big. I want a drink ofwater.And baby prattled after her:--A jink a jink a jawbo.Cissy Caffrey cuddled the wee chap for shewas awfully fond of children,so patient with little sufferers and Tommy Caffreycould never be got totake his castor oil unless it was Cissy Caffrey that heldhis nose andpromised him the scatty heel of the loaf or brown bread withgoldensyrup on. What a persuasive power that girl had! But to be surebabyBoardman was as good as gold, a perfect little dote in his new fancybib. Noneof your spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort, was CissyCaffrey. A truerheartedlass never drew the breath of life, always witha laugh in her gipsylike eyesand a frolicsome word on her cherryripered lips, a girl lovable in the extreme.And Edy Boardman laughed too atthe quaint language of little brother.But just then there was a slight altercationbetween Master Tommy andMaster Jacky. Boys will be boys and our two twins wereno exceptionto this golden rule. The apple of discord was a certain castle of sandwhichMaster Jacky had built and Master Tommy would have it right gowrong that it wasto be architecturally improved by a frontdoor like theMartello tower had. Butif Master Tommy was headstrong Master Jacky wasselfwilled too and, true to themaxim that every little Irishmans houseis his castle, he fell upon his hatedrival and to such purpose that thewouldbe assailant came to grief and (alas torelate!) the coveted castletoo. Needless to say the cries of discomfited MasterTommy drew theattention of the girl friends.--Come here, Tommy, his sister calledimperatively. At once! And you,Jacky, for shame to throw poor Tommy in thedirty sand. Wait till Icatch you for that.His eyes misty with unshed tears Master Tommycame at her call for theirbig sisters word was law with the twins. And in asad plight he wastoo after his misadventure. His little man-o-war top andunmentionableswere full of sand but Cissy was a past mistress in the art ofsmoothingover lifes tiny troubles and very quickly not one speck of sand wastobe seen on his smart little suit. Still the blue eyes were glisteningwith hottears that would well up so she kissed away the hurtness andshook her hand atMaster Jacky the culprit and said if she was near himshe wouldnt be far fromhim, her eyes dancing in admonition.--Nasty bold Jacky! she cried.She put an arm round the little mariner andcoaxed winningly:--Whats your name? Butter and cream?--Tell us who is your sweetheart, spoke EdyBoardman. Is Cissy yoursweetheart?--Nao, tearful Tommy said.--Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissyqueried.--Nao, Tommy said.--I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiablywith an arch glance fromher shortsighted eyes. I know who is Tommyssweetheart. Gerty isTommys sweetheart.--Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears.Cissys quick motherwit guessed what wasamiss and she whispered toEdy Boardman to take him there behind the pushcarwhere the gentlemancouldnt see and to mind he didnt wet his new tan shoes.But who was Gerty?Gerty MacDowell who was seated near hercompanions, lost in thought,gazing far away into the distance was, in verytruth, as fair a specimenof winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see.She was pronouncedbeautiful by all who knew her though, as folks often said,she wasmore a Giltrap than a MacDowell. Her figure was slight andgraceful,inclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had beentakingof late had done her a world of good much better than the WidowWelchsfemale pills and she was much better of those discharges she used togetand that tired feeling. The waxen pallor of her face was almostspiritual in itsivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuineCupids bow, Greeklyperfect. Her hands were of finely veined alabasterwith tapering fingers and aswhite as lemonjuice and queen of ointmentscould make them though it was nottrue that she used to wear kid glovesin bed or take a milk footbath either.Bertha Supple told that once toEdy Boardman, a deliberate lie, when she wasblack out at daggers drawnwith Gerty (the girl chums had of course their littletiffs from time totime like the rest of mortals) and she told her not to let onwhatevershe did that it was her that told her or shed never speak to heragain.No. Honour where honour is due. There was an innate refinement,a languidqueenly _hauteur_ about Gerty which was unmistakably evidencedin her delicatehands and higharched instep. Had kind fate but willedher to be born agentlewoman of high degree in her own right and hadshe only received the benefitof a good education Gerty MacDowell mighteasily have held her own beside anylady in the land and have seenherself exquisitely gowned with jewels on herbrow and patrician suitorsat her feet vying with one another to pay theirdevoirs to her.Mayhap it was this, the love that might have been, that lent tohersoftlyfeatured face at whiles a look, tense with suppressed meaning,thatimparted a strange yearning tendency to the beautiful eyes, a charmfew couldresist. Why have women such eyes of witchery? Gertys were ofthe bluest Irishblue, set off by lustrous lashes and dark expressivebrows. Time was when thosebrows were not so silkily seductive. Itwas Madame Vera Verity, directress ofthe Woman Beautiful page of thePrincess Novelette, who had first advised her totry eyebrowleine whichgave that haunting expression to the eyes, so becoming inleadersof fashion, and she had never regretted it. Then there wasblushingscientifically cured and how to be tall increase your height andyouhave a beautiful face but your nose? That would suit Mrs Dignam becauseshehad a button one. But Gertys crowning glory was her wealth ofwonderful hair.It was dark brown with a natural wave in it. She had cutit that very morning onaccount of the new moon and it nestled abouther pretty head in a profusion ofluxuriant clusters and pared her nailstoo, Thursday for wealth. And just now atEdys words as a telltaleflush, delicate as the faintest rosebloom, crept intoher cheeks shelooked so lovely in her sweet girlish shyness that of a suretyGodsfair land of Ireland did not hold her equal.For an instant she was silent with rather saddowncast eyes. Shewas about to retort but something checked the words on hertongue.Inclination prompted her to speak out: dignity told her to be silent.Thepretty lips pouted awhile but then she glanced up and broke out intoa joyouslittle laugh which had in it all the freshness of a young Maymorning. She knewright well, no-one better, what made squinty Edysay that because of him coolingin his attentions when it was simply alovers quarrel. As per usual somebodysnose was out of joint about theboy that had the bicycle off the London bridgeroad always riding upand down in front of her window. Only now his father kepthim in in theevenings studying hard to get an exhibition in the intermediatethat wason and he was going to go to Trinity college to study for a doctorwhenhe left the high school like his brother W. E. Wylie who was racingin thebicycle races in Trinity college university. Little recked heperhaps for whatshe felt, that dull aching void in her heart sometimes,piercing to the core.Yet he was young and perchance he might learnto love her in time. They wereprotestants in his family and of courseGerty knew Who came first and after Himthe Blessed Virgin and thenSaint Joseph. But he was undeniably handsome with anexquisite nose andhe was what he looked, every inch a gentleman, the shape ofhis head tooat the back without his cap on that she would know anywheresomethingoff the common and the way he turned the bicycle at the lamp withhishands off the bars and also the nice perfume of those good cigarettesandbesides they were both of a size too he and she and that was why EdyBoardmanthought she was so frightfully clever because he didnt go andride up and downin front of her bit of a garden.Gerty was dressed simply but with theinstinctive taste of a votary ofDame Fashion for she felt that there was just amight that he might beout. A neat blouse of electric blue selftinted by dollydyes (because itwas expected in the _Ladys Pictorial_ that electric blue wouldbe worn)with a smart vee opening down to the division and kerchief pocket(inwhich she always kept a piece of cottonwool scented with herfavouriteperfume because the handkerchief spoiled the sit) and a navythreequarter skirtcut to the stride showed off her slim graceful figureto perfection. She wore acoquettish little love of a hat of wideleavednigger straw contrast trimmed withan underbrim of eggblue chenille andat the side a butterfly bow of silk totone. All Tuesday week afternoonshe was hunting to match that chenille but atlast she found what shewanted at Clerys summer sales, the very it, slightlyshopsoiled but youwould never notice, seven fingers two and a penny. She did itup all byherself and what joy was hers when she tried it on then, smiling atthelovely reflection which the mirror gave back to her! And when she putit onthe waterjug to keep the shape she knew that that would take theshine out ofsome people she knew. Her shoes were the newest thing infootwear (Edy Boardmanprided herself that she was very _petite_ but shenever had a foot like GertyMacDowell, a five, and never would ash,oak or elm) with patent toecaps and justone smart buckle overher higharched instep. Her wellturned ankle displayed itsperfectproportions beneath her skirt and just the proper amount and no moreofher shapely limbs encased in finespun hose with highspliced heels andwidegarter tops. As for undies they were Gertys chief care and whothat knows thefluttering hopes and fears of sweet seventeen (thoughGerty would never seeseventeen again) can find it in his heart toblame her? She had four dinky setswith awfully pretty stitchery,three garments and nighties extra, and each setslotted with differentcoloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue, mauve andpeagreen, and she airedthem herself and blued them when they came home from thewash and ironedthem and she had a brickbat to keep the iron on because shewouldnttrust those washerwomen as far as shed see them scorching thethings.She was wearing the blue for luck, hoping against hope, her owncolourand lucky too for a bride to have a bit of blue somewhere on herbecausethe green she wore that day week brought grief because his fatherbroughthim in to study for the intermediate exhibition and becauseshe thought perhapshe might be out because when she was dressing thatmorning she nearly slipped upthe old pair on her inside out and thatwas for luck and lovers meeting if youput those things on insideout or if they got untied that he was thinking aboutyou so long as itwasnt of a Friday.And yet and yet! That strained look on herface! A gnawing sorrow isthere all the time. Her very soul is in her eyes andshe would giveworlds to be in the privacy of her own familiar chamberwhere,giving way to tears, she could have a good cry and relieve herpentupfeelingsthough not too much because she knew how to cry nicely beforethemirror. You are lovely, Gerty, it said. The paly light of eveningfalls upon aface infinitely sad and wistful. Gerty MacDowell yearnsin vain. Yes, she hadknown from the very first that her daydream of amarriage has been arranged andthe weddingbells ringing for Mrs ReggyWylie T. C. D. (because the one whomarried the elder brother would beMrs Wylie) and in the fashionableintelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie waswearing a sumptuous confection of greytrimmed with expensive blue foxwas not to be. He was too young to understand.He would not believe inlove, a womans birthright. The night of the party longago in Stoers(he was still in short trousers) when they were alone and hestolean arm round her waist she went white to the very lips. He calledherlittle one in a strangely husky voice and snatched a half kiss (thefirst!)but it was only the end of her nose and then he hastened fromthe room with aremark about refreshments. Impetuous fellow! Strength ofcharacter had neverbeen Reggy Wylies strong point and he who wouldwoo and win Gerty MacDowellmust be a man among men. But waiting, alwayswaiting to be asked and it was leapyear too and would soon be over. Noprince charming is her beau ideal to lay arare and wondrous love at herfeet but rather a manly man with a strong quietface who had not foundhis ideal, perhaps his hair slightly flecked with grey,and who wouldunderstand, take her in his sheltering arms, strain her to him inallthe strength of his deep passionate nature and comfort her with a longlongkiss. It would be like heaven. For such a one she yearns this balmysummer eve.With all the heart of her she longs to be his only, hisaffianced bride forriches for poor, in sickness in health, till deathus two part, from this tothis day forward.And while Edy Boardman was with little Tommybehind the pushcar she wasjust thinking would the day ever come when she couldcall herself hislittle wife to be. Then they could talk about her till theywent blue inthe face, Bertha Supple too, and Edy, little spitfire, because shewouldbe twentytwo in November. She would care for him with creature comfortstoofor Gerty was womanly wise and knew that a mere man liked thatfeeling ofhominess. Her griddlecakes done to a goldenbrown hue andqueen Anns pudding ofdelightful creaminess had won golden opinionsfrom all because she had a luckyhand also for lighting a fire, dredgein the fine selfraising flour and alwaysstir in the same direction,then cream the milk and sugar and whisk well thewhite of eggs thoughshe didnt like the eating part when there were any peoplethat made hershy and often she wondered why you couldnt eat something poeticallikeviolets or roses and they would have a beautifully appointeddrawingroomwith pictures and engravings and the photograph of grandpapaGiltrapslovely dog Garryowen that almost talked it was so human andchintzcovers for the chairs and that silver toastrack in Clerys summerjumblesales like they have in rich houses. He would be tall withbroad shoulders (shehad always admired tall men for a husband) withglistening white teeth under hiscarefully trimmed sweeping moustacheand they would go on the continent fortheir honeymoon (three wonderfulweeks!) and then, when they settled down in anice snug and cosy littlehomely house, every morning they would both havebrekky, simple butperfectly served, for their own two selves and before he wentout tobusiness he would give his dear little wifey a good hearty hug andgazefor a moment deep down into her eyes.Edy Boardman asked Tommy Caffrey was he doneand he said yes so then shebuttoned up his little knickerbockers for him and toldhim to run offand play with Jacky and to be good now and not to fight. ButTommy saidhe wanted the ball and Edy told him no that baby was playing withtheball and if he took it thered be wigs on the green but Tommy said itwas hisball and he wanted his ball and he pranced on the ground, ifyou please. Thetemper of him! O, he was a man already was little TommyCaffrey since he was outof pinnies. Edy told him no, no and to be offnow with him and she told CissyCaffrey not to give in to him.--Youre not my sister, naughty Tommy said.Its my ball.But Cissy Caffrey told baby Boardman to lookup, look up high at herfinger and she snatched the ball quickly and threw italong the sand andTommy after it in full career, having won the day.--Anything for a quiet life, laughed Ciss.And she tickled tiny tots two cheeks to makehim forget and playedheres the lord mayor, heres his two horses, heres hisgingerbreadcarriage and here he walks in, chinchopper, chinchopper,chinchopperchin. But Edy got as cross as two sticks about him getting his ownwaylike that from everyone always petting him.--Id like to give him something, she said,so I would, where I wontsay.--On the beeoteetom, laughed Cissy merrily.Gerty MacDowell bent down her head andcrimsoned at the idea of Cissysaying an unladylike thing like that out loudshed be ashamed of herlife to say, flushing a deep rosy red, and Edy Boardmansaid she wassure the gentleman opposite heard what she said. But not a pincaredCiss.--Let him! she said with a pert toss of herhead and a piquant tilt ofher nose. Give it to him too on the same place asquick as Id look athim.Madcap Ciss with her golliwog curls. You hadto laugh at her sometimes.For instance when she asked you would you have somemore Chinese tea andjaspberry ram and when she drew the jugs too and the mensfaces on hernails with red ink make you split your sides or when she wanted togowhere you know she said she wanted to run and pay a visit to the MissWhite.That was just like Cissycums. O, and will you ever forget her theevening shedressed up in her fathers suit and hat and the burned corkmoustache and walkeddown Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette. Therewas none to come up to her forfun. But she was sincerity itself, one ofthe bravest and truest hearts heavenever made, not one of your twofacedthings, too sweet to be wholesome.And then there came out upon the air thesound of voices and the pealinganthem of the organ. It was the mens temperanceretreat conductedby the missioner, the reverend John Hughes S. J., rosary,sermon andbenediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament. They were theregatheredtogether without distinction of social class (and a mostedifyingspectacle it was to see) in that simple fane beside the waves, afterthestorms of this weary world, kneeling before the feet of theimmaculate,reciting the litany of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her tointercedefor them, the old familiar words, holy Mary, holy virgin of virgins.Howsad to poor Gertys ears! Had her father only avoided the clutches ofthedemon drink, by taking the pledge or those powders the drink habitcured inPearsons Weekly, she might now be rolling in her carriage,second to none. Overand over had she told herself that as she mused bythe dying embers in a brownstudy without the lamp because she hated twolights or oftentimes gazing out ofthe window dreamily by the hour atthe rain falling on the rusty bucket,thinking. But that vile decoctionwhich has ruined so many hearths and homes hadcist its shadow over herchildhood days. Nay, she had even witnessed in the homecircle deeds ofviolence caused by intemperance and had seen her own father, aprey tothe fumes of intoxication, forget himself completely for if there wasonething of all things that Gerty knew it was that the man who liftshis hand to awoman save in the way of kindness, deserves to be brandedas the lowest of thelow.And still the voices sang in supplication tothe Virgin most powerful,Virgin most merciful. And Gerty, rapt in thought,scarce saw or heardher companions or the twins at their boyish gambols or thegentlemanoff Sandymount green that Cissy Caffrey called the man that was solikehimself passing along the strand taking a short walk. You never saw himanyway screwed but still and for all that she would not like him for afatherbecause he was too old or something or on account of his face(it was a palpablecase of Doctor Fell) or his carbuncly nose with thepimples on it and his sandymoustache a bit white under his nose. Poorfather! With all his faults she lovedhim still when he sang _Tell me,Mary, how to woo thee_ or _My love and cottagenear Rochelle_ and theyhad stewed cockles and lettuce with Lazenbys saladdressing forsupper and when he sang _The moon hath raised_ with Mr Dignamthatdied suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him, from a stroke.Hermothers birthday that was and Charley was home on his holidays and TomandMr Dignam and Mrs and Patsy and Freddy Dignam and they were to havehad a grouptaken. No-one would have thought the end was so near. Now hewas laid to rest.And her mother said to him to let that be a warning tohim for the rest of hisdays and he couldnt even go to the funeral onaccount of the gout and she hadto go into town to bring him theletters and samples from his office aboutCatesbys cork lino, artistic,standard designs, fit for a palace, gives tiptopwear and always brightand cheery in the home.A sterling good daughter was Gerty just likea second mother in thehouse, a ministering angel too with a little heart worthits weight ingold. And when her mother had those raging splitting headaches whowasit rubbed the menthol cone on her forehead but Gerty though she didntlikeher mothers taking pinches of snuff and that was the only singlething theyever had words about, taking snuff. Everyone thought theworld of her for hergentle ways. It was Gerty who turned off the gas atthe main every night and itwas Gerty who tacked up on the wall of thatplace where she never forgot everyfortnight the chlorate of lime MrTunney the grocers christmas almanac, thepicture of halcyon dayswhere a young gentleman in the costume they used to wearthen with athreecornered hat was offering a bunch of flowers to his ladylovewitholdtime chivalry through her lattice window. You could see there was astorybehind it. The colours were done something lovely. She was ina soft clingingwhite in a studied attitude and the gentleman was inchocolate and he looked athorough aristocrat. She often looked at themdreamily when she went there for acertain purpose and felt her ownarms that were white and soft just like herswith the sleeves backand thought about those times because she had found out inWalkerspronouncing dictionary that belonged to grandpapa Giltrap aboutthehalcyon days what they meant.The twins were now playing in the mostapproved brotherly fashiontill at last Master Jacky who was really as bold asbrass there wasno getting behind that deliberately kicked the ball as hard asever hecould down towards the seaweedy rocks. Needless to say poor Tommy wasnotslow to voice his dismay but luckily the gentleman in black who wassittingthere by himself came gallantly to the rescue and interceptedthe ball. Our twochampions claimed their plaything with lusty cries andto avoid trouble Cissy Caffreycalled to the gentleman to throw it toher please. The gentleman aimed the ballonce or twice and then threwit up the strand towards Cissy Caffrey but itrolled down the slope andstopped right under Gertys skirt near the little poolby the rock. Thetwins clamoured again for it and Cissy told her to kick it awayandlet them fight for it so Gerty drew back her foot but she wished theirstupidball hadnt come rolling down to her and she gave a kick but shemissed and Edyand Cissy laughed.--If you fail try again, Edy Boardman said.Gerty smiled assent and bit her lip. Adelicate pink crept into herpretty cheek but she was determined to let them seeso she just liftedher skirt a little but just enough and took good aim and gavethe ball ajolly good kick and it went ever so far and the two twins after itdowntowards the shingle. Pure jealousy of course it was nothing else todrawattention on account of the gentleman opposite looking. She felt thewarmflush, a danger signal always with Gerty MacDowell, surging andflaming into hercheeks. Till then they had only exchanged glances ofthe most casual but nowunder the brim of her new hat she ventured alook at him and the face that mether gaze there in the twilight, wanand strangely drawn, seemed to her the saddestshe had ever seen.Through the open window of the church thefragrant incense was waftedand with it the fragrant names of her who wasconceived without stain oforiginal sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us,honourable vessel, prayfor us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us,mystical rose. Andcareworn hearts were there and toilers for their daily breadand manywho had erred and wandered, their eyes wet with contrition but forallthat bright with hope for the reverend father Father Hughes had toldthem whatthe great saint Bernard said in his famous prayer of Mary, themost piousVirgins intercessory power that it was not recorded in anyage that those whoimplored her powerful protection were ever abandonedby her.The twins were now playing again right merrilyfor the troubles ofchildhood are but as fleeting summer showers. Cissy Caffreyplayed withbaby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby hands in air.Peepshe cried behind the hood of the pushcar and Edy asked where was Cissygoneand then Cissy popped up her head and cried ah! and, my word,didnt the littlechap enjoy that! And then she told him to say papa.--Say papa, baby. Say pa pa pa pa pa pa pa.And baby did his level best to say it for hewas very intelligent foreleven months everyone said and big for his age and thepicture ofhealth, a perfect little bunch of love, and he would certainly turnoutto be something great, they said.--Haja ja ja haja.Cissy wiped his little mouth with thedribbling bib and wanted him tosit up properly and say pa pa pa but when sheundid the strap she criedout, holy saint Denis, that he was possing wet and todouble the halfblanket the other way under him. Of course his infant majestywas mostobstreperous at such toilet formalities and he let everyone know it:--Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa.And two great big lovely big tears coursingdown his cheeks. It was allno use soothering him with no, nono, baby, no andtelling him about thegeegee and where was the puffpuff but Ciss, alwaysreadywitted, gavehim in his mouth the teat of the suckingbottle and the youngheathen wasquickly appeased.Gerty wished to goodness they would taketheir squalling baby home outof that and not get on her nerves, no hour to beout, and the littlebrats of twins. She gazed out towards the distant sea. Itwas like thepaintings that man used to do on the pavement with all thecolouredchalks and such a pity too leaving them there to be all blotted out,theevening and the clouds coming out and the Bailey light on Howth and tohearthe music like that and the perfume of those incense they burnedin the churchlike a kind of waft. And while she gazed her heart wentpitapat. Yes, it was herhe was looking at, and there was meaning in hislook. His eyes burned into heras though they would search her throughand through, read her very soul.Wonderful eyes they were, superblyexpressive, but could you trust them? Peoplewere so queer. She couldsee at once by his dark eyes and his pale intellectualface that hewas a foreigner, the image of the photo she had of Martin Harvey,thematinee idol, only for the moustache which she preferred because shewasntstagestruck like Winny Rippingham that wanted they two to alwaysdress the sameon account of a play but she could not see whether he hadan aquiline nose or a slightly_retrouss√©_ from where he was sitting.He was in deep mourning, she could seethat, and the story of a hauntingsorrow was written on his face. She would havegiven worlds to know whatit was. He was looking up so intently, so still, andhe saw her kick theball and perhaps he could see the bright steel buckles ofher shoes ifshe swung them like that thoughtfully with the toes down. She wasgladthat something told her to put on the transparent stockings thinkingReggyWylie might be out but that was far away. Here was that of whichshe had sooften dreamed. It was he who mattered and there was joy onher face because shewanted him because she felt instinctively that hewas like no-one else. The veryheart of the girlwoman went out to him,her dreamhusband, because she knew onthe instant it was him. If he hadsuffered, more sinned against than sinning, oreven, even, if he hadbeen himself a sinner, a wicked man, she cared not. Evenif he was aprotestant or methodist she could convert him easily if he truly lovedher.There were wounds that wanted healing with heartbalm. She was awomanly womannot like other flighty girls unfeminine he had known,those cyclists showing offwhat they hadnt got and she just yearned toknow all, to forgive all if shecould make him fall in love with her,make him forget the memory of the past.Then mayhap he would embrace hergently, like a real man, crushing her soft bodyto him, and love her,his ownest girlie, for herself alone.Refuge of sinners. Comfortress of theafflicted. _Ora pro nobis_. Wellhas it been said that whosoever prays to herwith faith and constancycan never be lost or cast away: and fitly is she too ahaven of refugefor the afflicted because of the seven dolours whichtranspiercedher own heart. Gerty could picture the whole scene in the church,thestained glass windows lighted up, the candles, the flowers and thebluebanners of the blessed Virgins sodality and Father Conroy was helpingCanonOHanlon at the altar, carrying things in and out with his eyescast down. He lookedalmost a saint and his confessionbox was so quietand clean and dark and hishands were just like white wax and if evershe became a Dominican nun in theirwhite habit perhaps he might come tothe convent for the novena of SaintDominic. He told her that time whenshe told him about that in confession,crimsoning up to the roots of herhair for fear he could see, not to be troubledbecause that was only thevoice of nature and we were all subject to natureslaws, he said, inthis life and that that was no sin because that came from thenature ofwoman instituted by God, he said, and that Our Blessed Lady herselfsaidto the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me according to Thy Word. Hewas sokind and holy and often and often she thought and thought couldshe work aruched teacosy with embroidered floral design for him as apresent or a clockbut they had a clock she noticed on the mantelpiecewhite and gold with acanarybird that came out of a little house to tellthe time the day she wentthere about the flowers for the forty hoursadoration because it was hard toknow what sort of a present to give orperhaps an album of illuminated views ofDublin or some place.The exasperating little brats of twins beganto quarrel again and Jackythrew the ball out towards the sea and they both ranafter it. Littlemonkeys common as ditchwater. Someone ought to take them andgive thema good hiding for themselves to keep them in their places, the bothofthem. And Cissy and Edy shouted after them to come back because theywere afraidthe tide might come in on them and be drowned.--Jacky! Tommy!Not they! What a great notion they had! SoCissy said it was the verylast time shed ever bring them out. She jumped upand called them andshe ran down the slope past him, tossing her hair behind herwhich hada good enough colour if there had been more of it but with allthethingamerry she was always rubbing into it she couldnt get it to growlongbecause it wasnt natural so she could just go and throw her hat atit. She ranwith long gandery strides it was a wonder she didnt rip upher skirt at theside that was too tight on her because there was a lotof the tomboy about CissyCaffrey and she was a forward piece whenevershe thought she had a goodopportunity to show and just because she wasa good runner she ran like that sothat he could see all the end of herpetticoat running and her skinny shanks upas far as possible. Itwould have served her just right if she had tripped upover somethingaccidentally on purpose with her high crooked French heels on hertomake her look tall and got a fine tumble. _Tableau!_ That would havebeen avery charming expose for a gentleman like that to witness.Queen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queenof prophets, of all saints,they prayed, queen of the most holy rosary and thenFather Conroy handedthe thurible to Canon OHanlon and he put in the incenseand censed theBlessed Sacrament and Cissy Caffrey caught the two twins and shewasitching to give them a ringing good clip on the ear but she didntbecauseshe thought he might be watching but she never made a biggermistake in all herlife because Gerty could see without looking thathe never took his eyes off ofher and then Canon OHanlon handed thethurible back to Father Conroy and kneltdown looking up at the BlessedSacrament and the choir began to sing the _Tantumergo_ and she justswung her foot in and out in time as the music rose and felltothe _Tantumer gosa cramen tum_. Three and eleven she paid for thosestockingsin Sparrows of Georges street on the Tuesday, no the Mondaybefore Easter andthere wasnt a brack on them and that was what hewas looking at, transparent,and not at her insignificant ones that hadneither shape nor form (the cheek ofher!) because he had eyes in hishead to see the difference for himself.Cissy came up along the strand with the twotwins and their ball withher hat anyhow on her to one side after her run andshe did look astreel tugging the two kids along with the flimsy blouse shebought onlya fortnight before like a rag on her back and a bit of herpetticoathanging like a caricature. Gerty just took off her hat for a momenttosettle her hair and a prettier, a daintier head of nutbrown tresses wasneverseen on a girls shoulders--a radiant little vision, in sooth,almost maddeningin its sweetness. You would have to travel many a longmile before you found ahead of hair the like of that. She could almostsee the swift answering flash ofadmiration in his eyes that set hertingling in every nerve. She put on her hatso that she could see fromunderneath the brim and swung her buckled shoe fasterfor her breathcaught as she caught the expression in his eyes. He was eying heras asnake eyes its prey. Her womans instinct told her that she had raisedthedevil in him and at the thought a burning scarlet swept from throatto brow tillthe lovely colour of her face became a glorious rose.Edy Boardman was noticing it too because shewas squinting at Gerty,half smiling, with her specs like an old maid,pretending to nurse thebaby. Irritable little gnat she was and always would beand that was whyno-one could get on with her poking her nose into what was noconcern ofhers. And she said to Gerty:--A penny for your thoughts.--What? replied Gerty with a smile reinforcedby the whitest of teeth. Iwas only wondering was it late.Because she wished to goodness theyd takethe snottynosed twins andtheir babby home to the mischief out of that so thatwas why she justgave a gentle hint about its being late. And when Cissy came upEdyasked her the time and Miss Cissy, as glib as you like, said it was halfpastkissing time, time to kiss again. But Edy wanted to know becausethey were toldto be in early.--Wait, said Cissy, Ill run ask my unclePeter over there whats thetime by his conundrum.So over she went and when he saw her comingshe could see him take hishand out of his pocket, getting nervous, andbeginning to play with hiswatchchain, looking up at the church. Passionatenature though he wasGerty could see that he had enormous control over himself.One moment hehad been there, fascinated by a loveliness that made him gaze, andthenext moment it was the quiet gravefaced gentleman, selfcontrol expressedinevery line of his distinguishedlooking figure.Cissy said to excuse her would he mind pleasetelling her what was theright time and Gerty could see him taking out hiswatch, listening to itand looking up and clearing his throat and he said he wasvery sorry hiswatch was stopped but he thought it must be after eight becausethesun was set. His voice had a cultured ring in it and though he spokeinmeasured accents there was a suspicion of a quiver in the mellow tones.Cissysaid thanks and came back with her tongue out and said uncle saidhis waterworkswere out of order.Then they sang the second verse of the _Tantumergo_ and Canon OHanlongot up again and censed the Blessed Sacrament and kneltdown and he toldFather Conroy that one of the candles was just going to setfire to theflowers and Father Conroy got up and settled it all right and shecouldsee the gentleman winding his watch and listening to the works andsheswung her leg more in and out in time. It was getting darker but hecould seeand he was looking all the time that he was winding the watchor whatever he wasdoing to it and then he put it back and put his handsback into his pockets. Shefelt a kind of a sensation rushing all overher and she knew by the feel of herscalp and that irritation againsther stays that that thing must be coming onbecause the last time toowas when she clipped her hair on account of the moon.His dark eyesfixed themselves on her again drinking in her every contour,literallyworshipping at her shrine. If ever there was undisguised admiration inamans passionate gaze it was there plain to be seen on that mans face.It isfor you, Gertrude MacDowell, and you know it.Edy began to get ready to go and it was hightime for her and Gertynoticed that that little hint she gave had had thedesired effectbecause it was a long way along the strand to where there was theplaceto push up the pushcar and Cissy took off the twins caps and tidiedtheirhair to make herself attractive of course and Canon OHanlon stoodup with hiscope poking up at his neck and Father Conroy handed him thecard to read off andhe read out _Panem de coelo praestitisti eis_ andEdy and Cissy were talkingabout the time all the time and asking herbut Gerty could pay them back intheir own coin and she just answeredwith scathing politeness when Edy asked herwas she heartbroken abouther best boy throwing her over. Gerty winced sharply.A brief cold blazeshone from her eyes that spoke volumes of scorn immeasurable.It hurt--Oyes, it cut deep because Edy had her own quiet way of sayingthingslike that she knew would wound like the confounded little cat shewas.Gertys lips parted swiftly to frame the word but she fought backthe sobthat rose to her throat, so slim, so flawless, so beautifullymoulded it seemedone an artist might have dreamed of. She had loved himbetter than he knew.Lighthearted deceiver and fickle like all his sexhe would never understand whathe had meant to her and for an instantthere was in the blue eyes a quickstinging of tears. Their eyes wereprobing her mercilessly but with a braveeffort she sparkled back insympathy as she glanced at her new conquest for themto see.--O, responded Gerty, quick as lightning,laughing, and the proud headflashed up. I can throw my cap at who I likebecause its leap year.Her words rang out crystalclear, more musicalthan the cooing of theringdove, but they cut the silence icily. There was thatin her youngvoice that told that she was not a one to be lightly trifled with.Asfor Mr Reggy with his swank and his bit of money she could just chuckhimaside as if he was so much filth and never again would she cast asmuch as a secondthought on him and tear his silly postcard into a dozenpieces. And if everafter he dared to presume she could give him onelook of measured scorn thatwould make him shrivel up on the spot. Misspuny little Edys countenance fellto no slight extent and Gerty couldsee by her looking as black as thunder thatshe was simply in a toweringrage though she hid it, the little kinnatt, becausethat shaft hadstruck home for her petty jealousy and they both knew that shewassomething aloof, apart, in another sphere, that she was not of them andneverwould be and there was somebody else too that knew it and saw itso they couldput that in their pipe and smoke it.Edy straightened up baby Boardman to getready to go and Cissy tucked inthe ball and the spades and buckets and it washigh time too because thesandman was on his way for Master Boardman junior. AndCissy told himtoo that billy winks was coming and that baby was to go deedawand babylooked just too ducky, laughing up out of his gleeful eyes, and Cissypokedhim like that out of fun in his wee fat tummy and baby, without asmuch as byyour leave, sent up his compliments to all and sundry on tohis brandnewdribbling bib.--O my! Puddeny pie! protested Ciss. He hashis bib destroyed.The slight _contretemps_ claimed herattention but in two twos she setthat little matter to rights.Gerty stifled a smothered exclamation andgave a nervous cough and Edyasked what and she was just going to tell her tocatch it while it wasflying but she was ever ladylike in her deportment so shesimply passedit off with consummate tact by saying that that was thebenedictionbecause just then the bell rang out from the steeple over thequietseashore because Canon OHanlon was up on the altar with the veilthatFather Conroy put round his shoulders giving the benediction withtheBlessed Sacrament in his hands.How moving the scene there in the gatheringtwilight, the last glimpseof Erin, the touching chime of those evening bellsand at the sametime a bat flew forth from the ivied belfry through the dusk,hither,thither, with a tiny lost cry. And she could see far away the lightsofthe lighthouses so picturesque she would have loved to do with a box ofpaintsbecause it was easier than to make a man and soon the lamplighterwould be goinghis rounds past the presbyterian church grounds and alongby shady Tritonvilleavenue where the couples walked and lighting thelamp near her window whereReggy Wylie used to turn his freewheel likeshe read in that book _TheLamplighter_ by Miss Cummins, author of_Mabel Vaughan_ and other tales. ForGerty had her dreams that no-oneknew of. She loved to read poetry and when shegot a keepsake fromBertha Supple of that lovely confession album with thecoralpink coverto write her thoughts in she laid it in the drawer of hertoilettablewhich, though it did not err on the side of luxury, wasscrupulouslyneat and clean. It was there she kept her girlish treasure trove,thetortoiseshell combs, her child of Mary badge, the whiterose scent,theeyebrowleine, her alabaster pouncetbox and the ribbons to changewhen herthings came home from the wash and there were some beautifulthoughts written init in violet ink that she bought in Helys of DameStreet for she felt that shetoo could write poetry if she could onlyexpress herself like that poem thatappealed to her so deeply thatshe had copied out of the newspaper she found oneevening round thepotherbs. _Art thou real, my ideal?_ it was called by Louis JWalsh,Magherafelt, and after there was something about _twilight, wilt thouever?_and ofttimes the beauty of poetry, so sad in its transientloveliness, hadmisted her eyes with silent tears for she felt thatthe years were slipping byfor her, one by one, and but for that oneshortcoming she knew she need fear nocompetition and that was anaccident coming down Dalkey hill and she alwaystried to conceal it.But it must end, she felt. If she saw that magic lure inhis eyes therewould be no holding back for her. Love laughs at locksmiths.Shewould make the great sacrifice. Her every effort would be to sharehisthoughts. Dearer than the whole world would she be to him and gild hisdayswith happiness. There was the allimportant question and she wasdying to knowwas he a married man or a widower who had lost his wifeor some tragedy like thenobleman with the foreign name from the landof song had to have her put into amadhouse, cruel only to be kind.But even if--what then? Would it make a verygreat difference? Fromeverything in the least indelicate her finebred natureinstinctivelyrecoiled. She loathed that sort of person, the fallen women offtheaccommodation walk beside the Dodder that went with the soldiers andcoarsemen with no respect for a girls honour, degrading the sex andbeing taken up tothe police station. No, no: not that. They would bejust good friends like a bigbrother and sister without all that otherin spite of the conventions of Societywith a big ess. Perhaps it wasan old flame he was in mourning for from the daysbeyond recall. Shethought she understood. She would try to understand himbecause men wereso different. The old love was waiting, waiting with littlewhitehands stretched out, with blue appealing eyes. Heart of mine! Shewouldfollow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her hewasher all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love wasthe masterguide. Nothing else mattered. Come what might she would bewild, untrammelled,free.Canon OHanlon put the Blessed Sacrament backinto the tabernacle andgenuflected and the choir sang _Laudate Dominum omnesgentes_ and thenhe locked the tabernacle door because the benediction was overandFather Conroy handed him his hat to put on and crosscat Edy asked wasntshecoming but Jacky Caffrey called out:--O, look, Cissy!And they all looked was it sheet lightningbut Tommy saw it too over thetrees beside the church, blue and then green andpurple.--Its fireworks, Cissy Caffrey said.And they all ran down the strand to see overthe houses and the church,helterskelter, Edy with the pushcar with babyBoardman in it and Cissyholding Tommy and Jacky by the hand so they wouldntfall running.--Come on, Gerty, Cissy called. Its thebazaar fireworks.But Gerty was adamant. She had no intentionof being at their beck andcall. If they could run like rossies she could sit soshe said she couldsee from where she was. The eyes that were fastened upon herset herpulses tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting his glance, andalight broke in upon her. Whitehot passion was in that face, passionsilent asthe grave, and it had made her his. At last they were leftalone without theothers to pry and pass remarks and she knew he couldbe trusted to the death,steadfast, a sterling man, a man of inflexiblehonour to his fingertips. Hishands and face were working and a tremourwent over her. She leaned back far tolook up where the fireworks wereand she caught her knee in her hands so as notto fall back looking upand there was no-one to see only him and her when sherevealed all hergraceful beautifully shaped legs like that, supply soft anddelicatelyrounded, and she seemed to hear the panting of his heart, hishoarsebreathing, because she knew too about the passion of men likethat,hotblooded, because Bertha Supple told her once in dead secret and madeherswear shed never about the gentleman lodger that was staying withthem out ofthe Congested Districts Board that had pictures cut out ofpapers of thoseskirtdancers and highkickers and she said he used to dosomething not very nicethat you could imagine sometimes in the bed. Butthis was altogether differentfrom a thing like that because there wasall the difference because she couldalmost feel him draw her face tohis and the first quick hot touch of hishandsome lips. Besides therewas absolution so long as you didnt do the otherthing before beingmarried and there ought to be women priests that wouldunderstandwithout your telling out and Cissy Caffrey too sometimes had thatdreamykind of dreamy look in her eyes so that she too, my dear, andWinnyRippingham so mad about actors photographs and besides it was onaccountof that other thing coming on the way it did.And Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there wasanother and she leaned backand the garters were blue to match on account of thetransparent andthey all saw it and they all shouted to look, look, there it wasandshe leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks and something queerwasflying through the air, a soft thing, to and fro, dark. And she saw alongRoman candle going up over the trees, up, up, and, in the tensehush, they wereall breathless with excitement as it went higher andhigher and she had to leanback more and more to look up after it, high,high, almost out of sight, and herface was suffused with a divine, anentrancing blush from straining back and hecould see her other thingstoo, nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses theskin, better thanthose other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven, on accountof beingwhite and she let him and she saw that he saw and then it went sohighit went out of sight a moment and she was trembling in every limb frombeingbent so far back that he had a full view high up above her kneewhere no-oneever not even on the swing or wading and she wasnt ashamedand he wasnt eitherto look in that immodest way like that because hecouldnt resist the sight ofthe wondrous revealment half offered likethose skirtdancers behaving soimmodest before gentlemen looking and hekept on looking, looking. She wouldfain have cried to him chokingly,held out her snowy slender arms to him tocome, to feel his lips laid onher white brow, the cry of a young girls love, alittle strangled cry,wrung from her, that cry that has rung through the ages.And then arocket sprang and bang shot blind blank and O! then the Romancandleburst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O! O! inrapturesand it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and theyshedand ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O solovely, O,soft, sweet, soft!Then all melted away dewily in the grey air:all was silent. Ah! Sheglanced at him as she bent forward quickly, a patheticlittle glance ofpiteous protest, of shy reproach under which he coloured like agirl Hewas leaning back against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for it ishe)stands silent, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes. Whatabrute he had been! At it again? A fair unsullied soul had called to himand,wretch that he was, how had he answered? An utter cad he had been!He of allmen! But there was an infinite store of mercy in those eyes,for him too a wordof pardon even though he had erred and sinned andwandered. Should a girl tell?No, a thousand times no. That was theirsecret, only theirs, alone in the hidingtwilight and there was none toknow or tell save the little bat that flew sosoftly through the eveningto and fro and little bats dont tell.Cissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys inthe football field to showwhat a great person she was: and then she cried:--Gerty! Gerty! Were going. Come on. We cansee from farther up.Gerty had an idea, one of loves littleruses. She slipped a hand intoher kerchief pocket and took out the wadding andwaved in reply ofcourse without letting him and then slipped it back. Wonder ifhes toofar to. She rose. Was it goodbye? No. She had to go but they wouldmeetagain, there, and she would dream of that till then, tomorrow, of herdreamof yester eve. She drew herself up to her full height. Their soulsmet in a lastlingering glance and the eyes that reached her heart, fullof a strange shining,hung enraptured on her sweet flowerlike face. Shehalf smiled at him wanly, asweet forgiving smile, a smile that vergedon tears, and then they parted.Slowly, without looking back she went downthe uneven strand to Cissy,to Edy to Jacky and Tommy Caffrey, to little babyBoardman. It wasdarker now and there were stones and bits of wood on the strandandslippy seaweed. She walked with a certain quiet dignity characteristicof herbut with care and very slowly because--because Gerty MacDowellwas...Tight boots? No. Shes lame! O!Mr Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poorgirl! Thats why shesleft on the shelf and the others did a sprint. Thoughtsomething waswrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. A defect is ten timesworsein a woman. But makes them polite. Glad I didnt know it when she wasonshow. Hot little devil all the same. I wouldnt mind. Curiosity like anun ora negress or a girl with glasses. That squinty one is delicate.Near hermonthlies, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. I have sucha bad headache today.Where did I put the letter? Yes, all right. Allkinds of crazy longings. Lickingpennies. Girl in Tranquilla conventthat nun told me liked to smell rock oil.Virgins go mad in the end Isuppose. Sister? How many women in Dublin have ittoday? Martha, she.Something in the air. Thats the moon. But then why dontall womenmenstruate at the same time with the same moon, I mean? Depends onthetime they were born I suppose. Or all start scratch then get out ofstep.Sometimes Molly and Milly together. Anyhow I got the best of that.Damned glad Ididnt do it in the bath this morning over her silly Iwill punish you letter.Made up for that tramdriver this morning. Thatgouger MCoy stopping me to saynothing. And his wife engagement in thecountry valise, voice like a pickaxe.Thankful for small mercies.Cheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they wantit themselves. Theirnatural craving. Shoals of them every evening poured out ofoffices.Reserve better. Dont want it they throw it at you. Catch em alive,O.Pity they cant see themselves. A dream of wellfilled hose. Where wasthat?Ah, yes. Mutoscope pictures in Capel street: for men only. PeepingTom. Willyshat and what the girls did with it. Do they snapshot thosegirls or is it all a fake?_Lingerie_ does it. Felt for the curvesinside her _deshabill√©._ Excites themalso when theyre. Im all cleancome and dirty me. And they like dressing oneanother for the sacrifice.Milly delighted with Mollys new blouse. At first.Put them all on totake them all off. Molly. Why I bought her the violetgarters. Us too:the tie he wore, his lovely socks and turnedup trousers. Hewore a pairof gaiters the night that first we met. His lovely shirt wasshiningbeneath his what? of jet. Say a woman loses a charm with every pinshetakes out. Pinned together. O, Mairy lost the pin of her. Dressed up tothenines for somebody. Fashion part of their charm. Just changes whenyoure on thetrack of the secret. Except the east: Mary, Martha: now asthen. No reasonableoffer refused. She wasnt in a hurry either. Alwaysoff to a fellow when theyare. They never forget an appointment. Out onspec probably. They believe inchance because like themselves. And theothers inclined to give her an odd dig.Girl friends at school, armsround each others necks or with ten fingerslocked, kissing andwhispering secrets about nothing in the convent garden. Nunswithwhitewashed faces, cool coifs and their rosaries going up anddown,vindictive too for what they cant get. Barbed wire. Be sure now andwriteto me. And Ill write to you. Now wont you? Molly and JosiePowell. Till MrRight comes along, then meet once in a blue moon._Tableau!_ O, look who it isfor the love of God! How are you at all?What have you been doing with yourself?Kiss and delighted to, kiss,to see you. Picking holes in each othersappearance. Youre lookingsplendid. Sister souls. Showing their teeth at oneanother. How manyhave you left? Wouldnt lend each other a pinch of salt.Ah!Devils they are when thats coming on them.Dark devilish appearance.Molly often told me feel things a ton weight. Scratchthe sole of myfoot. O that way! O, thats exquisite! Feel it myself too. Goodto restonce in a way. Wonder if its bad to go with them then. Safe in oneway.Turns milk, makes fiddlestrings snap. Something about withering plantsIread in a garden. Besides they say if the flower withers she wears shesaflirt. All are. Daresay she felt 1. When you feel like that you oftenmeet whatyou feel. Liked me or what? Dress they look at. Always know afellow courting:collars and cuffs. Well cocks and lions do the sameand stags. Same time mightprefer a tie undone or something. Trousers?Suppose I when I was? No. Gentlydoes it. Dislike rough and tumble. Kissin the dark and never tell. Sawsomething in me. Wonder what. Soonerhave me as I am than some poet chap withbearsgrease plastery hair,lovelock over his dexter optic. To aid gentleman inliterary. Ought toattend to my appearance my age. Didnt let her see me inprofile. Still,you never know. Pretty girls and ugly men marrying. Beauty andthebeast. Besides I cant be so if Molly. Took off her hat to show herhair.Wide brim. Bought to hide her face, meeting someone might knowher, bend down orcarry a bunch of flowers to smell. Hair strong in rut.Ten bob I got for Mollyscombings when we were on the rocks in Hollesstreet. Why not? Suppose he gaveher money. Why not? All a prejudice.Shes worth ten, fifteen, more, a pound.What? I think so. All that fornothing. Bold hand: Mrs Marion. Did I forget towrite address onthat letter like the postcard I sent to Flynn? And the day Iwent toDrimmies without a necktie. Wrangle with Molly it was put me off. No,Iremember. Richie Goulding: hes another. Weighs on his mind. Funnymy watchstopped at half past four. Dust. Shark liver oil they use toclean. Could do itmyself. Save. Was that just when he, she?O, he did. Into her. She did. Done.Ah!Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wetshirt. O Lord, that littlelimping devil. Begins to feel cold and clammy.Aftereffect not pleasant.Still you have to get rid of it someway. They dontcare. Complimentedperhaps. Go home to nicey bread and milky and say nightprayers with thekiddies. Well, arent they? See her as she is spoil all. Musthavethe stage setting, the rouge, costume, position, music. The nametoo._Amours_ of actresses. Nell Gwynn, Mrs Bracegirdle, Maud Branscombe.Curtainup. Moonlight silver effulgence. Maiden discovered with pensivebosom. Littlesweetheart come and kiss me. Still, I feel. The strengthit gives a man. Thatsthe secret of it. Good job I let off there behindthe wall coming out ofDignams. Cider that was. Otherwise I couldnthave. Makes you want to singafter. _Lacaus esant taratara_. Suppose Ispoke to her. What about? Bad planhowever if you dont know how to endthe conversation. Ask them a question theyask you another. Good idea ifyoure stuck. Gain time. But then youre in acart. Wonderful of courseif you say: good evening, and you see shes on for it:good evening. Obut the dark evening in the Appian way I nearly spoke to MrsClinch Othinking she was. Whew! Girl in Meath street that night. All thedirtythings I made her say. All wrong of course. My arks she called it. Itssohard to find one who. Aho! If you dont answer when they solicit mustbehorrible for them till they harden. And kissed my hand when I gaveher the extratwo shillings. Parrots. Press the button and the bird willsqueak. Wish shehadnt called me sir. O, her mouth in the dark! And youa married man with a singlegirl! Thats what they enjoy. Taking a manfrom another woman. Or even hear ofit. Different with me. Glad to getaway from other chaps wife. Eating off hiscold plate. Chap in theBurton today spitting back gumchewed gristle. Frenchletter still inmy pocketbook. Cause of half the trouble. But might happensometime,I dont think. Come in, all is prepared. I dreamt. What? Worstisbeginning. How they change the venue when its not what they like. Askyou doyou like mushrooms because she once knew a gentleman who. Or askyou whatsomeone was going to say when he changed his mind and stopped.Yet if I went thewhole hog, say: I want to, something like that.Because I did. She too. Offendher. Then make it up. Pretend to wantsomething awfully, then cry off for hersake. Flatters them. She musthave been thinking of someone else all the time.What harm? Must sinceshe came to the use of reason, he, he and he. First kissdoes the trick.The propitious moment. Something inside them goes pop. Mushylike, tellby their eye, on the sly. First thoughts are best. Remember thattilltheir dying day. Molly, lieutenant Mulvey that kissed her under theMoorishwall beside the gardens. Fifteen she told me. But her breastswere developed.Fell asleep then. After Glencree dinner that was when wedrove home. Featherbedmountain. Gnashing her teeth in sleep. Lord mayorhad his eye on her too. ValDillon. Apoplectic.There she is with them down there for thefireworks. My fireworks. Uplike a rocket, down like a stick. And the children,twins they mustbe, waiting for something to happen. Want to be grownups.Dressing inmothers clothes. Time enough, understand all the ways of the world.Andthe dark one with the mop head and the nigger mouth. I knew shecouldwhistle. Mouth made for that. Like Molly. Why that highclass whoreinJammets wore her veil only to her nose. Would you mind, please, tellingmethe right time? Ill tell you the right time up a dark lane.Say prunes andprisms forty times every morning, cure for fat lips.Caressing the little boytoo. Onlookers see most of the game. Of coursethey understand birds, animals,babies. In their line.Didnt look back when she was going down thestrand. Wouldnt give thatsatisfaction. Those girls, those girls, those lovelyseaside girls. Fineeyes she had, clear. Its the white of the eye brings thatout not somuch the pupil. Did she know what I? Course. Like a cat sittingbeyonda dogs jump. Women never meet one like that Wilkins in the highschooldrawing a picture of Venus with all his belongings on show. Callthatinnocence? Poor idiot! His wife has her work cut out for her. Never seethemsit on a bench marked _Wet Paint_. Eyes all over them. Look underthe bed forwhats not there. Longing to get the fright of their lives.Sharp as needlesthey are. When I said to Molly the man at the corner ofCuffe street wasgoodlooking, thought she might like, twigged at once hehad a false arm. Had,too. Where do they get that? Typist going up RogerGreenes stairs two at a timeto show her understandings. Handed downfrom father to, mother to daughter, Imean. Bred in the bone. Milly forexample drying her handkerchief on the mirrorto save the ironing. Bestplace for an ad to catch a womans eye on a mirror.And when I senther for Mollys Paisley shawl to Prescotts by the way that ad Imust,carrying home the change in her stocking! Clever little minx. I nevertoldher. Neat way she carries parcels too. Attract men, small thinglike that.Holding up her hand, shaking it, to let the blood flow backwhen it was red. Whodid you learn that from? Nobody. Something thenurse taught me. O, dont theyknow! Three years old she was in front ofMollys dressingtable, just before weleft Lombard street west. Me havea nice pace. Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of theworld. Young student.Straight on her pins anyway not like the other. Still shewas game.Lord, I am wet. Devil you are. Swell of her calf. Transparentstockings,stretched to breaking point. Not like that frump today. A. E.Rumpledstockings. Or the one in Grafton street. White. Wow! Beef to the heel.A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering indarting crackles. Zrads andzrads, zrads, zrads. And Cissy and Tommy and Jackyran out to see andEdy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond the curve ofthe rocks.Will she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She smelt an onion.Darling,I saw, your. I saw all.Lord!Did me good all the same. Off colour afterKiernans, Dignams. Forthis relief much thanks. In _Hamlet,_ that is. Lord! Itwas all thingscombined. Excitement. When she leaned back, felt an ache at thebuttof my tongue. Your head it simply swirls. Hes right. Might have madeaworse fool of myself however. Instead of talking about nothing. ThenI willtell you all. Still it was a kind of language between us. Itcouldnt be? No,Gerty they called her. Might be false name however likemy name and the addressDolphins barn a blind._Her maiden name was Jemina Brown And shelived with her mother inIrishtown._Place made me think of that I suppose. Alltarred with the same brushWiping pens in their stockings. But the ball rolleddown to her as ifit understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I nevercould throwanything straight at school. Crooked as a rams horn. Sadhoweverbecause it lasts only a few years till they settle down to potwallopingandpapas pants will soon fit Willy and fullers earth for the babywhen they holdhim out to do ah ah. No soft job. Saves them. Keepsthem out of harms way.Nature. Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam.Childrens hands always roundthem. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not evenclosed at first, sour milk in theirswaddles and tainted curds. Oughtntto have given that child an empty teat tosuck. Fill it up with wind.Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must call to the hospital.Wonder is nurse Callanthere still. She used to look over some nights when Mollywas in theCoffee Palace. That young doctor OHare I noticed her brushing hiscoat.And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriageable. Worstof allat night Mrs Duggan told me in the City Arms. Husband rolling indrunk, stink ofpub off him like a polecat. Have that in your nose inthe dark, whiff of staleboose. Then ask in the morning: was I drunklast night? Bad policy however tofault the husband. Chickens come hometo roost. They stick by one another likeglue. Maybe the womens faultalso. Thats where Molly can knock spots off them.Its the blood of thesouth. Moorish. Also the form, the figure. Hands felt forthe opulent.Just compare for instance those others. Wife locked up at home,skeletonin the cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you outsomekind of a nondescript, wouldnt know what to call her. Always see afellowsweak point in his wife. Still theres destiny in it, fallingin love. Have theirown secrets between them. Chaps that would go to thedogs if some woman didnttake them in hand. Then little chits of girls,height of a shilling in coppers,with little hubbies. As God made themhe matched them. Sometimes children turnout well enough. Twice noughtmakes one. Or old rich chap of seventy andblushing bride. Marry in Mayand repent in December. This wet is veryunpleasant. Stuck. Well theforeskin is not back. Better detach.Ow!Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to hiswatchpocket. Long andthe short of it. Big he and little she. Very strange aboutmy watch.Wristwatches are always going wrong. Wonder is there anymagneticinfluence between the person because that was about the time he. Yes,Isuppose, at once. Cats away, the mice will play. I remember lookingin Pilllane. Also that now is magnetism. Back of everything magnetism.Earth forinstance pulling this and being pulled. That causes movement.And time, wellthats the time the movement takes. Then if one thingstopped the whole ghesabowould stop bit by bit. Because its allarranged. Magnetic needle tells youwhats going on in the sun, thestars. Little piece of steel iron. When you holdout the fork. Come.Come. Tip. Woman and man that is. Fork and steel. Molly, he.Dress upand look and suggest and let you see and see more and defy you ifyourea man to see that and, like a sneeze coming, legs, look, look and ifyouhave any guts in you. Tip. Have to let fly.Wonder how is she feeling in that region.Shame all put on before thirdperson. More put out about a hole in her stocking.Molly, her underjawstuck out, head back, about the farmer in the ridingbootsand spurs atthe horse show. And when the painters were in Lombard streetwest.Fine voice that fellow had. How Giuglini began. Smell that I did.Likeflowers. It was too. Violets. Came from the turpentine probably inthepaint. Make their own use of everything. Same time doing it scrapedherslipper on the floor so they wouldnt hear. But lots of them cant kickthebeam, I think. Keep that thing up for hours. Kind of a general allround over meand half down my back.Wait. Hm. Hm. Yes. Thats her perfume. Whyshe waved her hand. I leaveyou this to think of me when Im far away on thepillow. What is it?Heliotrope? No. Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I think. Shed likescent of thatkind. Sweet and cheap: soon sour. Why Molly likes opoponax. Suitsher,with a little jessamine mixed. Her high notes and her low notes. Atthedance night she met him, dance of the hours. Heat brought it out. Shewaswearing her black and it had the perfume of the time before. Goodconductor, isit? Or bad? Light too. Suppose theres some connection.For instance if you gointo a cellar where its dark. Mysterious thingtoo. Why did I smell it onlynow? Took its time in coming like herself,slow but sure. Suppose its ever somany millions of tiny grainsblown across. Yes, it is. Because those spiceislands, Cinghalese thismorning, smell them leagues off. Tell you what it is.Its like a finefine veil or web they have all over the skin, fine like what doyoucall it gossamer, and theyre always spinning it out of them, fineasanything, like rainbow colours without knowing it. Clings to everythingshetakes off. Vamp of her stockings. Warm shoe. Stays. Drawers: littlekick, takingthem off. Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to sniffin her shift on thebed. Know her smell in a thousand. Bathwater too.Reminds me of strawberries andcream. Wonder where it is really. Thereor the armpits or under the neck.Because you get it out of all holesand corners. Hyacinth perfume made of oil ofether or something.Muskrat. Bag under their tails. One grain pour off odour foryears. Dogsat each other behind. Good evening. Evening. How do you sniff? Hm.Hm.Very well, thank you. Animals go by that. Yes now, look at it that way.Werethe same. Some women, instance, warn you off when they have theirperiod. Comenear. Then get a hogo you could hang your hat on. Likewhat? Potted herringsgone stale or. Boof! Please keep off the grass.Perhaps they get a man smell off us. Whatthough? Cigary gloves longJohn had on his desk the other day. Breath? What youeat and drink givesthat. No. Mansmell, I mean. Must be connected with thatbecause prieststhat are supposed to be are different. Women buzz round it likefliesround treacle. Railed off the altar get on to it at any cost. The treeofforbidden priest. O, father, will you? Let me be the first to. Thatdiffusesitself all through the body, permeates. Source of life. Andits extremelycurious the smell. Celery sauce. Let me.Mr Bloom inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm.Opening of his waistcoat.Almonds or. No. Lemons it is. Ah no, thats the soap.O by the by that lotion. I knew there wassomething on my mind. Neverwent back and the soap not paid. Dislike carryingbottles like that hagthis morning. Hynes might have paid me that threeshillings. I couldmention Meaghers just to remind him. Still if he works thatparagraph.Two and nine. Bad opinion of me hell have. Call tomorrow. How muchdoI owe you? Three and nine? Two and nine, sir. Ah. Might stop him givingcreditanother time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do. Fellows runup a bill onthe slate and then slinking around the back streets intosomewhere else.Heres this nobleman passed before. Blown infrom the bay. Just went asfar as turn back. Always at home at dinnertime. Looksmangled out: had agood tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after meals. Aftersupper walka mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government sit.Walkafter him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still youlearnsomething. See ourselves as others see us. So long as women dontmock whatmatter? Thats the way to find out. Ask yourself who is henow. _The Mystery Manon the Beach_, prize titbit story by Mr LeopoldBloom. Payment at the rate ofone guinea per column. And that fellowtoday at the graveside in the brownmacintosh. Corns on his kismethowever. Healthy perhaps absorb all the. Whistlebrings rain they say.Must be some somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp. The bodyfeels theatmosphere. Old Bettys joints are on the rack. MotherShiptonsprophecy that is about ships around they fly in the twinkling. No.Signsof rain it is. The royal reader. And distant hills seem coming nigh.Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight,nine. See. Has to change orthey might think it a house. Wreckers. GraceDarling. People afraid ofthe dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time.Jewels diamondsflash better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going tohurtyou. Better now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run you throughthesmall guts for nothing. Still two types there are you bob against.Scowl orsmile. Pardon! Not at all. Best time to spray plants too inthe shade after thesun. Some light still. Red rays are longest. RoygbivVance taught us: red,orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Astar I see. Venus? Cant tellyet. Two. When three its night. Werethose nightclouds there all the time?Looks like a phantom ship. No.Wait. Trees are they? An optical illusion.Mirage. Land of the settingsun this. Homerule sun setting in the southeast. Mynative land,goodnight.Dew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit onthat stone. Brings on whitefluxions. Never have little baby then less he wasbig strong fight hisway up through. Might get piles myself. Sticks too like asummer cold,sore on the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction oftheposition. Like to be that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you dontknow hownice you looked. I begin to like them at that age. Greenapples. Grab at allthat offer. Suppose its the only time we crosslegs, seated. Also the librarytoday: those girl graduates. Happy chairsunder them. But its the eveninginfluence. They feel all that. Openlike flowers, know their hours, sunflowers,Jerusalem artichokes, inballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the lamps.Nightstock in MatDillons garden where I kissed her shoulder. Wish I had a fulllengthoilpainting of her then. June that was too I wooed. The yearreturns.History repeats itself. Ye crags and peaks Im with you onceagain.Life, love, voyage round your own little world. And now? Sad aboutherlame of course but must be on your guard not to feel too much pity. Theytakeadvantage.All quiet on Howth now. The distant hillsseem. Where we. Therhododendrons. I am a fool perhaps. He gets the plums, and Itheplumstones. Where I come in. All that old hill has seen. Names change:thatsall. Lovers: yum yum.Tired I feel now. Will I get up? O wait.Drained all the manhood out ofme, little wretch. She kissed me. Never again. Myyouth. Only once itcomes. Or hers. Take the train there tomorrow. No. Returningnot thesame. Like kids your second visit to a house. The new I want. Nothingnewunder the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphins Barn. Are you not happy inyour? Naughtydarling. At Dolphins barn charades in Luke Doyles house.Mat Dillon and hisbevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy,Hetty. Molly too. Eightyseventhat was. Year before we. And the oldmajor, partial to his drop of spirits.Curious she an only child, I anonly child. So it returns. Think youre escapingand run into yourself.Longest way round is the shortest way home. And just whenhe and she.Circus horse walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip: tearinHenny Doyles overcoat. Van: breadvan delivering. Winkle: cocklesandperiwinkles. Then I did Rip van Winkle coming back. She leaned onthesideboard watching. Moorish eyes. Twenty years asleep in Sleepy Hollow.Allchanged. Forgotten. The young are old. His gun rusty from the dew.Ba. What is that flying about? Swallow? Batprobably. Thinks Im a tree,so blind. Have birds no smell? Metempsychosis. Theybelieved you couldbe changed into a tree from grief. Weeping willow. Ba. Therehe goes.Funny little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up there.Verylikely. Hanging by his heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell scared himout,I suppose. Mass seems to be over. Could hear them all at it. Prayfor us. Andpray for us. And pray for us. Good idea the repetition. Samething with ads. Buyfrom us. And buy from us. Yes, theres the light inthe priests house. Theirfrugal meal. Remember about the mistake in thevaluation when I was in Thoms.Twentyeight it is. Two houses they have.Gabriel Conroys brother is curate. Ba.Again. Wonder why they come outat night like mice. Theyre a mixed breed. Birdsare like hopping mice.What frightens them, light or noise? Better sit still.All instinctlike the bird in drouth got water out of the end of a jar bythrowingin pebbles. Like a little man in a cloak he is with tiny hands.Weenybones. Almost see them shimmering, kind of a bluey white. Colours dependonthe light you see. Stare the sun for example like the eagle then lookat a shoesee a blotch blob yellowish. Wants to stamp his trademark oneverything.Instance, that cat this morning on the staircase. Colour ofbrown turf. Say younever see them with three colours. Not true. Thathalf tabbywhite tortoiseshellin the _City Arms_ with the letter em onher forehead. Body fifty differentcolours. Howth a while ago amethyst.Glass flashing. Thats how that wise manwhats his name with theburning glass. Then the heather goes on fire. It cantbe touristsmatches. What? Perhaps the sticks dry rub together in the windandlight. Or broken bottles in the furze act as a burning glass in thesun.Archimedes. I have it! My memorys not so bad.Ba. Who knows what theyre always flying for.Insects? That bee lastweek got into the room playing with his shadow on theceiling. Mightbe the one bit me, come back to see. Birds too. Never find out.Or whatthey say. Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve theyhaveto fly over the ocean and back. Lots must be killed in storms,telegraphwires. Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of oceangoingsteamersfloundering along in the dark, lowing out like seacows. _FaughaBallagh!_ Out of that, bloody curse to you! Others in vessels, bit ofahandkerchief sail, pitched about like snuff at a wake when the stormywinds doblow. Married too. Sometimes away for years at the ends of theearth somewhere.No ends really because its round. Wife in every portthey say. She has a goodjob if she minds it till Johnny comes marchinghome again. If ever he does.Smelling the tail end of ports. How canthey like the sea? Yet they do. Theanchors weighed. Off he sails witha scapular or a medal on him for luck. Well.And the tephilim no whatsthis they call it poor papas father had on his doorto touch. Thatbrought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house ofbondage.Something in all those superstitions because when you go out neverknowwhat dangers. Hanging on to a plank or astride of a beam for grimlife,lifebelt round him, gulping salt water, and thats the last of hisnibstill the sharks catch hold of him. Do fish ever get seasick?Then you have a beautiful calm without acloud, smooth sea, placid,crew and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones locker,moon looking down sopeaceful. Not my fault, old cockalorum.A last lonely candle wandered up the sky fromMirus bazaar in search offunds for Mercers hospital and broke, drooping, andshed a clusterof violet but one white stars. They floated, fell: they faded.Theshepherds hour: the hour of folding: hour of tryst. From house tohouse,giving his everwelcome double knock, went the nine oclockpostman, theglowworms lamp at his belt gleaming here and there throughthe laurel hedges.And among the five young trees a hoisted lintstocklit the lamp at Leahysterrace. By screens of lighted windows, by equalgardens a shrill voice wentcrying, wailing: _Evening Telegraph, stoppress edition! Result of the Gold Cuprace!_ and from the door ofDignams house a boy ran out and called. Twitteringthe bat flew here,flew there. Far out over the sands the coming surf crept,grey. Howthsettled for slumber, tired of long days, of yumyum rhododendrons (hewasold) and felt gladly the night breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns.He laybut opened a red eye unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing,slumberous butawake. And far on Kish bank the anchored lightshiptwinkled, winked at Mr Bloom.Life those chaps out there must have, stuckin the same spot. IrishLights board. Penance for their sins. Coastguards too.Rocket andbreeches buoy and lifeboat. Day we went out for the pleasure cruiseinthe Erins King, throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears in thezoo.Filthy trip. Drunkards out to shake up their livers. Puking overboardtofeed the herrings. Nausea. And the women, fear of God in their faces.Milly, nosign of funk. Her blue scarf loose, laughing. Dont know whatdeath is at thatage. And then their stomachs clean. But being lost theyfear. When we hid behindthe tree at Crumlin. I didnt want to. Mamma!Mamma! Babes in the wood.Frightening them with masks too. Throwing themup in the air to catch them. Illmurder you. Is it only half fun? Orchildren playing battle. Whole earnest. Howcan people aim guns at eachother. Sometimes they go off. Poor kids! Onlytroubles wildfire andnettlerash. Calomel purge I got her for that. Aftergetting betterasleep with Molly. Very same teeth she has. What do they love?Anotherthemselves? But the morning she chased her with the umbrella. Perhapssoas not to hurt. I felt her pulse. Ticking. Little hand it was: nowbig.Dearest Papli. All that the hand says when you touch. Loved to countmywaistcoat buttons. Her first stays I remember. Made me laugh to see.Little papsto begin with. Left one is more sensitive, I think. Minetoo. Nearer the heart?Padding themselves out if fat is in fashion. Hergrowing pains at night,calling, wakening me. Frightened she was whenher nature came on her first. Poorchild! Strange moment for the mothertoo. Brings back her girlhood. Gibraltar.Looking from Buena Vista.OHaras tower. The seabirds screaming. Old Barbaryape that gobbled allhis family. Sundown, gunfire for the men to cross thelines. Lookingout over the sea she told me. Evening like this, but clear, noclouds.I always thought Id marry a lord or a rich gentleman coming withaprivate yacht. _Buenas noches, se√±orita. El hombre ama la muchachahermosa_.Why me? Because you were so foreign from the others.Better not stick here all night like alimpet. This weather makes youdull. Must be getting on for nine by the light.Go home. Too late for_Leah, Lily of Killarney._ No. Might be still up. Call tothe hospitalto see. Hope shes over. Long day Ive had. Martha, the bath,funeral,house of Keyes, museum with those goddesses, Dedalus song. Thenthatbawler in Barney Kiernans. Got my own back there. Drunken ranters whatIsaid about his God made him wince. Mistake to hit back. Or? No.Ought to go homeand laugh at themselves. Always want to be swilling incompany. Afraid to bealone like a child of two. Suppose he hit me. Lookat it other way round. Not sobad then. Perhaps not to hurt he meant.Three cheers for Israel. Three cheersfor the sister-in-law he hawkedabout, three fangs in her mouth. Same style ofbeauty. Particularly niceold party for a cup of tea. The sister of the wife ofthe wild man ofBorneo has just come to town. Imagine that in the early morningat closerange. Everyone to his taste as Morris said when he kissed the cow.ButDignams put the boots on it. Houses of mourning so depressing becauseyounever know. Anyhow she wants the money. Must call to those ScottishWidows as Ipromised. Strange name. Takes it for granted were going topop off first. Thatwidow on Monday was it outside Cramers thatlooked at me. Buried the poorhusband but progressing favourably onthe premium. Her widows mite. Well? Whatdo you expect her to do? Mustwheedle her way along. Widower I hate to see.Looks so forlorn. Poor manOConnor wife and five children poisoned by musselshere. The sewage.Hopeless. Some good matronly woman in a porkpie hat to motherhim. Takehim in tow, platter face and a large apron. Ladies greyflannelettebloomers, three shillings a pair, astonishing bargain. Plain andloved,loved for ever, they say. Ugly: no woman thinks she is. Love, lie andbehandsome for tomorrow we die. See him sometimes walking about trying tofindout who played the trick. U. p: up. Fate that is. He, not me. Alsoa shop oftennoticed. Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt last night? Wait.Something confused. Shehad red slippers on. Turkish. Wore the breeches.Suppose she does? Would I likeher in pyjamas? Damned hard to answer.Nannettis gone. Mailboat. Near Holyheadby now. Must nail that adof Keyess. Work Hynes and Crawford. Petticoats forMolly. She hassomething to put in them. Whats that? Might be money.Mr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece ofpaper on the strand. Hebrought it near his eyes and peered. Letter? No. Cantread. Better go.Better. Im tired to move. Page of an old copybook. All thoseholes andpebbles. Who could count them? Never know what you find. Bottlewithstory of a treasure in it, thrown from a wreck. Parcels post.Childrenalways want to throw things in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on thewaters.Whats this? Bit of stick.O! Exhausted that female has me. Not so youngnow. Will she come heretomorrow? Wait for her somewhere for ever. Must comeback. Murderers do.Will I?Mr Bloom with his stick gently vexed thethick sand at his foot. Write amessage for her. Might remain. What?I.Some flatfoot tramp on it in the morning.Useless. Washed away. Tidecomes here. Saw a pool near her foot. Bend, see myface there, darkmirror, breathe on it, stirs. All these rocks with lines andscars andletters. O, those transparent! Besides they dont know. What isthemeaning of that other world. I called you naughty boy because I do notlike.AM. A.No room. Let it go.Mr Bloom effaced the letters with his slowboot. Hopeless thing sand.Nothing grows in it. All fades. No fear of bigvessels coming up here.Except Guinnesss barges. Round the Kish in eighty days.Done half bydesign.He flung his wooden pen away. The stick fellin silted sand, stuck. Nowif you were trying to do that for a week on end youcouldnt. Chance.Well never meet again. But it was lovely. Goodbye, dear.Thanks. Mademe feel so young.Short snooze now if I had. Must be near nine.Liverpool boat long gone..Not even the smoke. And she can do the other. Didtoo. And Belfast. Iwont go. Race there, race back to Ennis. Let him. Justclose my eyesa moment. Wont sleep, though. Half dream. It never comes thesame. Batagain. No harm in him. Just a few.O sweety all your little girlwhite up I sawdirty bracegirdle made me dolove sticky we two naughty Grace darling she himhalf past the bed methim pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wifeblack hair heaveunder embon _se√±orita_ young eyes Mulvey plump bubs mebreadvan Winklered slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tailendAgendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return next inhernext her next.A bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far in thegrey a bell chimed. Mr Bloomwith open mouth, his left boot sanded sideways,leaned, breathed. Justfor a few _Cuckoo  Cuckoo  Cuckoo._The clock on the mantelpiece in the priestshouse cooed where CanonOHanlon and Father Conroy and the reverend John HughesS. J. weretaking tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton chops withcatsupand talking about _Cuckoo  Cuckoo  Cuckoo._Because it was a little canarybird that cameout of its little houseto tell the time that Gerty MacDowell noticed the timeshe was therebecause she was as quick as anything about a thing like that, wasGertyMacDowell, and she noticed at once that that foreign gentleman thatwassitting on the rocks looking was _Cuckoo  Cuckoo  Cuckoo._Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus.Deshil Holles Eamus.Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn,quickening and wombfruit. Sendus bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening andwombfruit. Send usbright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit.Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa!Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa!Universally that persons acumen is esteemedvery little perceptiveconcerning whatsoever matters are being held as mostprofitably bymortals with sapience endowed to be studied who is ignorant ofthatwhich the most in doctrine erudite and certainly by reason of that inthemhigh minds ornament deserving of veneration constantly maintainwhen by generalconsent they affirm that other circumstances beingequal by no exteriorsplendour is the prosperity of a nation moreefficaciously asserted than by themeasure of how far forward mayhave progressed the tribute of its solicitude forthat proliferentcontinuance which of evils the original if it be absent whenfortunatelypresent constitutes the certain sign of omnipotent naturesincorruptedbenefaction. For who is there who anything of some significancehasapprehended but is conscious that that exterior splendour may be thesurfaceof a downwardtending lutulent reality or on the contrary anyoneso is thereunilluminated as not to perceive that as no natures booncan contend againstthe bounty of increase so it behoves every most justcitizen to become theexhortator and admonisher of his semblables andto tremble lest what had in thepast been by the nation excellentlycommenced might be in the future not withsimilar excellenceaccomplished if an inverecund habit shall have graduallytraducedthe honourable by ancestors transmitted customs to that thitherofprofundity that that one was audacious excessively who would havethehardihood to rise affirming that no more odious offence can for anyonebethan to oblivious neglect to consign that evangel simultaneouslycommand andpromise which on all mortals with prophecy of abundanceor with diminutionsmenace that exalted of reiteratedly procreatingfunction ever irrevocablyenjoined?It is not why therefore we shall wonder if,as the best historiansrelate, among the Celts, who nothing that was not in itsnatureadmirable admired, the art of medicine shall have been highlyhonoured.Not to speak of hostels, leperyards, sweating chambers,plaguegraves,their greatest doctors, the OShiels, the OHickeys, the OLees,havesedulously set down the divers methods by which the sick and therelapsed foundagain health whether the malady had been the tremblingwithering or looseboyconnell flux. Certainly in every public work whichin it anything of gravitycontains preparation should be with importancecommensurate and therefore a planwas by them adopted (whether by havingpreconsidered or as the maturation ofexperience it is difficult inbeing said which the discrepant opinions ofsubsequent inquirers are notup to the present congrued to render manifest)whereby maternity was sofar from all accident possibility removed that whatevercare the patientin that all hardest of woman hour chiefly required and notsolelyfor the copiously opulent but also for her who not being sufficientlymoneyedscarcely and often not even scarcely could subsist valiantly andfor aninconsiderable emolument was provided.To her nothing already then and thenceforwardwas anyway able to bemolestful for this chiefly felt all citizens except withproliferentmothers prosperity at all not to can be and as they hadreceivedeternity gods mortals generation to befit them her beholding, whenthecase was so hoving itself, parturient in vehicle thereward carryingdesireimmense among all one another was impelling on of her to bereceived into thatdomicile. O thing of prudent nation not merely inbeing seen but also even inbeing related worthy of being praised thatthey her by anticipation went seeingmother, that she by them suddenlyto be about to be cherished had been begun shefelt!Before born bliss babe had. Within womb wonhe worship. Whatever in thatone case done commodiously done was. A couch bymidwives attended withwholesome food reposeful, cleanest swaddles as thoughforthbringing werenow done and by wise foresight set: but to this no less ofwhat drugsthere is need and surgical implements which are pertaining to hercasenot omitting aspect of all very distracting spectacles in variouslatitudes byour terrestrial orb offered together with images, divineand human, thecogitation of which by sejunct females is to tumescenceconducive or eases issuein the high sunbright wellbuilt fair home ofmothers when, ostensibly far goneand reproductitive, it is come by herthereto to lie in, her term up.Some man that wayfaring was stood byhousedoor at nights oncoming. OfIsraels folk was that man that on earthwandering far had fared. Starkruth of man his errand that him lone led tillthat house.Of that house A. Horne is lord. Seventy bedskeeps he there teemingmothers are wont that they lie for to thole and bringforth bairns haleso Gods angel to Mary quoth. Watchers tway there walk, whitesistersin ward sleepless. Smarts they still, sickness soothing: in twelvemoonsthrice an hundred. Truest bedthanes they twain are, for Horneholdingwariest ward.In ward wary the watcher hearing come thatman mildhearted eft risingwith swire ywimpled to him her gate wide undid. Lo,levin leapinglightens in eyeblink Irelands westward welkin. Full she dradthatGod the Wreaker all mankind would fordo with water for his evilsins.Christs rood made she on breastbone and him drew that he wouldratheinfare under her thatch. That man her will wotting worthful went inHorneshouse.Loth to irk in Hornes hall hat holding theseeker stood. On her stow heere was living with dear wife and lovesome daughterthat then over landand seafloor nine years had long outwandered. Once her intownhithemeeting he to her bow had not doffed. Her to forgive now he cravedwithgood ground of her allowed that that of him swiftseen face, hers, soyoungthen had looked. Light swift her eyes kindled, bloom of blusheshis wordwinning.As her eyes then ongot his weeds swarttherefor sorrow she feared. Gladafter she was that ere adread was. Her he askedif OHare Doctor tidingssent from far coast and she with grameful sigh himanswered that OHareDoctor in heaven was. Sad was the man that word to hearthat him soheavied in bowels ruthful. All she there told him, ruing deathforfriend so young, algate sore unwilling Gods rightwiseness to withsay.Shesaid that he had a fair sweet death through God His goodness withmasspriest tobe shriven, holy housel and sick mens oil to his limbs.The man then rightearnest asked the nun of which death the dead man wasdied and the nun answered himand said that he was died in Mona Islandthrough bellycrab three year agone comeChildermas and she prayed to Godthe Allruthful to have his dear soul in hisundeathliness. He heard hersad words, in held hat sad staring. So stood theythere both awhile inwanhope sorrowing one with other.Therefore, everyman, look to that last endthat is thy death and thedust that gripeth on every man that is born of womanfor as he camenaked forth from his mothers womb so naked shall he wend him atthelast for to go as he came.The man that was come in to the house thenspoke to the nursingwoman andhe asked her how it fared with the woman that laythere in childbed.The nursingwoman answered him and said that that woman was inthroesnow full three days and that it would be a hard birth unneth to bearbutthat now in a little it would be. She said thereto that she hadseen many birthsof women but never was none so hard as was that womansbirth. Then she set itall forth to him for because she knew the manthat time was had lived nigh thathouse. The man hearkened to her wordsfor he felt with wonder womens woe in thetravail that they have ofmotherhood and he wondered to look on her face thatwas a fair face forany man to see but yet was she left after long years ahandmaid. Ninetwelve bloodflows chiding her childless.And whiles they spake thedoor of the castle was opened and there nighedthem a mickle noise as of manythat sat there at meat. And there cameagainst the place as they stood a younglearningknight yclept Dixon. Andthe traveller Leopold was couth to him sithenit had happed that theyhad had ado each with other in the house of misericordwhere thislearningknight lay by cause the traveller Leopold came there tobehealed for he was sore wounded in his breast by a spear wherewith ahorribleand dreadful dragon was smitten him for which he did do makea salve of volatilesalt and chrism as much as he might suffice. And hesaid now that he should goin to that castle for to make merry withthem that were there. And the travellerLeopold said that he should gootherwhither for he was a man of cautels and asubtile. Also the ladywas of his avis and repreved the learningknight thoughshe trowed wellthat the traveller had said thing that was false for hissubtility. Butthe learningknight would not hear say nay nor do her mandement nehavehim in aught contrarious to his list and he said how it was amarvellouscastle. And the traveller Leopold went into the castle for to resthimfor a space being sore of limb after many marches environing in diverslandsand sometime venery.And in the castle was set a board that was ofthe birchwood of Finlandyand it was upheld by four dwarfmen of that country butthey durst notmove more for enchantment. And on this board were frightfulswords andknives that are made in a great cavern by swinking demons out ofwhiteflames that they fix then in the horns of buffalos and stags thatthereabound marvellously. And there were vessels that are wrought by magicofMahound out of seasand and the air by a warlock with his breath that heblasesin to them like to bubbles. And full fair cheer and rich was onthe board thatno wight could devise a fuller ne richer. And there wasa vat of silver that wasmoved by craft to open in the which lay strangefishes withouten heads thoughmisbelieving men nie that this be possiblething without they see it nathelessthey are so. And these fishes liein an oily water brought there from Portugalland because of the fatnessthat therein is like to the juices of theolivepress. And also it wasa marvel to see in that castle how by magic theymake a compost out offecund wheatkidneys out of Chaldee that by aid of certainangry spiritsthat they do in to it swells up wondrously like to a vastmountain. Andthey teach the serpents there to entwine themselves up on longsticksout of the ground and of the scales of these serpents they brew outabrewage like to mead.And the learning knight let pour for childeLeopold a draught and halpthereto the while all they that were there drankevery each. And childeLeopold did up his beaver for to pleasure him and tookapertly somewhatin amity for he never drank no manner of mead which he then putby andanon full privily he voided the more part in his neighbour glass andhisneighbour nist not of this wile. And he sat down in that castle withthem for torest him there awhile. Thanked be Almighty God.This meanwhile this good sister stood by thedoor and begged them at thereverence of Jesu our alther liege Lord to leavetheir wassailing forthere was above one quick with child, a gentle dame, whosetime hiedfast. Sir Leopold heard on the upfloor cry on high and he wonderedwhatcry that it was whether of child or woman and I marvel, said he, that itbenot come or now. Meseems it dureth overlong. And he was ware and sawa franklinthat hight Lenehan on that side the table that was older thanany of the totherand for that they both were knights virtuous in theone emprise and eke by causethat he was elder he spoke to him fullgently. But, said he, or it be long tooshe will bring forth by God Hisbounty and have joy of her childing for she hathwaited marvellous long.And the franklin that had drunken said, Expecting eachmoment to be hernext. Also he took the cup that stood tofore him for him needednevernone asking nor desiring of him to drink and, Now drink, said he,fullydelectably, and he quaffed as far as he might to their boths health forhewas a passing good man of his lustiness. And sir Leopold that was thegoodliestguest that ever sat in scholars hall and that was the meekestman and thekindest that ever laid husbandly hand under hen and that wasthe very truestknight of the world one that ever did minion serviceto lady gentle pledged himcourtly in the cup. Womans woe with wonderpondering.Now let us speak of that fellowship that wasthere to the intent to bedrunken an they might. There was a sort of scholarsalong either sidethe board, that is to wit, Dixon yclept junior of saint MaryMerciableswith other his fellows Lynch and Madden, scholars of medicine, and thefranklinthat hight Lenehan and one from Alba Longa, one Crotthers, andyoung Stephenthat had mien of a frere that was at head of the boardand Costello that menclepen Punch Costello all long of a mastery ofhim erewhile gested (and of allthem, reserved young Stephen, he was themost drunken that demanded still ofmore mead) and beside the meek sirLeopold. But on young Malachi they waited forthat he promised to havecome and such as intended to no goodness said how hehad broke his avow.And sir Leopold sat with them for he bore fast friendship tosir Simonand to this his son young Stephen and for that his languor becalmedhimthere after longest wanderings insomuch as they feasted him for thattime inthe honourablest manner. Ruth red him, love led on with will towander, loth toleave.For they were right witty scholars. And heheard their aresouns each genother as touching birth and righteousness, youngMadden maintaining thatput such case it were hard the wife to die (for so ithad fallen out amatter of some year agone with a woman of Eblana in Horneshouse thatnow was trespassed out of this world and the self night next beforeherdeath all leeches and pothecaries had taken counsel of her case). Andtheysaid farther she should live because in the beginning, they said,the womanshould bring forth in pain and wherefore they that were ofthis imaginationaffirmed how young Madden had said truth for he hadconscience to let her die.And not few and of these was young Lynchwere in doubt that the world was nowright evil governed as it was neverother howbeit the mean people believed itotherwise but the law nor hisjudges did provide no remedy. A redress God grant.This was scant saidbut all cried with one acclaim nay, by our Virgin Mother,the wifeshould live and the babe to die. In colour whereof they waxed hotuponthat head what with argument and what for their drinking but thefranklinLenehan was prompt each when to pour them ale so that at theleast way mirthmight not lack. Then young Madden showed all the wholeaffair and said how thatshe was dead and how for holy religion sake byrede of palmer and bedesman andfor a vow he had made to Saint Ultan ofArbraccan her goodman husband would notlet her death whereby they wereall wondrous grieved. To whom young Stephen had thesewords following:Murmur, sirs, is eke oft among lay folk. Both babe and parentnowglorify their Maker, the one in limbo gloom, the other in purgefire.But,gramercy, what of those Godpossibled souls that we nightlyimpossibilise, whichis the sin against the Holy Ghost, Very God, Lordand Giver of Life? For, sirs,he said, our lust is brief. We are meansto those small creatures within us andnature has other ends than we.Then said Dixon junior to Punch Costello wist hewhat ends. But he hadovermuch drunken and the best word he could have of himwas that hewould ever dishonest a woman whoso she were or wife or maid or lemanifit so fortuned him to be delivered of his spleen of lustihead.WhereatCrotthers of Alba Longa sang young Malachis praise of that beasttheunicorn how once in the millennium he cometh by his horn, the other allthiswhile, pricked forward with their jibes wherewith they did malicehim,witnessing all and several by saint Foutinus his engines thathe was able to doany manner of thing that lay in man to do. Thereatlaughed they all rightjocundly only young Stephen and sir Leopold whichnever durst laugh too open byreason of a strange humour which he wouldnot bewray and also for that he ruedfor her that bare whoso she mightbe or wheresoever. Then spake young Stephenorgulous of mother Churchthat would cast him out of her bosom, of law ofcanons, of Lilith,patron of abortions, of bigness wrought by wind of seeds ofbrightnessor by potency of vampires mouth to mouth or, as Virgilius saith, by theinfluenceof the occident or by the reek of moonflower or an she liewith a woman whichher man has but lain with, _effectu secuto_, orperadventure in her bathaccording to the opinions of Averroes and MosesMaimonides. He said also how atthe end of the second month a human soulwas infused and how in all our holymother foldeth ever souls for Godsgreater glory whereas that earthly motherwhich was but a dam to bearbeastly should die by canon for so saith he thatholdeth the fishermansseal, even that blessed Peter on which rock was holychurch for all agesfounded. All they bachelors then asked of sir Leopold wouldhe in likecase so jeopard her person as risk life to save life. A warinessofmind he would answer as fitted all and, laying hand to jaw, he saiddissembling,as his wont was, that as it was informed him, who had everloved the art ofphysic as might a layman, and agreeing also with hisexperience of so seldomseenan accident it was good for that motherChurch belike at one blow had birth anddeath pence and in such sortdeliverly he scaped their questions. That is truth,pardy, said Dixon,and, or I err, a pregnant word. Which hearing young Stephenwas amarvellous glad man and he averred that he who stealeth from thepoorlendeth to the Lord for he was of a wild manner when he was drunken andthathe was now in that taking it appeared eftsoons.But sir Leopold was passing grave maugre hisword by cause he still hadpity of the terrorcausing shrieking of shrill womenin their labourand as he was minded of his good lady Marion that had borne himan onlymanchild which on his eleventh day on live had died and no man ofartcould save so dark is destiny. And she was wondrous stricken of heartforthat evil hap and for his burial did him on a fair corselet oflambs wool, theflower of the flock, lest he might perish utterly andlie akeled (for it wasthen about the midst of the winter) and now SirLeopold that had of his body nomanchild for an heir looked upon him hisfriends son and was shut up in sorrowfor his forepassed happiness andas sad as he was that him failed a son of suchgentle courage (for allaccounted him of real parts) so grieved he also in noless measurefor young Stephen for that he lived riotously with those wastrelsandmurdered his goods with whores.About that present time young Stephen filledall cups that stood emptyso as there remained but little mo if the prudenterhad not shadowedtheir approach from him that still plied it very busily who,praying forthe intentions of the sovereign pontiff, he gave them for a pledgethevicar of Christ which also as he said is vicar of Bray. Now drink we,quodhe, of this mazer and quaff ye this mead which is not indeed parcelof my bodybut my souls bodiment. Leave ye fraction of bread to themthat live by bread alone.Be not afeard neither for any want for thiswill comfort more than the otherwill dismay. See ye here. And he showedthem glistering coins of the tribute andgoldsmith notes the worth oftwo pound nineteen shilling that he had, he said,for a song which hewrit. They all admired to see the foresaid riches in suchdearth ofmoney as was herebefore. His words were then these as followeth:Knowall men, he said, times ruins build eternitys mansions. What meansthis?Desires wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from abramblebush to bea rose upon the rood of time. Mark me now. In womanswomb word is made fleshbut in the spirit of the maker all fleshthat passes becomes the word that shallnot pass away. This is thepostcreation. _Omnis caro ad te veniet_. No questionbut her name ispuissant who aventried the dear corse of our Agenbuyer, Healerand Herd,our mighty mother and mother most venerable and Bernardus saithaptlythat She hath an _omnipotentiam deiparae supplicem_, that is to wit,analmightiness of petition because she is the second Eve and she wonus, saithAugustine too, whereas that other, our grandam, which we arelinked up with bysuccessive anastomosis of navelcords sold us all,seed, breed and generation,for a penny pippin. But here is the matternow. Or she knew him, that second Isay, and was but creature of hercreature, _vergine madre, figlia di tuofiglio_, or she knew him not andthen stands she in the one denial or ignorancywith Peter Piscator wholives in the house that Jack built and with Joseph thejoiner patron ofthe happy demise of all unhappy marriages, _parceque M. L√©oTaxil nousa dit que qui lavait mise dans cette fichue position c√©taitlesacre pigeon, ventre de Dieu! Entweder_ transubstantialityODERconsubstantiality but in no case subsubstantiality. And all cried outuponit for a very scurvy word. A pregnancy without joy, he said, abirth withoutpangs, a body without blemish, a belly without bigness.Let the lewd with faithand fervour worship. With will will wewithstand, withsay.Hereupon Punch Costello dinged with his fistupon the board and wouldsing a bawdy catch _Staboo Stabella_ about a wench thatwas put in podof a jolly swashbuckler in Almany which he did straightways nowattack:_The first three months she was not well, Staboo,_ when herenurseQuigley from the door angerly bid them hist ye should shame you norwas itnot meet as she remembered them being her mind was to have allorderly againstlord Andrew came for because she was jealous thatno gasteful turmoil mightshorten the honour of her guard. It was anancient and a sad matron of a sedatelook and christian walking,in habit dun beseeming her megrims and wrinkledvisage, nor did herhortative want of it effect for incontinently Punch Costellowas of themall embraided and they reclaimed the churl with civil rudeness someandshaked him with menace of blandishments others whiles they all chodewithhim, a murrain seize the dolt, what a devil he would be at, thouchuff, thoupuny, thou got in peasestraw, thou losel, thou chitterling,thou spawn of arebel, thou dykedropt, thou abortion thou, to shut uphis drunken drool out ofthat like a curse of God ape, the good sirLeopold that had for his cognisancethe flower of quiet, margeraingentle, advising also the times occasion as mostsacred and most worthyto be most sacred. In Hornes house rest should reign.To be short this passage was scarce by whenMaster Dixon of Mary inEccles, goodly grinning, asked young Stephen what wasthe reason why hehad not cided to take friars vows and he answered himobedience in thewomb, chastity in the tomb but involuntary poverty all hisdays. MasterLenehan at this made return that he had heard of those nefariousdeedsand how, as he heard hereof counted, he had besmirched the lily virtueof aconfiding female which was corruption of minors and they allintershowed it too,waxing merry and toasting to his fathership. But hesaid very entirely it wasclean contrary to their suppose for he wasthe eternal son and ever virgin.Thereat mirth grew in them the more andthey rehearsed to him his curious riteof wedlock for the disrobing anddeflowering of spouses, as the priests use inMadagascar island, sheto be in guise of white and saffron, her groom in whiteand grain, withburning of nard and tapers, on a bridebed while clerks sungkyries andthe anthem _Ut novetur sexus omnis corporis mysterium_ till shewasthere unmaided. He gave them then a much admirable hymen minim bythosedelicate poets Master John Fletcher and Master Francis Beaumont that isintheir _Maids Tragedy_ that was writ for a like twining of lovers:_To bed, tobed_ was the burden of it to be played with accompanableconcent upon thevirginals. An exquisite dulcet epithalame of mostmollificative suadency forjuveniles amatory whom the odoriferousflambeaus of the paranymphs have escortedto the quadrupedal prosceniumof connubial communion. Well met they were, saidMaster Dixon, joyed,but, harkee, young sir, better were they named Beau Mountand Lecherfor, by my troth, of such a mingling much might come. Young Stephensaidindeed to his best remembrance they had but the one doxy between themandshe of the stews to make shift with in delights amorous for life ranvery highin those days and the custom of the country approved with it.Greater love thanthis, he said, no man hath that a man lay down hiswife for his friend. Go thouand do likewise. Thus, or words to thateffect, saith Zarathustra, sometimeregius professor of French lettersto the university of Oxtail nor breathedthere ever that man to whommankind was more beholden. Bring a stranger withinthy tower it willgo hard but thou wilt have the secondbest bed. _Orate,fratres, promemetipso_. And all the people shall say, Amen. Remember, Erin,thygenerations and thy days of old, how thou settedst little by me and bymyword and broughtedst in a stranger to my gates to commit fornicationin my sightand to wax fat and kick like Jeshurum. Therefore hast thousinned against mylight and hast made me, thy lord, to be the slave ofservants. Return, return,Clan Milly: forget me not, O Milesian. Whyhast thou done this abominationbefore me that thou didst spurn me fora merchant of jalaps and didst deny me tothe Roman and to the Indian ofdark speech with whom thy daughters did lieluxuriously? Look forth now,my people, upon the land of behest, even from Horeband from Nebo andfrom Pisgah and from the Horns of Hatten unto a land flowingwith milkand money. But thou hast suckled me with a bitter milk: my moon andmysun thou hast quenched for ever. And thou hast left me alone for everin thedark ways of my bitterness: and with a kiss of ashes hast thoukissed my mouth.This tenebrosity of the interior, he proceeded to say,hath not been illuminedby the wit of the septuagint nor so much asmentioned for the Orient from on highWhich brake hells gates visited adarkness that was foraneous. Assuefactionminorates atrocities (as Tullysaith of his darling Stoics) and Hamlet hisfather showeth the prince noblister of combustion. The adiaphane in the noon oflife is an Egyptsplague which in the nights of prenativity and postmortemityis theirmost proper _ubi_ and _quomodo_. And as the ends and ultimates ofallthings accord in some mean and measure with their inceptions andoriginals, thatsame multiplicit concordance which leads forth growthfrom birth accomplishingby a retrogressive metamorphosis that minishingand ablation towards the finalwhich is agreeable unto nature so is itwith our subsolar being. The agedsisters draw us into life: we wail,batten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder, dwindle,die: over us dead theybend. First, saved from waters of old Nile, amongbulrushes, a bedof fasciated wattles: at last the cavity of a mountain, anoccultedsepulchre amid the conclamation of the hillcat and the ossifrage. Andasno man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shalltherebybe ushered nor whether to Tophet or to Edenville in the like wayis all hiddenwhen we would backward see from what region of remotenessthe whatness of ourwhoness hath fetched his whenceness.Thereto Punch Costello roared out mainly_Etienne chanson_ but he loudlybid them, lo, wisdom hath built herself a house,this vast majesticlongstablished vault, the crystal palace of the Creator, allin applepieorder, a penny for him who finds the pea.  _Behold the mansionreared by dedal Jack  See the malt stored in many arefluent sack,  In the proud cirque of Jackjohnsbivouac._A black crack of noise in the street here,alack, bawled back. Loud onleft Thor thundered: in anger awful thehammerhurler. Came now the stormthat hist his heart. And Master Lynch bade himhave a care to flout andwitwanton as the god self was angered for his hellprateand paganry. Andhe that had erst challenged to be so doughty waxed wan as theymight allmark and shrank together and his pitch that was before so haughtupliftwas now of a sudden quite plucked down and his heart shook within thecageof his breast as he tasted the rumour of that storm. Then did somemock and somejeer and Punch Costello fell hard again to his yale whichMaster Lenehan vowedhe would do after and he was indeed but a word anda blow on any the leastcolour. But the braggart boaster cried that anold Nobodaddy was in his cups itwas muchwhat indifferent and he wouldnot lag behind his lead. But this was onlyto dye his desperation ascowed he crouched in Hornes hall. He drank indeed atone draught topluck up a heart of any grace for it thundered long rumblinglyover allthe heavens so that Master Madden, being godly certain whiles,knockedhim on his ribs upon that crack of doom and Master Bloom, atthebraggarts side, spoke to him calming words to slumber his greatfear,advertising how it was no other thing but a hubbub noise that he heard,thedischarge of fluid from the thunderhead, look you, having takenplace, and allof the order of a natural phenomenon.But was young Boasthards fear vanquished byCalmers words? No, for hehad in his bosom a spike named Bitterness which couldnot by words bedone away. And was he then neither calm like the one nor godlylike theother? He was neither as much as he would have liked to be either.Butcould he not have endeavoured to have found again as in his youth thebottleHoliness that then he lived withal? Indeed no for Grace was notthere to findthat bottle. Heard he then in that clap the voice of thegod Bringforth or, whatCalmer said, a hubbub of Phenomenon? Heard?Why, he could not but hear unless hehad plugged him up the tubeUnderstanding (which he had not done). For throughthat tube he saw thathe was in the land of Phenomenon where he must for acertain one day dieas he was like the rest too a passing show. And would he notaccept todie like the rest and pass away? By no means would he though he mustnorwould he make more shows according as men do with wives which Phenomenonhascommanded them to do by the book Law. Then wotted he nought of thatother landwhich is called Believe-on-Me, that is the land of promisewhich behoves to theking Delightful and shall be for ever where thereis no death and no birthneither wiving nor mothering at which all shallcome as many as believe on it?Yes, Pious had told him of that land andChaste had pointed him to the way butthe reason was that in the way hefell in with a certain whore of an eyepleasingexterior whose name, shesaid, is Bird-in-the-Hand and she beguiled himwrongways from the truepath by her flatteries that she said to him as, Ho, youpretty man, turnaside hither and I will show you a brave place, and she lay athim soflatteringly that she had him in her grot which is named Two-in-the-Bushor,by some learned, Carnal Concupiscence.This was it what all that company that satthere at commons in Manseof Mothers the most lusted after and if they met withthis whoreBird-in-the-Hand (which was within all foul plagues, monsters and awickeddevil) they would strain the last but they would make at her andknow her. Forregarding Believe-on-Me they said it was nought elsebut notion and they couldconceive no thought of it for, first,Two-in-the-Bush whither she ticed them wasthe very goodliest grot andin it were four pillows on which were four ticketswith these wordsprinted on them, Pickaback and Topsyturvy and Shameface andCheek byJowl and, second, for that foul plague Allpox and the monsterstheycared not for them for Preservative had given them a stout shield ofoxengutand, third, that they might take no hurt neither from Offspringthat was thatwicked devil by virtue of this same shield which wasnamed Killchild. So werethey all in their blind fancy, Mr Cavil and MrSometimes Godly, Mr Ape Swillale,Mr False Franklin, Mr Dainty Dixon,Young Boasthard and Mr Cautious Calmer.Wherein, O wretched company,were ye all deceived for that was the voice of thegod that was in avery grievous rage that he would presently lift his arm upandspill their souls for their abuses and their spillings done bythemcontrariwise to his word which forth to bring brenningly biddeth.So Thursday sixteenth June Patk. Dignam laidin clay of an apoplexy andafter hard drought, please God, rained, a bargemancoming in by water afifty mile or thereabout with turf saying the seed wontsprout, fieldsathirst, very sadcoloured and stunk mightily, the quags and toftstoo.Hard to breathe and all the young quicks clean consumed withoutsprinklethis long while back as no man remembered to be without. The rosybudsall gone brown and spread out blobs and on the hills nought but dry flagandfaggots that would catch at first fire. All the world saying, foraught theyknew, the big wind of last February a year that did havoc theland so pitifullya small thing beside this barrenness. But by andby, as said, this evening aftersundown, the wind sitting in thewest, biggish swollen clouds to be seen as thenight increased and theweatherwise poring up at them and some sheet lightningsat first andafter, past ten of the clock, one great stroke with a long thunderandin a brace of shakes all scamper pellmell within door for the smokingshower,the men making shelter for their straws with a clout orkerchief, womenfolkskipping off with kirtles catched up soon as thepour came. In Ely place, Baggotstreet, Dukes lawn, thence throughMerrion green up to Holles street a swash ofwater flowing that wasbefore bonedry and not one chair or coach or fiacre seenabout butno more crack after that first. Over against the Rt. Hon. MrJusticeFitzgibbons door (that is to sit with Mr Healy the lawyer uponthecollege lands) Mal. Mulligan a gentlemans gentleman that had but comefromMr Moores the writers (that was a papish but is now, folk say,a goodWilliamite) chanced against Alec. Bannon in a cut bob (which arenow in withdance cloaks of Kendal green) that was new got to town fromMullingar with thestage where his coz and Mal Ms brother will stay amonth yet till Saint Swithinand asks what in the earth he does there,he bound home and he to Andrew Hornesbeing stayed for to crush a cupof wine, so he said, but would tell him of askittish heifer, big ofher age and beef to the heel, and all this while pouredwith rain andso both together on to Hornes. There Leop. Bloom of Crawfordsjournalsitting snug with a covey of wags, likely brangling fellows, Dixonjun.,scholar of my lady of Mercys, Vin. Lynch, a Scots fellow, Will. Madden,T.Lenehan, very sad about a racer he fancied and Stephen D. Leop. Bloomthere fora languor he had but was now better, be having dreamed tonighta strange fancyof his dame Mrs Moll with red slippers on in a pair ofTurkey trunks which isthought by those in ken to be for a change andMistress Purefoy there, that gotin through pleading her belly, and nowon the stools, poor body, two days pasther term, the midwives sore putto it and cant deliver, she queasy for a bowlof riceslop that is ashrewd drier up of the insides and her breath very heavymore than goodand should be a bullyboy from the knocks, they say, but God givehersoon issue. Tis her ninth chick to live, I hear, and Lady day bit offherlast chicks nails that was then a twelvemonth and with other threeallbreastfed that died written out in a fair hand in the kings bible.Her hubfifty odd and a methodist but takes the sacrament and is tobe seen any fairsabbath with a pair of his boys off Bullock harbourdapping on the sound with aheavybraked reel or in a punt he hastrailing for flounder and pollock andcatches a fine bag, I hear. In suman infinite great fall of rain and allrefreshed and will much increasethe harvest yet those in ken say after wind andwater fire shall comefor a prognostication of Malachis almanac (and I hearthat Mr Russellhas done a prophetical charm of the same gist out of theHindustanishfor his farmers gazette) to have three things in all but this amerefetch without bottom of reason for old crones and bairns yet sometimestheyare found in the right guess with their queerities no telling how.With this came up Lenehan to the feet of thetable to say how the letterwas in that nights gazette and he made a show tofind it about him(for he swore with an oath that he had been at pains about it)but onStephens persuasion he gave over the search and was bidden to sit nearbywhich he did mighty brisk. He was a kind of sport gentleman thatwent for amerryandrew or honest pickle and what belonged of women,horseflesh or hotscandal he had it pat. To tell the truth he was meanin fortunes and for themost part hankered about the coffeehousesand low taverns with crimps, ostlers,bookies, Pauls men, runners,flatcaps, waistcoateers, ladies of the bagnio andother rogues of thegame or with a chanceable catchpole or a tipstaff often atnightstill broad day of whom he picked up between his sackpossets muchloosegossip. He took his ordinary at a boilingcooks and if he had butgotteninto him a mess of broken victuals or a platter of tripes with abaretester in his purse he could always bring himself off with his tongue,somerandy quip he had from a punk or whatnot that every mothers son ofthem wouldburst their sides. The other, Costello that is, hearing thistalk asked was itpoetry or a tale. Faith, no, he says, Frank (that washis name), tis all aboutKerry cows that are to be butchered along ofthe plague. But they can go hang,says he with a wink, for me with theirbully beef, a pox on it. Theres as goodfish in this tin as ever cameout of it and very friendly he offered to take ofsome salty sprats thatstood by which he had eyed wishly in the meantime andfound the placewhich was indeed the chief design of his embassy as he wassharpset._Mort aux vaches_, says Frank then in the French language that hadbeenindentured to a brandyshipper that has a winelodge in Bordeaux and hespokeFrench like a gentleman too. From a child this Frank had beena donought thathis father, a headborough, who could ill keep him toschool to learn his lettersand the use of the globes, matriculated atthe university to study the mechanicsbut he took the bit between histeeth like a raw colt and was more familiar withthe justiciary and theparish beadle than with his volumes. One time he would bea playactor,then a sutler or a welsher, then nought would keep him from thebearpitand the cocking main, then he was for the ocean sea or to hoof it ontheroads with the romany folk, kidnapping a squires heir by favour ofmoonlight orfecking maids linen or choking chicken behind a hedge. Hehad been off as manytimes as a cat has lives and back again with nakedpockets as many more to hisfather the headborough who shed a pintof tears as often as he saw him. What,says Mr Leopold with his handsacross, that was earnest to know the drift of it,will they slaughterall? I protest I saw them but this day morning going to theLiverpoolboats, says he. I can scarce believe tis so bad, says he. And hehadexperience of the like brood beasts and of springers, greasy hoggetsandwether wool, having been some years before actuary for Mr Joseph Cuffe,aworthy salesmaster that drove his trade for live stock and meadowauctions hardby Mr Gavin Lows yard in Prussia street. I question withyou there, says he.More like tis the hoose or the timber tongue. MrStephen, a little moved butvery handsomely told him no such matter andthat he had dispatches from theemperors chief tailtickler thankinghim for the hospitality, that was sendingover Doctor Rinderpest, thebestquoted cowcatcher in all Muscovy, with a bolusor two of physic totake the bull by the horns. Come, come, says Mr Vincent,plain dealing.Hell find himself on the horns of a dilemma if he meddles withabull thats Irish, says he. Irish by name and irish by nature, says MrStephen,and he sent the ale purling about, an Irish bull in an Englishchinashop. Iconceive you, says Mr Dixon. It is that same bull that wassent to our island byfarmer Nicholas, the bravest cattlebreeder of themall, with an emerald ring inhis nose. True for you, says Mr Vincentcross the table, and a bullseye into thebargain, says he, and a plumperand a portlier bull, says he, never shit onshamrock. He had hornsgalore, a coat of cloth of gold and a sweet smoky breathcoming out ofhis nostrils so that the women of our island, leaving doughballsandrollingpins, followed after him hanging his bulliness in daisychains.Whatfor that, says Mr Dixon, but before he came over farmer Nicholasthat was aeunuch had him properly gelded by a college of doctors whowere no better offthan himself. So be off now, says he, and do all mycousin german the lord Harrytells you and take a farmers blessing, andwith that he slapped his posteriorsvery soundly. But the slap and theblessing stood him friend, says Mr Vincent,for to make up he taught hima trick worth two of the other so that maid, wife,abbess and widow tothis day affirm that they would rather any time of the monthwhisperin his ear in the dark of a cowhouse or get a lick on the nape fromhislong holy tongue than lie with the finest strapping young ravisher inthefour fields of all Ireland. Another then put in his word: And theydressed him,says he, in a point shift and petticoat with a tippet andgirdle and ruffles onhis wrists and clipped his forelock and rubbed himall over with spermacetic oiland built stables for him at every turn ofthe road with a gold manger in eachfull of the best hay in the marketso that he could doss and dung to his heartscontent. By this time thefather of the faithful (for so they called him) wasgrown so heavy thathe could scarce walk to pasture. To remedy which ourcozening dames anddamsels brought him his fodder in their apronlaps and as soonas hisbelly was full he would rear up on his hind uarters to showtheirladyships a mystery and roar and bellow out of him in bulls languageandthey all after him. Ay, says another, and so pampered was he that hewouldsuffer nought to grow in all the land but green grass for himself(for that wasthe only colour to his mind) and there was a board put upon a hillock in themiddle of the island with a printed notice, saying:By the Lord Harry, Green isthe grass that grows on the ground. And,says Mr Dixon, if ever he got scent ofa cattleraider in Roscommon orthe wilds of Connemara or a husbandman in Sligothat was sowing as muchas a handful of mustard or a bag of rapeseed out hedrun amok over halfthe countryside rooting up with his horns whatever wasplanted and allby lord Harrys orders. There was bad blood between them atfirst, saysMr Vincent, and the lord Harry called farmer Nicholas all the oldNicksin the world and an old whoremaster that kept seven trulls in his houseandIll meddle in his matters, says he. Ill make that animal smellhell, says he,with the help of that good pizzle my father left me. Butone evening, says MrDixon, when the lord Harry was cleaning his royalpelt to go to dinner afterwinning a boatrace (he had spade oars forhimself but the first rule of thecourse was that the others were to rowwith pitchforks) he discovered in himselfa wonderful likeness to a bulland on picking up a blackthumbed chapbook that hekept in the pantryhe found sure enough that he was a lefthanded descendant ofthe famouschampion bull of the Romans, _Bos Bovum_, which is good bog Latinforboss of the show. After that, says Mr Vincent, the lord Harry put hisheadinto a cows drinkingtrough in the presence of all his courtiersand pulling itout again told them all his new name. Then, with thewater running off him, hegot into an old smock and skirt that hadbelonged to his grandmother and boughta grammar of the bulls languageto study but he could never learn a word of itexcept the first personalpronoun which he copied out big and got off by heartand if ever he wentout for a walk he filled his pockets with chalk to write itupon whattook his fancy, the side of a rock or a teahouse table or a baleofcotton or a corkfloat. In short, he and the bull of Ireland were soon asfastfriends as an arse and a shirt. They were, says Mr Stephen, andthe end was thatthe men of the island seeing no help was toward, asthe ungrate women were allof one mind, made a wherry raft, loadedthemselves and their bundles of chattelson shipboard, set all mastserect, manned the yards, sprang their luff, heavedto, spread threesheets in the wind, put her head between wind and water,weighed anchor,ported her helm, ran up the jolly Roger, gave three times three,let thebullgine run, pushed off in their bumboat and put to sea to recoverthemain of America. Which was the occasion, says Mr Vincent, of thecomposing by aboatswain of that rollicking chanty:  _--Pope Peters buta pissabed.  A mans a man for a that._Our worthy acquaintance Mr Malachi Mulligannow appeared in the doorwayas the students were finishing their apologueaccompanied with a friendwhom he had just rencountered, a young gentleman, hisname Alec Bannon,who had late come to town, it being his intention to buy acolour or acornetcy in the fencibles and list for the wars. Mr Mulligan wascivilenough to express some relish of it all the more as it jumped withaproject of his own for the cure of the very evil that had been touchedon.Whereat he handed round to the company a set of pasteboard cardswhich he hadhad printed that day at Mr Quinnells bearing a legendprinted in fair italics:_Mr Malachi Mulligan. Fertiliser and Incubator.Lambay Island_. His project, ashe went on to expound, was to withdrawfrom the round of idle pleasures such asform the chief business of sirFopling Popinjay and sir Milksop Quidnunc in townand to devote himselfto the noblest task for which our bodily organism has beenframed. Well,let us hear of it, good my friend, said Mr Dixon. I make no doubtitsmacks of wenching. Come, be seated, both. Tis as cheap sitting asstanding.Mr Mulligan accepted of the invitation and, expatiating uponhis design, toldhis hearers that he had been led into this thought bya consideration of thecauses of sterility, both the inhibitory and theprohibitory, whether theinhibition in its turn were due to conjugalvexations or to a parsimony of thebalance as well as whether theprohibition proceeded from defects congenital orfrom proclivitiesacquired. It grieved him plaguily, he said, to see the nuptialcouchdefrauded of its dearest pledges: and to reflect upon so manyagreeablefemales with rich jointures, a prey to the vilest bonzes, who hidetheirflambeau under a bushel in an uncongenial cloister or lose theirwomanlybloom in the embraces of some unaccountable muskin when theymightmultiply the inlets of happiness, sacrificing the inestimable jeweloftheir sex when a hundred pretty fellows were at hand to caress, this,heassured them, made his heart weep. To curb this inconvenient (whichheconcluded due to a suppression of latent heat), having advised withcertaincounsellors of worth and inspected into this matter, he hadresolved to purchasein fee simple for ever the freehold of Lambayisland from its holder, lordTalbot de Malahide, a Tory gentleman ofnote much in favour with our ascendancyparty. He proposed to set upthere a national fertilising farm to be named_Omphalos_ with an obeliskhewn and erected after the fashion of Egypt and tooffer his dutifulyeoman services for the fecundation of any female of whatgrade of lifesoever who should there direct to him with the desire offulfilling thefunctions of her natural. Money was no object, he said, nor wouldhetake a penny for his pains. The poorest kitchenwench no less than theopulentlady of fashion, if so be their constructions and their temperswere warmpersuaders for their petitions, would find in him their man.For his nutrimenthe shewed how he would feed himself exclusively upon adiet of savoury tuberclesand fish and coneys there, the flesh of theselatter prolific rodents beinghighly recommended for his purpose, bothbroiled and stewed with a blade of maceand a pod or two of capsicumchillies. After this homily which he delivered withmuch warmth ofasseveration Mr Mulligan in a trice put off from his hat akerchief withwhich he had shielded it. They both, it seems, had been overtakenby therain and for all their mending their pace had taken water, as might beobservedby Mr Mulligans smallclothes of a hodden grey which was nowsomewhat piebald.His project meanwhile was very favourably entertainedby his auditors and wonhearty eulogies from all though Mr Dixon ofMarys excepted to it, asking with afinicking air did he purpose alsoto carry coals to Newcastle. Mr Mulliganhowever made court to thescholarly by an apt quotation from the classics which,as it dweltupon his memory, seemed to him a sound and tasteful support ofhiscontention: _Talis ac tanta depravatio hujus seculi, O quirites,utmatresfamiliarum nostrae lascivas cujuslibet semiviri libicititillationestestibus ponderosis atque excelsis erectionibuscenturionum Romanorum magnopereanteponunt_, while for those of ruderwit he drove home his point by analogiesof the animal kingdom moresuitable to their stomach, the buck and doe of theforest glade, thefarmyard drake and duck.Valuing himself not a little upon hiselegance, being indeed a properman of person, this talkative now appliedhimself to his dress withanimadversions of some heat upon the sudden whimsy ofthe atmosphericswhile the company lavished their encomiums upon the project hehadadvanced. The young gentleman, his friend, overjoyed as he was at apassagethat had late befallen him, could not forbear to tell it hisnearest neighbour.Mr Mulligan, now perceiving the table, asked for whomwere those loaves andfishes and, seeing the stranger, he made hima civil bow and said, Pray, sir,was you in need of any professionalassistance we could give? Who, upon hisoffer, thanked him veryheartily, though preserving his proper distance, andreplied that he wascome there about a lady, now an inmate of Hornes house,that was in aninteresting condition, poor body, from womans woe (and here hefetcheda deep sigh) to know if her happiness had yet taken place. Mr Dixon,toturn the table, took on to ask of Mr Mulligan himself whetherhis incipientventripotence, upon which he rallied him, betokened anovoblastic gestation inthe prostatic utricle or male womb or was due,as with the noted physician, MrAustin Meldon, to a wolf in the stomach.For answer Mr Mulligan, in a gale oflaughter at his smalls, smotehimself bravely below the diaphragm, exclaimingwith an admirable drollmimic of Mother Grogan (the most excellent creature ofher sex thoughtis pity shes a trollop): Theres a belly that never bore abastard.This was so happy a conceit that it renewed the storm of mirth andthrewthe whole room into the most violent agitations of delight. The spryrattlehad run on in the same vein of mimicry but for some larum in theantechamber.Here the listener who was none other than theScotch student, a littlefume of a fellow, blond as tow, congratulated in theliveliest fashionwith the young gentleman and, interrupting the narrative at asalientpoint, having desired his visavis with a polite beck to havetheobligingness to pass him a flagon of cordial waters at the same time byaquestioning poise of the head (a whole century of polite breeding hadnotachieved so nice a gesture) to which was united an equivalent butcontrarybalance of the bottle asked the narrator as plainly as was everdone in words ifhe might treat him with a cup of it. _Mais bien s√ªr_,noble stranger, said hecheerily, _et mille compliments_. That you mayand very opportunely. Therewanted nothing but this cup to crown myfelicity. But, gracious heaven, was Ileft with but a crust in my walletand a cupful of water from the well, my God,I would accept of them andfind it in my heart to kneel down upon the ground andgive thanks tothe powers above for the happiness vouchsafed me by the Giver ofgoodthings. With these words he approached the goblet to his lips, tookacomplacent draught of the cordial, slicked his hair and, opening hisbosom, outpopped a locket that hung from a silk riband, that verypicture which he hadcherished ever since her hand had wrote therein.Gazing upon those features witha world of tenderness, Ah, Monsieur, hesaid, had you but beheld her as I didwith these eyes at that affectinginstant with her dainty tucker and her newcoquette cap (a gift for herfeastday as she told me prettily) in such anartless disorder, of somelting a tenderness, pon my conscience, even you,Monsieur, had beenimpelled by generous nature to deliver yourself wholly intothe hands ofsuch an enemy or to quit the field for ever. I declare, I was neversotouched in all my life. God, I thank thee, as the Author of my days!Thricehappy will he be whom so amiable a creature will bless with herfavours. A sighof affection gave eloquence to these words and, havingreplaced the locket inhis bosom, he wiped his eye and sighed again.Beneficent Disseminator ofblessings to all Thy creatures, how greatand universal must be that sweetest ofThy tyrannies which can hold inthrall the free and the bond, the simple swainand the polished coxcomb,the lover in the heyday of reckless passion and thehusband of matureryears. But indeed, sir, I wander from the point. How mingledandimperfect are all our sublunary joys. Maledicity! he exclaimed inanguish.Would to God that foresight had but remembered me to take mycloak along! Icould weep to think of it. Then, though it had pouredseven showers, we wereneither of us a penny the worse. But beshrew me,he cried, clapping hand to hisforehead, tomorrow will be a new day and,thousand thunders, I know of a_marchand de capotes_, Monsieur Poyntz,from whom I can have for a livre as snuga cloak of the French fashionas ever kept a lady from wetting. Tut, tut! criesLe Fecondateur,tripping in, my friend Monsieur Moore, that most accomplishedtraveller(I have just cracked a half bottle AVEC LUI in a circle of the bestwitsof the town), is my authority that in Cape Horn, _ventre biche_, theyhave arain that will wet through any, even the stoutest cloak. Adrenching of thatviolence, he tells me, _sans blague_, has sent morethan one luckless fellow ingood earnest posthaste to another world.Pooh! A _livre!_ cries Monsieur Lynch.The clumsy things are dear at asou. One umbrella, were it no bigger than afairy mushroom, is worth tensuch stopgaps. No woman of any wit would wear one.My dear Kitty told metoday that she would dance in a deluge before ever shewould starve insuch an ark of salvation for, as she reminded me (blushingpiquantly andwhispering in my ear though there was none to snap her words butgiddybutterflies), dame Nature, by the divine blessing, has implanted it inourhearts and it has become a household word that _il y a deux choses_for whichthe innocence of our original garb, in other circumstances abreach of theproprieties, is the fittest, nay, the only garment. Thefirst, said she (andhere my pretty philosopher, as I handed her to hertilbury, to fix my attention,gently tipped with her tongue the outerchamber of my ear), the first is abath... But at this point a belltinkling in the hall cut short a discoursewhich promised so bravely forthe enrichment of our store of knowledge.Amid the general vacant hilarity of theassembly a bell rang and, whileall were conjecturing what might be the cause,Miss Callan entered and,having spoken a few words in a low tone to young MrDixon, retired witha profound bow to the company. The presence even for amoment among aparty of debauchees of a woman endued with every quality ofmodesty andnot less severe than beautiful refrained the humourous sallies evenofthe most licentious but her departure was the signal for an outbreakofribaldry. Strike me silly, said Costello, a low fellow who was fuddled.Amonstrous fine bit of cowflesh! Ill be sworn she has rendezvousedyou. What,you dog? Have you a way with them? Gads bud, immenselyso, said Mr Lynch. Thebedside manner it is that they use in the Materhospice. Demme, does not DoctorOGargle chuck the nuns there under thechin. As I look to be saved I had itfrom my Kitty who has been wardmaidthere any time these seven months.Lawksamercy, doctor, cried the youngblood in the primrose vest, feigning awomanish simper and with immodestsquirmings of his body, how you do tease abody! Drat the man! Blessme, Im all of a wibbly wobbly. Why, youre as bad asdear little FatherCantekissem, that you are! May this pot of four half chokeme, criedCostello, if she aint in the family way. I knows a lady whats gotawhite swelling quick as I claps eyes on her. The young surgeon, however,rose andbegged the company to excuse his retreat as the nurse had justthen informed himthat he was needed in the ward. Merciful providencehad been pleased to put aperiod to the sufferings of the lady who was_enceinte_ which she had borne witha laudable fortitude and she hadgiven birth to a bouncing boy. I want patience,said he, with thosewho, without wit to enliven or learning to instruct, revilean ennoblingprofession which, saving the reverence due to the Deity, is thegreatestpower for happiness upon the earth. I am positive when I say thatifneed were I could produce a cloud of witnesses to the excellence ofher nobleexercitations which, so far from being a byword, should be aglorious incentivein the human breast. I cannot away with them. What?Malign such an one, theamiable Miss Callan, who is the lustre ofher own sex and the astonishment ofours? And at an instant the mostmomentous that can befall a puny child of clay?Perish the thought! Ishudder to think of the future of a race where the seedsof such malicehave been sown and where no right reverence is rendered to motherandmaid in house of Horne. Having delivered himself of this rebuke hesalutedthose present on the by and repaired to the door. A murmurof approval arosefrom all and some were for ejecting the low soakerwithout more ado, a designwhich would have been effected nor wouldhe have received more than his baredeserts had he not abridged histransgression by affirming with a horridimprecation (for he swore around hand) that he was as good a son of the truefold as ever drewbreath. Stap my vitals, said he, them was always thesentiments ofhonest Frank Costello which I was bred up most particular tohonour thyfather and thy mother that had the best hand to a rolypoly or ahastypudding as you ever see what I always looks back on with a loving heart.To revert to Mr Bloom who, after his firstentry, had been conscious ofsome impudent mocks which he however had borne withas being the fruitsof that age upon which it is commonly charged that it knowsnotpity. The young sparks, it is true, were as full of extravaganciesasovergrown children: the words of their tumultuary discussionswere difficultlyunderstood and not often nice: their testiness andoutrageous _mots_ were suchthat his intellects resiled from: nor werethey scrupulously sensible of theproprieties though their fund ofstrong animal spirits spoke in their behalf.But the word of Mr Costellowas an unwelcome language for him for he nauseatedthe wretch thatseemed to him a cropeared creature of a misshapen gibbosity,born outof wedlock and thrust like a crookback toothed and feet first intotheworld, which the dint of the surgeons pliers in his skull lent indeedacolour to, so as to put him in thought of that missing link ofcreations chaindesiderated by the late ingenious Mr Darwin. It was nowfor more than the middlespan of our allotted years that he had passedthrough the thousand vicissitudesof existence and, being of a waryascendancy and self a man of rare forecast, hehad enjoined his heartto repress all motions of a rising choler and, byintercepting themwith the readiest precaution, foster within his breast thatplenitudeof sufferance which base minds jeer at, rash judgers scorn and allfindtolerable and but tolerable. To those who create themselves wits at thecostof feminine delicacy (a habit of mind which he never did holdwith) to them hewould concede neither to bear the name nor to heritthe tradition of a properbreeding: while for such that, having lostall forbearance, can lose no more,there remained the sharp antidote ofexperience to cause their insolency to beata precipitate and ingloriousretreat. Not but what he could feel with mettlesomeyouth which, caringnought for the mows of dotards or the gruntlings of thesevere, is ever(as the chaste fancy of the Holy Writer expresses it) for eatingof thetree forbid it yet not so far forth as to pretermit humanity uponanycondition soever towards a gentlewoman when she was about herlawfuloccasions. To conclude, while from the sisters words he had reckonedupona speedy delivery he was, however, it must be owned, not a littlealleviated bythe intelligence that the issue so auspicated after anordeal of such duress nowtestified once more to the mercy as well as tothe bounty of the Supreme Being.Accordingly he broke his mind to hisneighbour, saying that, to expresshis notion of the thing, his opinion (whoought not perchance to expressone) was that one must have a cold constitutionand a frigid genius notto be rejoiced by this freshest news of the fruition ofher confinementsince she had been in such pain through no fault of hers. Thedressyyoung blade said it was her husbands that put her in that expectationorat least it ought to be unless she were another Ephesian matron. Imust acquaintyou, said Mr Crotthers, clapping on the table so as toevoke a resonant commentof emphasis, old Glory Allelujurum was roundagain today, an elderly man withdundrearies, preferring through hisnose a request to have word of Wilhelmina,my life, as he calls her. Ibade him hold himself in readiness for that theevent would burst anon.Slife, Ill be round with you. I cannot but extol thevirile potency ofthe old bucko that could still knock another child out of her.All fellto praising of it, each after his own fashion, though the sameyoungblade held with his former view that another than her conjugial hadbeenthe man in the gap, a clerk in orders, a linkboy (virtuous) oran itinerantvendor of articles needed in every household. Singular,communed the guest withhimself, the wonderfully unequal faculty ofmetempsychosis possessed by them,that the puerperal dormitory and thedissecting theatre should be the seminariesof such frivolity, that themere acquisition of academic titles should sufficeto transform in apinch of time these votaries of levity into exemplarypractitioners ofan art which most men anywise eminent have esteemed thenoblest. But,he further added, it is mayhap to relieve the pentup feelings thatincommon oppress them for I have more than once observed that birds of afeatherlaugh together.But with what fitness, let it be asked of thenoble lord, his patron,has this alien, whom the concession of a gracious princehas admittedto civic rights, constituted himself the lord paramount ofourinternal polity? Where is now that gratitude which loyalty shouldhavecounselled? During the recent war whenever the enemy had atemporaryadvantage with his granados did this traitor to his kind not seizethatmoment to discharge his piece against the empire of which he is a tenantatwill while he trembled for the security of his four per cents? Has heforgottenthis as he forgets all benefits received? Or is it that frombeing a deluder ofothers he has become at last his own dupe as he is,if report belie him not, hisown and his only enjoyer? Far be it fromcandour to violate the bedchamber of arespectable lady, the daughter ofa gallant major, or to cast the most distantreflections upon hervirtue but if he challenges attention there (as it wasindeed highly hisinterest not to have done) then be it so. Unhappy woman, shehas beentoo long and too persistently denied her legitimate prerogativetolisten to his objurgations with any other feeling than the derision ofthedesperate. He says this, a censor of morals, a very pelican in hispiety, whodid not scruple, oblivious of the ties of nature, to attemptillicit intercoursewith a female domestic drawn from the lowest strataof society! Nay, had thehussys scouringbrush not been her tutelaryangel, it had gone with her as hardas with Hagar, the Egyptian! In thequestion of the grazing lands his peevishasperity is notorious and inMr Cuffes hearing brought upon him from anindignant rancher a scathingretort couched in terms as straightforward as theywere bucolic. It illbecomes him to preach that gospel. Has he not nearer home aseedfieldthat lies fallow for the want of the ploughshare? A habitreprehensibleat puberty is second nature and an opprobrium in middle life. Ifhe mustdispense his balm of Gilead in nostrums and apothegms of dubious tastetorestore to health a generation of unfledged profligates let hispractice consistbetter with the doctrines that now engross him. Hismarital breast is therepository of secrets which decorum is reluctantto adduce. The lewd suggestionsof some faded beauty may console him fora consort neglected and debauched butthis new exponent of morals andhealer of ills is at his best an exotic treewhich, when rooted inits native orient, throve and flourished and was abundantin balmbut, transplanted to a clime more temperate, its roots have losttheirquondam vigour while the stuff that comes away from it is stagnant,acidand inoperative.The news was imparted with a circumspectionrecalling the ceremonialusage of the Sublime Porte by the second femaleinfirmarian to thejunior medical officer in residence, who in his turnannounced to thedelegation that an heir had been born, When he had betakenhimselfto the womens apartment to assist at the prescribed ceremony oftheafterbirth in the presence of the secretary of state for domesticaffairs andthe members of the privy council, silent in unanimousexhaustion and approbationthe delegates, chafing under the length andsolemnity of their vigil and hopingthat the joyful occurrence wouldpalliate a licence which the simultaneousabsence of abigail andobstetrician rendered the easier, broke out at once intoa strife oftongues. In vain the voice of Mr Canvasser Bloom was heardendeavouringto urge, to mollify, to refrain. The moment was too propitious forthedisplay of that discursiveness which seemed the only bond of unionamongtempers so divergent. Every phase of the situation wassuccessivelyeviscerated: the prenatal repugnance of uterine brothers, theCaesareansection, posthumity with respect to the father and, that rarerform,with respect to the mother, the fratricidal case known as the ChildsMurderand rendered memorable by the impassioned plea of Mr AdvocateBushe whichsecured the acquittal of the wrongfully accused, therights of primogeniture andkings bounty touching twins and triplets,miscarriages and infanticides,simulated or dissimulated, the acardiac_foetus in foetu_ and aprosopia due to acongestion, the agnathiaof certain chinless Chinamen (cited by Mr CandidateMulligan) inconsequence of defective reunion of the maxillary knobs along themedialline so that (as he said) one ear could hear what the other spoke,thebenefits of anesthesia or twilight sleep, the prolongation of labourpains inadvanced gravidancy by reason of pressure on the vein, thepremature relentmentof the amniotic fluid (as exemplified in theactual case) with consequent perilof sepsis to the matrix, artificialinsemination by means of syringes,involution of the womb consequentupon the menopause, the problem of theperpetration of the species inthe case of females impregnated by delinquentrape, that distressingmanner of delivery called by the Brandenburghers_Sturzgeburt,_ therecorded instances of multiseminal, twikindled and monstrousbirthsconceived during the catamenic period or of consanguineous parents--inaword all the cases of human nativity which Aristotle has classifiedin hismasterpiece with chromolithographic illustrations. The gravestproblems ofobstetrics and forensic medicine were examined with as muchanimation as the mostpopular beliefs on the state of pregnancy such asthe forbidding to a gravidwoman to step over a countrystile lest,by her movement, the navelcord shouldstrangle her creature andthe injunction upon her in the event of a yearning,ardently andineffectually entertained, to place her hand against that part ofherperson which long usage has consecrated as the seat of castigation.Theabnormalities of harelip, breastmole, supernumerary digits, negrosinkle,strawberry mark and portwine stain were alleged by one as a_prima facie_ andnatural hypothetical explanation of those swineheaded(the case of MadameGrissel Steevens was not forgotten) or doghairedinfants occasionally born. Thehypothesis of a plasmic memory, advancedby the Caledonian envoy and worthy of themetaphysical traditions ofthe land he stood for, envisaged in such cases anarrest of embryonicdevelopment at some stage antecedent to the human. Anoutlandishdelegate sustained against both these views, with such heat asalmostcarried conviction, the theory of copulation between women and themalesof brutes, his authority being his own avouchment in support of fablessuchas that of the Minotaur which the genius of the elegant Latin poethas handeddown to us in the pages of his Metamorphoses. The impressionmade by his wordswas immediate but shortlived. It was effaced as easilyas it had been evoked byan allocution from Mr Candidate Mulligan inthat vein of pleasantry which nonebetter than he knew how to affect,postulating as the supremest object of desirea nice clean old man.Contemporaneously, a heated argument having arisen betweenMr DelegateMadden and Mr Candidate Lynch regarding the juridical andtheologicaldilemma created in the event of one Siamese twin predeceasing theother,the difficulty by mutual consent was referred to Mr Canvasser Bloomforinstant submittal to Mr Coadjutor Deacon Dedalus. Hitherto silent,whether thebetter to show by preternatural gravity that curious dignityof the garb withwhich he was invested or in obedience to an inwardvoice, he delivered brieflyand, as some thought, perfunctorily theecclesiastical ordinance forbidding manto put asunder what God hasjoined.But Malachias tale began to freeze them withhorror. He conjured up thescene before them. The secret panel beside thechimney slid back andin the recess appeared... Haines! Which of us did not feelhis fleshcreep! He had a portfolio full of Celtic literature in one hand, intheother a phial marked _Poison._ Surprise, horror, loathing were depictedonall faces while he eyed them with a ghostly grin. I anticipated somesuchreception, he began with an eldritch laugh, for which, it seems,history is toblame. Yes, it is true. I am the murderer of SamuelChilds. And how I ampunished! The inferno has no terrors for me. Thisis the appearance is on me.Tare and ages, what way would I be restingat all, he muttered thickly, and Itramping Dublin this while backwith my share of songs and himself after me thelike of a soulth or abullawurrus? My hell, and Irelands, is in this life. Itis what I triedto obliterate my crime. Distractions, rookshooting, the Erselanguage(he recited some), laudanum (he raised the phial to his lips),campingout. In vain! His spectre stalks me. Dope is my only hope...Ah!Destruction! The black panther! With a cry he suddenly vanished and thepanelslid back. An instant later his head appeared in the door oppositeand said:Meet me at Westland Row station at ten past eleven. He wasgone. Tears gushedfrom the eyes of the dissipated host. The seerraised his hand to heaven,murmuring: The vendetta of Mananaun! Thesage repeated: _Lex talionis_. Thesentimentalist is he who would enjoywithout incurring the immense debtorshipfor a thing done. Malachias,overcome by emotion, ceased. The mystery wasunveiled. Haines was thethird brother. His real name was Childs. The blackpanther was himselfthe ghost of his own father. He drank drugs to obliterate.For thisrelief much thanks. The lonely house by the graveyard is uninhabited.Nosoul will live there. The spider pitches her web in the solitude.The nocturnalrat peers from his hole. A curse is on it. It is haunted.Murderers ground.What is the age of the soul of man? As shehath the virtue of thechameleon to change her hue at every new approach, to begay with themerry and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age changeableasher mood. No longer is Leopold, as he sits there, ruminating, chewingthe cudof reminiscence, that staid agent of publicity and holder of amodest substancein the funds. A score of years are blown away. He isyoung Leopold. There, as ina retrospective arrangement, a mirror withina mirror (hey, presto!), hebeholdeth himself. That young figure of thenis seen, precociously manly,walking on a nipping morning from the oldhouse in Clanbrassil street to thehigh school, his booksatchel onhim bandolierwise, and in it a goodly hunk ofwheaten loaf, a mothersthought. Or it is the same figure, a year or so goneover, in his firsthard hat (ah, that was a day!), already on the road, afullfledgedtraveller for the family firm, equipped with an orderbook, ascentedhandkerchief (not for show only), his case of bright trinketware (alas!athing now of the past!) and a quiverful of compliant smiles for thisor thathalfwon housewife reckoning it out upon her fingertips or fora budding virgin,shyly acknowledging (but the heart? tell me!) hisstudied baisemoins. The scent,the smile, but, more than these, the darkeyes and oleaginous address, broughthome at duskfall many a commissionto the head of the firm, seated with Jacobspipe after like labours inthe paternal ingle (a meal of noodles, you may besure, is aheating),reading through round horned spectacles some paper from theEurope of amonth before. But hey, presto, the mirror is breathed on and theyoungknighterrant recedes, shrivels, dwindles to a tiny speck within themist.Now he is himself paternal and these about him might be hissons. Who can say?The wise father knows his own child. He thinks of adrizzling night in Hatchstreet, hard by the bonded stores there, thefirst. Together (she is a poorwaif, a child of shame, yours and mineand of all for a bare shilling and herluckpenny), together they hearthe heavy tread of the watch as two raincapedshadows pass the new royaluniversity. Bridie! Bridie Kelly! He will neverforget the name, everremember the night: first night, the bridenight. They areentwinedin nethermost darkness, the willer with the willed, and in aninstant(_fiat_!) light shall flood the world. Did heart leap to heart? Nay,fairreader. In a breath twas done but--hold! Back! It must not be! Interror thepoor girl flees away through the murk. She is the bride ofdarkness, a daughterof night. She dare not bear the sunnygolden babeof day. No, Leopold. Name andmemory solace thee not. That youthfulillusion of thy strength was taken fromthee--and in vain. No son of thyloins is by thee. There is none now to be forLeopold, what Leopold wasfor Rudolph.The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence:silence that is theinfinite of space: and swiftly, silently the soul is waftedover regionsof cycles of generations that have lived. A region where greytwilightever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, sheddingherdusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars. She follows her motherwithungainly steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal. Twilight phantomsare they,yet moulded in prophetic grace of structure, slim shapelyhaunches, a suppletendonous neck, the meek apprehensive skull. Theyfade, sad phantoms: all isgone. Agendath is a waste land, a home ofscreechowls and the sandblind upupa.Netaim, the golden, is no more. Andon the highway of the clouds they come,muttering thunder of rebellion,the ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark! Huuh! Parallaxstalks behind and goadsthem, the lancinating lightnings of whose brow arescorpions. Elk andyak, the bulls of Bashan and of Babylon, mammoth andmastodon, they cometrooping to the sunken sea, _Lacus Mortis_. Ominousrevengeful zodiacalhost! They moan, passing upon the clouds, horned andcapricorned, thetrumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned, the giantantlered,snouterand crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all their movingmoaningmultitude, murderers of the sun.Onward to the dead sea they tramp to drink,unslaked and with horriblegulpings, the salt somnolent inexhaustible flood. Andthe equine portentgrows again, magnified in the deserted heavens, nay toheavens ownmagnitude, till it looms, vast, over the house of Virgo. And lo,wonderof metempsychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride, harbinger ofthedaystar, the bride, ever virgin. It is she, Martha, thou lost one,Millicent,the young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she nowarise, a queen amongthe Pleiades, in the penultimate antelucan hour,shod in sandals of bright gold,coifed with a veil of what do you callit gossamer. It floats, it flows abouther starborn flesh and loose itstreams, emerald, sapphire, mauve andheliotrope, sustained on currentsof the cold interstellar wind, winding,coiling, simply swirling,writhing in the skies a mysterious writing till, aftera myriadmetamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangledsignupon the forehead of Taurus.Francis was reminding Stephen of years beforewhen they had been atschool together in Conmees time. He asked about Glaucon,Alcibiades,Pisistratus. Where were they now? Neither knew. You have spoken ofthepast and its phantoms, Stephen said. Why think of them? If I call themintolife across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop tomy call? Whosupposes it? I, Bous Stephanoumenos, bullockbefriendingbard, am lord and giverof their life. He encircled his gadding hairwith a coronal of vineleaves,smiling at Vincent. That answer and thoseleaves, Vincent said to him, willadorn you more fitly when somethingmore, and greatly more, than a capful oflight odes can call your geniusfather. All who wish you well hope this for you.All desire to seeyou bring forth the work you meditate, to acclaim youStephaneforos. Iheartily wish you may not fail them. O no, Vincent Lenehansaid, layinga hand on the shoulder near him. Have no fear. He could not leavehismother an orphan. The young mans face grew dark. All could see how harditwas for him to be reminded of his promise and of his recent loss. Hewould havewithdrawn from the feast had not the noise of voices allayedthe smart. Maddenhad lost five drachmas on Sceptre for a whim of theriders name: Lenehan asmuch more. He told them of the race. The flagfell and, huuh! off, scamper, themare ran out freshly with 0. Maddenup. She was leading the field. All heartswere beating. Even Phylliscould not contain herself. She waved her scarf andcried: Huzzah!Sceptre wins! But in the straight on the run home when all werein closeorder the dark horse Throwaway drew level, reached, outstripped her.Allwas lost now. Phyllis was silent: her eyes were sad anemones. Juno,shecried, I am undone. But her lover consoled her and brought her abrightcasket of gold in which lay some oval sugarplums which she partook. Atearfell: one only. A whacking fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane.Four winnersyesterday and three today. What rider is like him? Mounthim on the camel or theboisterous buffalo the victory in a hack canteris still his. But let us bear itas was the ancient wont. Mercy on theluckless! Poor Sceptre! he said with alight sigh. She is not the fillythat she was. Never, by this hand, shall webehold such another. By gad,sir, a queen of them. Do you remember her, Vincent?I wish you couldhave seen my queen today, Vincent said. How young she was andradiant(Lalage were scarce fair beside her) in her yellow shoes and frockofmuslin, I do not know the right name of it. The chestnuts that shadedus werein bloom: the air drooped with their persuasive odour and withpollen floatingby us. In the sunny patches one might easily havecooked on a stone a batch ofthose buns with Corinth fruit in them thatPeriplipomenes sells in his boothnear the bridge. But she had noughtfor her teeth but the arm with which I heldher and in that she nibbledmischievously when I pressed too close. A week agoshe lay ill, fourdays on the couch, but today she was free, blithe, mocked atperil.She is more taking then. Her posies tool Mad romp that she is, shehadpulled her fill as we reclined together. And in your ear, my friend, youwillnot think who met us as we left the field. Conmee himself! He waswalking by thehedge, reading, I think a brevier book with, I doubt not,a witty letter in itfrom Glycera or Chloe to keep the page. The sweetcreature turned all colours inher confusion, feigning to reprove aslight disorder in her dress: a slip ofunderwood clung there for thevery trees adore her. When Conmee had passed sheglanced at her lovelyecho in that little mirror she carries. But he had beenkind. In goingby he had blessed us. The gods too are ever kind, Lenehan said.If I hadpoor luck with Basss mare perhaps this draught of his may serve memorepropensely. He was laying his hand upon a winejar: Malachi saw itandwithheld his act, pointing to the stranger and to the scarlet label.Warily,Malachi whispered, preserve a druid silence. His soul is faraway. It is aspainful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to beborn. Any object,intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to theincorruptible eon of thegods. Do you not think it, Stephen? Theosophostold me so, Stephen answered,whom in a previous existence Egyptianpriests initiated into the mysteries ofkarmic law. The lords of themoon, Theosophos told me, an orangefiery shiploadfrom planet Alphaof the lunar chain would not assume the etheric doubles andthesewere therefore incarnated by the rubycoloured egos from thesecondconstellation.However, as a matter of fact though, thepreposterous surmise about himbeing in some description of a doldrums or otheror mesmerised whichwas entirely due to a misconception of the shallowestcharacter, wasnot the case at all. The individual whose visual organs while theabovewas going on were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptomsofanimation was as astute if not astuter than any man living and anybodythatconjectured the contrary would have found themselves prettyspeedily in thewrong shop. During the past four minutes or thereaboutshe had been staring hardat a certain amount of number one Bass bottledby Messrs Bass and Co atBurton-on-Trent which happened to be situatedamongst a lot of others rightopposite to where he was and which wascertainly calculated to attract anyonesremark on account of itsscarlet appearance. He was simply and solely, as itsubsequentlytranspired for reasons best known to himself, which put quiteanaltogether different complexion on the proceedings, after the momentbeforesobservations about boyhood days and the turf, recollecting twoor three privatetransactions of his own which the other two were asmutually innocent of as thebabe unborn. Eventually, however, boththeir eyes met and as soon as it began todawn on him that the other wasendeavouring to help himself to the thing heinvoluntarily determinedto help him himself and so he accordingly took hold ofthe neck of themediumsized glass recipient which contained the fluid soughtafter andmade a capacious hole in it by pouring a lot of it out with, also atthesame time, however, a considerable degree of attentiveness in order nottoupset any of the beer that was in it about the place.The debate which ensued was in its scope andprogress an epitome of thecourse of life. Neither place nor council was lackingin dignity. Thedebaters were the keenest in the land, the theme they wereengaged onthe loftiest and most vital. The high hall of Hornes house hadneverbeheld an assembly so representative and so varied nor had theold raftersof that establishment ever listened to a language soencyclopaedic. A gallantscene in truth it made. Crotthers was there atthe foot of the table in hisstriking Highland garb, his face glowingfrom the briny airs of the Mull ofGalloway. There too, opposite to him,was Lynch whose countenance bore alreadythe stigmata of early depravityand premature wisdom. Next the Scotchman was theplace assigned toCostello, the eccentric, while at his side was seated instolid reposethe squat form of Madden. The chair of the resident indeed stoodvacantbefore the hearth but on either flank of it the figure of Bannoninexplorers kit of tweed shorts and salted cowhide brogues contrastedsharplywith the primrose elegance and townbred manners of MalachiRoland St JohnMulligan. Lastly at the head of the board was the youngpoet who found a refugefrom his labours of pedagogy and metaphysicalinquisition in the convivial atmosphereof Socratic discussion, whileto right and left of him were accommodated theflippant prognosticator,fresh from the hippodrome, and that vigilant wanderer,soiled by thedust of travel and combat and stained by the mire of anindelibledishonour, but from whose steadfast and constant heart no lure orperilor threat or degradation could ever efface the image of thatvoluptuousloveliness which the inspired pencil of Lafayette has limned foragesyet to come.It had better be stated here and now at theoutset that the pervertedtranscendentalism to which Mr S. Dedalus (Div. Scep.)contentionswould appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs directlycounter toaccepted scientific methods. Science, it cannot be too oftenrepeated,deals with tangible phenomena. The man of science like the man inthestreet has to face hardheaded facts that cannot be blinked and explainthemas best he can. There may be, it is true, some questions whichscience cannotanswer--at present--such as the first problem submittedby Mr L. Bloom (Pubb.Canv.) regarding the future determination of sex.Must we accept the view ofEmpedocles of Trinacria that the right ovary(the postmenstrual period, assertothers) is responsible for the birthof males or are the too long neglectedspermatozoa or nemasperms thedifferentiating factors or is it, as mostembryologists incline toopine, such as Culpepper, Spallanzani, Blumenbach,Lusk, Hertwig,Leopold and Valenti, a mixture of both? This would be tantamounttoa cooperation (one of natures favourite devices) between the_nisusformativus_ of the nemasperm on the one hand and on the other ahappilychosen position, _succubitus felix_ of the passive element. Theotherproblem raised by the same inquirer is scarcely less vital:infantmortality. It is interesting because, as he pertinently remarks, weareall born in the same way but we all die in different ways. Mr M.Mulligan (Hyg.et Eug. Doc.) blames the sanitary conditions in whichour greylunged citizenscontract adenoids, pulmonary complaints etc. byinhaling the bacteria which lurkin dust. These factors, he alleged,and the revolting spectacles offered by ourstreets, hideous publicityposters, religious ministers of all denominations,mutilated soldiersand sailors, exposed scorbutic cardrivers, the suspendedcarcases ofdead animals, paranoic bachelors and unfructified duennas--these,hesaid, were accountable for any and every fallingoff in the calibre oftherace. Kalipedia, he prophesied, would soon be generally adoptedand all thegraces of life, genuinely good music, agreeable literature,light philosophy,instructive pictures, plastercast reproductions ofthe classical statues such asVenus and Apollo, artistic colouredphotographs of prize babies, all theselittle attentions would enableladies who were in a particular condition to passthe intervening monthsin a most enjoyable manner. Mr J. Crotthers (Disc. Bacc.)attributessome of these demises to abdominal trauma in the case of womenworkerssubjected to heavy labours in the workshop and to marital disciplineinthe home but by far the vast majority to neglect, private orofficial,culminating in the exposure of newborn infants, the practice ofcriminalabortion or in the atrocious crime of infanticide. Although theformer(we are thinking of neglect) is undoubtedly only too true the casehecites of nurses forgetting to count the sponges in the peritoneal cavityistoo rare to be normative. In fact when one comes to look into it thewonder isthat so many pregnancies and deliveries go off so well as theydo, all thingsconsidered and in spite of our human shortcomings whichoften baulk nature inher intentions. An ingenious suggestion isthat thrown out by Mr V. Lynch (Bacc.Arith.) that both natality andmortality, as well as all other phenomena ofevolution, tidal movements,lunar phases, blood temperatures, diseases ingeneral, everything, infine, in natures vast workshop from the extinction ofsome remote sunto the blossoming of one of the countless flowers which beautifyourpublic parks is subject to a law of numeration as yet unascertained.Stillthe plain straightforward question why a child of normally healthyparents andseemingly a healthy child and properly looked after succumbsunaccountably inearly childhood (though other children of the samemarriage do not) mustcertainly, in the poets words, give us pause.Nature, we may rest assured, hasher own good and cogent reasons forwhatever she does and in all probabilitysuch deaths are due to some lawof anticipation by which organisms in whichmorbous germs have takenup their residence (modern science has conclusivelyshown that only theplasmic substance can be said to be immortal) tend todisappear at anincreasingly earlier stage of development, an arrangement which,thoughproductive of pain to some of our feelings (notably the maternal),isnevertheless, some of us think, in the long run beneficial to therace ingeneral in securing thereby the survival of the fittest. Mr S.Dedalus (Div.Scep.) remark (or should it be called an interruption?)that an omnivorous beingwhich can masticate, deglute, digest andapparently pass through the ordinarychannel with pluterperfectimperturbability such multifarious aliments ascancrenous femalesemaciated by parturition, corpulent professional gentlemen,not to speakof jaundiced politicians and chlorotic nuns, might possibly findgastricrelief in an innocent collation of staggering bob, reveals as noughtelsecould and in a very unsavoury light the tendency above alluded to.For theenlightenment of those who are not so intimately acquainted withthe minutiae ofthe municipal abattoir as this morbidminded esthete andembryo philosopher whofor all his overweening bumptiousness in thingsscientific can scarcelydistinguish an acid from an alkali prideshimself on being, it should perhaps bestated that staggering bob inthe vile parlance of our lowerclass licensedvictuallers signifies thecookable and eatable flesh of a calf newly droppedfrom its mother. Ina recent public controversy with Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv.)which tookplace in the commons hall of the National Maternity Hospital, 29,30and 31 Holles street, of which, as is well known, Dr A. Horne (Lic. inMidw.,F. K. Q. C. P. I.) is the able and popular master, he is reportedbyeyewitnesses as having stated that once a woman has let the catinto the bag (anesthetes allusion, presumably, to one of the mostcomplicated and marvellous ofall natures processes--the act of sexualcongress) she must let it out again orgive it life, as he phrased it,to save her own. At the risk of her own, was thetelling rejoinder ofhis interlocutor, none the less effective for the moderateand measuredtone in which it was delivered.Meanwhile the skill and patience of thephysician had brought about ahappy _accouchement._ It had been a weary wearywhile both for patientand doctor. All that surgical skill could do was done andthe bravewoman had manfully helped. She had. She had fought the good fightandnow she was very very happy. Those who have passed on, who have gonebefore,are happy too as they gaze down and smile upon the touchingscene. Reverentlylook at her as she reclines there with the motherlightin her eyes, that longinghunger for baby fingers (a pretty sight it isto see), in the first bloom of hernew motherhood, breathing a silentprayer of thanksgiving to One above, theUniversal Husband. And as herloving eyes behold her babe she wishes only oneblessing more, to haveher dear Doady there with her to share her joy, to lay inhis arms thatmite of Gods clay, the fruit of their lawful embraces. He is oldernow(you and I may whisper it) and a trifle stooped in the shoulders yetin thewhirligig of years a grave dignity has come to the conscientioussecondaccountant of the Ulster bank, College Green branch. O Doady,loved one of old,faithful lifemate now, it may never be again, thatfaroff time of the roses!With the old shake of her pretty head sherecalls those days. God! How beautifulnow across the mist of years! Buttheir children are grouped in her imaginationabout the bedside, hersand his, Charley, Mary Alice, Frederick Albert (if hehad lived), Mamy,Budgy (Victoria Frances), Tom, Violet Constance Louisa,darling littleBobsy (called after our famous hero of the South African war,lord Bobsof Waterford and Candahar) and now this last pledge of their union, aPurefoyif ever there was one, with the true Purefoy nose. Young hopefulwill bechristened Mortimer Edward after the influential third cousin ofMr Purefoy inthe Treasury Remembrancers office, Dublin Castle. And sotime wags on: butfather Cronion has dealt lightly here. No, let no sighbreak from that bosom,dear gentle Mina. And Doady, knock the ashes fromyour pipe, the seasoned briaryou still fancy when the curfew rings foryou (may it be the distant day!) anddout the light whereby you readin the Sacred Book for the oil too has run low,and so with a tranquilheart to bed, to rest. He knows and will call in His owngood time. Youtoo have fought the good fight and played loyally your manspart. Sir,to you my hand. Well done, thou good and faithful servant!There are sins or (let us call them as theworld calls them) evilmemories which are hidden away by man in the darkestplaces of the heartbut they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory togrow dim,let them be as though they had not been and all but persuadehimselfthat they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance wordwillcall them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in themostvarious circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbreland harp soothe hissenses or amid the cool silver tranquility of theevening or at the feast, atmidnight, when he is now filled with wine.Not to insult over him will thevision come as over one that lies underher wrath, not for vengeance to cut himoff from the living but shroudedin the piteous vesture of the past, silent,remote, reproachful.The stranger still regarded on the facebefore him a slow recession ofthat false calm there, imposed, as it seemed, byhabit or some studiedtrick, upon words so embittered as to accuse in their speakeranunhealthiness, a _flair,_ for the cruder things of life. A scenedisengagesitself in the observers memory, evoked, it would seem, bya word of so naturala homeliness as if those days were really presentthere (as some thought) withtheir immediate pleasures. A shaven spaceof lawn one soft May evening, thewellremembered grove of lilacs atRoundtown, purple and white, fragrant slenderspectators of the game butwith much real interest in the pellets as they runslowly forward overthe sward or collide and stop, one by its fellow, with abrief alertshock. And yonder about that grey urn where the water moves attimesin thoughtful irrigation you saw another as fragrant sisterhood,Floey,Atty, Tiny and their darker friend with I know not what of arresting inherpose then, Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely brace of them pendentfrom an ear,bringing out the foreign warmth of the skin so daintilyagainst the cool ardentfruit. A lad of four or five in linseywoolsey(blossomtime but there will becheer in the kindly hearth when ere longthe bowls are gathered and hutched) isstanding on the urn secured bythat circle of girlish fond hands. He frowns alittle just as this youngman does now with a perhaps too conscious enjoyment ofthe danger butmust needs glance at whiles towards where his mother watches fromthePIAZZETTA giving upon the flowerclose with a faint shadow of remotenessor ofreproach (_alles Vergangliche_) in her glad look.Mark this farther and remember. The end comessuddenly. Enter thatantechamber of birth where the studious are assembled andnote theirfaces. Nothing, as it seems, there of rash or violent. Quietudeofcustody, rather, befitting their station in that house, the vigilantwatch ofshepherds and of angels about a crib in Bethlehem of Juda longago. But asbefore the lightning the serried stormclouds, heavy withpreponderant excess ofmoisture, in swollen masses turgidly distended,compass earth and sky in onevast slumber, impending above parched fieldand drowsy oxen and blighted growthof shrub and verdure till in aninstant a flash rives their centres and with thereverberation of thethunder the cloudburst pours its torrent, so and nototherwise was thetransformation, violent and instantaneous, upon the utteranceof theword.Burkes! outflings my lord Stephen, givingthe cry, and a tag andbobtail of all them after, cockerel, jackanapes, welsher,pilldoctor,punctual Bloom at heels with a universal grabbing atheadgear,ashplants, bilbos, Panama hats and scabbards, Zermatt alpenstocksandwhat not. A dedale of lusty youth, noble every student there. NurseCallantaken aback in the hallway cannot stay them nor smiling surgeoncomingdownstairs with news of placentation ended, a full pound if amilligramme. Theyhark him on. The door! It is open? Ha! They are out,tumultuously, off for aminutes race, all bravely legging it, Burkesof Denzille and Holles theirulterior goal. Dixon follows giving themsharp language but raps out an oath, hetoo, and on. Bloom stays withnurse a thought to send a kind word to happymother and nurseling upthere. Doctor Diet and Doctor Quiet. Looks she too notother now? Wardof watching in Hornes house has told its tale in that washedoutpallor.Then all being gone, a glance of motherwit helping, he whispers closeingoing: Madam, when comes the storkbird for thee?The air without is impregnated with raindewmoisture, life essencecelestial, glistening on Dublin stone there understarshiny _coelum._Gods air, the Allfathers air, scintillant circumambientcessile air.Breathe it deep into thee. By heaven, Theodore Purefoy, thou hastdone adoughty deed and no botch! Thou art, I vow, the remarkablestprogenitorbarring none in this chaffering allincluding most farraginouschronicle.Astounding! In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed possibilitywhichthou hast fructified with thy modicum of mans work. Cleave to her!Serve!Toil on, labour like a very bandog and let scholarment and allMalthusiasts gohang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore. Art droopingunder thy load,bemoiled with butchers bills at home and ingots (notthine!) in thecountinghouse? Head up! For every newbegotten thou shaltgather thy homer ofripe wheat. See, thy fleece is drenched. Dost envyDarby Dullman there with hisJoan? A canting jay and a rheumeyedcurdog is all their progeny. Pshaw, I tellthee! He is a mule, a deadgasteropod, without vim or stamina, not worth acracked kreutzer.Copulation without population! No, say I! Herods slaughter oftheinnocents were the truer name. Vegetables, forsooth, and sterilecohabitation!Give her beefsteaks, red, raw, bleeding! She is a hoarypandemonium of ills,enlarged glands, mumps, quinsy, bunions, hayfever,bedsores, ringworm, floatingkidney, Derbyshire neck, warts, biliousattacks, gallstones, cold feet, varicoseveins. A truce to threnes andtrentals and jeremies and all such congenitaldefunctive music! Twentyyears of it, regret them not. With thee it was not aswith many thatwill and would and wait and never--do. Thou sawest thy America,thylifetask, and didst charge to cover like the transpontine bison. HowsaithZarathustra? _Deine Kuh Tr√ºbsal melkest Du. Nun Trinkst Du dies√ºsse Milch desEuters_. See! it displodes for thee in abundance. Drink,man, an udderful!Mothers milk, Purefoy, the milk of human kin, milktoo of those burgeoningstars overhead rutilant in thin rainvapour,punch milk, such as those rioterswill quaff in their guzzling den, milkof madness, the honeymilk of Canaansland. Thy cows dug was tough,what? Ay, but her milk is hot and sweet andfattening. No dollop thisbut thick rich bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch!Pap! _Per deamPartulam et Pertundam nunc est bibendum_!All off for a buster, armstrong, holleringdown the street. Bonafides.Where you slep las nigh? Timothy of the batterednaggin. Like oleBillyo. Any brollies or gumboots in the fambly? Where the HenryNevilssawbones and ole clo? Sorra one o me knows. Hurrah there, Dix!Forwardto the ribbon counter. Wheres Punch? All serene. Jay, look atthedrunken minister coming out of the maternity hospal! _Benedicatvosomnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius_. A make, mister. The Denzille laneboys.Hell, blast ye! Scoot. Righto, Isaacs, shove em out of thebleeding limelight.Yous join uz, dear sir? No hentrusion in life. Louheap good man. Allee sameedis bunch. _En avant, mes enfants_! Fireaway number one on the gun. Burkes!Burkes! Thence they advanced fiveparasangs. Slatterys mounted foot. Wheresthat bleeding awfur? ParsonSteve, apostates creed! No, no, Mulligan! Abaftthere! Shove ahead.Keep a watch on the clock. Chuckingout time. Mullee! Whatson you? _Mam√®re ma mari√©e._ British Beatitudes! _Retamplatan DigidiBoumboum_.Ayes have it. To be printed and bound at the Druiddrum press bytwodesigning females. Calf covers of pissedon green. Last word in artshades.Most beautiful book come out of Ireland my time. _Silentium!_Get a spurt on.Tention. Proceed to nearest canteen and there annexliquor stores. March! Tramp,tramp, tramp, the boys are (atitudes!)parching. Beer, beef, business, bibles,bulldogs battleships, buggeryand bishops. Whether on the scaffold high. Beer,beef, trample thebibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the trampellers.Thunderation! Keepthe durned millingtary step. We fall. Bishops boosebox. Halt!Heave to.Rugger. Scrum in. No touch kicking. Wow, my tootsies! You hurt?Mostamazingly sorry!Query. Whos astanding this here do? Proudpossessor of damnall. Declaremisery. Bet to the ropes. Me nantee saltee. Not ared at me this weekgone. Yours? Mead of our fathers for the _√úbermensch._Dittoh. Fivenumber ones. You, sir? Ginger cordial. Chase me, the cabbyscaudle.Stimulate the caloric. Winding of his ticker. Stopped short never togoagain when the old. Absinthe for me, savvy? _Caramba!_ Have an eggnog oraprairie oyster. Enemy? Avunculars got my timepiece. Ten to. Obligatedawful.Dont mention it. Got a pectoral trauma, eh, Dix? Pos fact. Gotbet be aboomblebee whenever he wus settin sleepin in hes bit garten.Digs up near theMater. Buckled he is. Know his dona? Yup, sartin I do.Full of a dure. See herin her dishybilly. Peels off a credit. Loveylovekin. None of your lean kine,not much. Pull down the blind, love.Two Ardilauns. Same here. Look slippery. Ifyou fall dont wait to getup. Five, seven, nine. Fine! Got a prime pair ofmincepies, no kid. Andher take me to rests and her anker of rum. Must be seento be believed.Your starving eyes and allbeplastered neck you stole my heart,Ogluepot. Sir? Spud again the rheumatiz? All poppycock, youll scuse mesaying.For the hoi polloi. I vear thee beest a gert vool. Well, doc?Back fro Lapland?Your corporosity sagaciating O K? Hows the squawsand papooses? Womanbody aftergoing on the straw? Stand and deliver.Password. Theres hair. Ours the whitedeath and the ruddy birth. Hi!Spit in your own eye, boss! Mummers wire.Cribbed out of Meredith.Jesified, orchidised, polycimical jesuit! Aunty mineswriting Pa Kinch.Baddybad Stephen lead astray goodygood Malachi.Hurroo! Collar the leather, youngun. Roun withe nappy. Here, Jock brawHielentmans your barleybree. Lang may your lum reekand your kailpotboil! My tipple. _Merci._ Heres to us. Hows that? Leg beforewicket.Dont stain my brandnew sitinems. Gives a shake of peppe, youthere.Catch aholt. Caraway seed to carry away. Twig? Shrieks of silence.Everycove to his gentry mort. Venus Pandemos. _Les petites femmes_. Boldbadgirl from the town of Mullingar. Tell her I was axing at her. HaudingSara bythe wame. On the road to Malahide. Me? If she who seduced me hadleft but thename. What do you want for ninepence? Machree, macruiskeen.Smutty Moll for amattress jig. And a pull all together. _Ex!_Waiting, guvnor? Most deciduously. Bet yourboots on. Stunned like,seeing as how no shiners is acoming. Underconstumble?Heve got thechink _ad lib_. Seed near free poun on un a spell ago a said warhisn.Us come right in on your invite, see? Up to you, matey. Out with theoof.Two bar and a wing. You larn that go off of they there Frenchybilks? Wont washhere for nuts nohow. Lil chile velly solly. Ise decutest colour coon down ourside. Gawds teruth, Chawley. We are nae fou.Were nae tha fou. Au reservoir,mossoo. Tanks you.Tis, sure. What say? In the speakeasy.Tight. I shee you, shir. Bantam,two days teetee. Bowsing nowt but claretwine.Garn! Have a glint, do.Gum, Im jiggered. And been to barber he have. Too fullfor words. Witha railway bloke. How come you so? Opera hed like? Rose ofCastile. Rowsof cast. Police! Some H2O for a gent fainted. Look at Bantamsflowers.Gemini. Hes going to holler. The colleen bawn. My colleen bawn.O,cheese it! Shut his blurry Dutch oven with a firm hand. Had the winnertodaytill I tipped him a dead cert. The ruffin cly the nab of StephenHand as give methe jady coppaleen. He strike a telegramboy paddock wirebig bug Bass to thedepot. Shove him a joey and grahamise. Mare on formhot order. Guinea to agoosegog. Tell a cram, that. Gospeltrue. Criminaldiversion? I think that yes.Sure thing. Land him in chokeechokee if theharman beck copped the game. Maddenback Maddens a maddening back. Olust our refuge and our strength. Decamping.Must you go? Off to mammy.Stand by. Hide my blushes someone. All in if he spotsme. Come ahome,our Bantam. Horryvar, mong vioo. Dinna forget the cowslips forhersel.Cornfide. Wha gev ye thon colt? Pal to pal. Jannock. Of John Thomas,herspouse. No fake, old man Leo. Selp me, honest injun. Shiver my timbersif Ihad. Theres a great big holy friar. Vyfor you no me tell? Vel,I ses, if thataint a sheeny nachez, vel, I vil get misha mishinnah.Through yerd our lord, Amen.You move a motion? Steve boy, youre going itsome. More bluggydrunkables? Will immensely splendiferous stander permit onestooder ofmost extreme poverty and one largesize grandacious thirst toterminateone expensive inaugurated libation? Gives a breather.Landlord,landlord, have you good wine, staboo? Hoots, mon, a wee drap topree.Cut and come again. Right. Boniface! Absinthe the lot. _Nos omnesbiberimusviridum toxicum diabolus capiat posterioria nostria_.Closingtime, gents. Eh?Rome boose for the Bloom toff. I hear you sayonions? Bloo? Cadges ads. Photospapli, by all thats gorgeous. Playlow, pardner. Slide. _Bonsoir la compagnie_.And snares of the poxfiend.Wheres the buck and Namby Amby? Skunked? Leg bail.Aweel, ye maun eengang yer gates. Checkmate. King to tower. Kind Kristyann wilyu helpyung man hoose frend tuk bungellow kee tu find plais whear tu laycrownof his hed 2 night. Crickey, Im about sprung. Tarnally dog gone myshinsif this beent the bestest puttiest longbreak yet. Item, curate,couple ofcookies for this child. Cots plood and prandypalls, none! Nota pite ofsheeses? Thrust syphilis down to hell and with him those otherlicensed spirits.Time, gents! Who wander through the world. Health all!_a la v√¥tre_!Golly, whatten tunkets yon guy in themackintosh? Dusty Rhodes. Peepat his wearables. By mighty! Whats he got?Jubilee mutton. Bovril,by James. Wants it real bad. Dye ken bare socks? Seedycuss in theRichmond? Rawthere! Thought he had a deposit of lead in hispenis.Trumpery insanity. Bartle the Bread we calls him. That, sir, was onceaprosperous cit. Man all tattered and torn that married a maiden allforlorn.Slung her hook, she did. Here see lost love. Walking Mackintoshof lonelycanyon. Tuck and turn in. Schedule time. Nix for the hornies.Pardon? Seen himtoday at a runefal? Chum o yourn passed in his checks?Ludamassy! Porepiccaninnies! Thoull no be telling me thot, Pold veg!Did ums blubble bigsplashcrytears cos fren Padney was took off in blackbag? Of all de darkies Massa Patwas verra best. I never see the likesince I was born. _Tiens, tiens_, but it iswell sad, that, my faith,yes. O, get, rev on a gradient one in nine. Live axledrives are souped.Lay you two to one Jenatzy licks him ruddy well hollow.Jappies? Highangle fire, inyah! Sunk by war specials. Be worse for him, sayshe, norany Rooshian. Time all. Theres eleven of them. Get ye gone.Forward,woozy wobblers! Night. Night. May Allah the Excellent One your soulthisnight ever tremendously conserve.Your attention! Were nae tha fou. The Leithpolice dismisseth us. Theleast tholice. Ware hawks for the chap puking. Unwellin his abominableregions. Yooka. Night. Mona, my true love. Yook. Mona, my ownlove. Ook.Hark! Shut your obstropolos. Pflaap! Pflaap!Blaze on. There she goes.Brigade! Bout ship. Mount street way. Cut up! Pflaap!Tally ho. You notcome? Run, skelter, race. Pflaaaap!Lynch! Hey? Sign on long o me. Denzille lanethis way. Change here forBawdyhouse. We two, she said, will seek the kips whereshady Mary is.Righto, any old time. _Laetabuntur in cubilibus suis_. You cominglong?Whisper, who the sooty hells the johnny in the black duds? Hush!Sinnedagainst the light and even now that day is at hand when he shall cometojudge the world by fire. Pflaap! _Ut implerentur scripturae_. Strikeup aballad. Then outspake medical Dick to his comrade medical Davy.Christicle,whos this excrement yellow gospeller on the Merrionhall? Elijah is coming!Washed in the blood of the Lamb. Come on youwinefizzling, ginsizzling,booseguzzling existences! Come on, youdog-gone, bullnecked, beetlebrowed,hogjowled, peanutbrained, weaseleyedfourflushers, false alarms and excessbaggage! Come on, you tripleextract of infamy! Alexander J Christ Dowie, thatsmy name, thatsyanked to glory most half this planet from Frisco beach toVladivostok.The Deity aint no nickel dime bumshow. I put it to you that Hes onthesquare and a corking fine business proposition. Hes the grandest thingyetand dont you forget it. Shout salvation in King Jesus. Youllneed to riseprecious early you sinner there, if you want to diddle theAlmighty God.Pflaaaap! Not half. Hes got a coughmixture with a punchin it for you, myfriend, in his back pocket. Just you try it on. _The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown,before which stretchesan uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red andgreenwill-o-the-wisps and danger signals. Rows of grimy houses withgapingdoors. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins. Round Rabaiottis haltedicegondola stunted men and women squabble. They grab wafers between whicharewedged lumps of coral and copper snow. Sucking, they scatter slowly.Children.The swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on through themurk, white andblue under a lighthouse. Whistles call and answer._THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and Ill be withyou.THE ANSWERS: Round behind the stable._(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, hisshapeless mouth dribbling,jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus dance. A chain ofchildren s handsimprisons him.)_THE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute!THE IDIOT: _(Lifts a palsied left arm andgurgles)_ Grhahute!THE CHILDREN: Wheres the great light?THE IDIOT: _(Gobbing)_ Ghaghahest._(They release him. He jerks on. A pigmywoman swings on a rope slungbetween two railings, counting. A form sprawledagainst a dustbin andmuffled by its arm and hat snores, groans, grindinggrowling teeth, andsnores again. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtipcrouchesto shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A crone standing by with a smokyoillamprams her last bottle in the maw of his sack. He heaves hisbooty, tugs askew hispeaked cap and hobbles off mutely. The cronemakes back for her lair, swayingher lamp. A bandy child, asquat on thedoorstep with a paper shuttlecock, crawlssidling after her in spurts,clutches her skirt, scrambles up. A drunken navvygrips with both handsthe railings of an area, lurching heavily. At a comer twonight watch inshouldercapes, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall. Aplatecrashes: a woman screams: a child wails. Oaths of a man roar,mutter,cease. Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens. In a room lit by acandlestuck in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the hairof a scrofulouschild. Cissy Caffreys voice, still young, sings shrillfrom a lane.)_CISSY CAFFREY:  _I gave it toMolly  Because she was jolly, The leg of the duck,  The leg of the duck.__(Private Carr and Private Compton,swaggersticks tight in their oxters,as they march unsteadily rightaboutface andburst together from theirmouths a volleyed fart. Laughter of men from the lane.A hoarse viragoretorts.)_THE VIRAGO: Signs on you, hairy arse. Morepower the Cavan girl.CISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. Cavan,Cootehill and Belturbet. _(Shesings)_  _I gave it to Nelly To stick in her belly,  The leg of theduck,  The leg of the duck.__(Private Carr and Private Compton turn andcounterretort, their tunicsbloodbright in a lampglow, black sockets of caps ontheir blond croppedpolls. Stephen Dedalus and Lynch pass through the crowdclose to theredcoats.)_PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Jerks his finger)_ Way forthe parson.PRIVATE CARR: _(Turns and calls)_ What ho,parson!CISSY CAFFREY: _(Her voice soaring higher)_  _She has it, she gotit,  Wherever she put it,   Theleg of the duck.__(Stephen, flourishing the ashplant in hisleft hand, chants with joythe_ introit _for paschal time. Lynch, his jockeycaplow on his brow,attends him, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face.)_STEPHEN: _Vidi aquam egredientem de templo alatere dextro. Alleluia_._(The famished snaggletusks of an elderlybawd protrude from adoorway.)_THE BAWD: _(Her voice whispering huskily)_Sst! Come here till I tellyou. Maidenhead inside. Sst!STEPHEN: _(Altius aliquantulum) Et omnes adquos pervenit aqua ista_.THE BAWD: _(Spits in their trail her jet ofvenom)_ Trinity medicals.Fallopian tube. All prick and no pence._(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched withbertha supple, draws her shawlacross her nostrils.)_EDY BOARDMAN: _(Bickering)_ And says the one:I seen you up Faithfulplace with your squarepusher, the greaser off therailway, in hiscometobed hat. Did you, says I. Thats not for you to say, saysI. Younever seen me in the mantrap with a married highlander, says I. Thelikesof her! Stag that one is! Stubborn as a mule! And her walking withtwo fellowsthe one time, Kilbride, the enginedriver, and lancecorporalOliphant.STEPHEN: _(Ttriumphaliter) Salvi facti sunt.__(He flourishes his ashplant, shivering thelamp image, shattering lightover the world. A liver and white spaniel on theprowl slinks after him,growling. Lynch scares it with a kick.)_LYNCH: So that?STEPHEN: (_Looks behind_) So that gesture,not music not odour, would bea universal language, the gift of tonguesrendering visible not the laysense but the first entelechy, the structuralrhythm.LYNCH: Pornosophical philotheology.Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street!STEPHEN: We have shrewridden Shakespeare andhenpecked Socrates. Eventhe allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mountedby a light oflove.LYNCH: Ba!STEPHEN: Anyway, who wants two gestures toillustrate a loaf and a jug?This movement illustrates the loaf and jug of breador wine in Omar.Hold my stick.LYNCH: Damn your yellow stick. Where are wegoing?STEPHEN: Lecherous lynx, _to la belle damesans merci,_ GeorginaJohnson, _ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam.__(Stephen thrusts the ashplant on him andslowly holds out his hands,his head going back till both hands are a span fromhis breast, downturned, in planes intersecting, the fingers about to part, theleftbeing higher.)_LYNCH: Which is the jug of bread? It skillsnot. That or thecustomhouse. Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk._(They pass. Tommy Caffrey scrambles to agaslamp and, clasping, climbsin spasms. From the top spur he slides down. JackyCaffrey clasps toclimb. The navvy lurches against the lamp. The twins scuttleoff in thedark. The navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a wing ofhisnose and ejects from the farther nostril a long liquid jet ofsnot.Shouldering the lamp he staggers away through the crowd with hisflaringcresset.__Snakes of river fog creep slowly. Fromdrains, clefts, cesspools,middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes. A glowleaps in the southbeyond the seaward reaches of the river. The navvy,staggering forward,cleaves the crowd and lurches towards the tramsiding on thefarther sideunder the railway bridge bloom appears, flushed, panting, crammingbreadand chocolate into a sidepocket. From Gillens hairdressers windowacomposite portrait shows him gallant Nelsons image. A concave mirrorat theside presents to him lovelorn longlost lugubru Booloohoom. GraveGladstone seeshim level, Bloom for Bloom. he passes, struck by thestare of truculentWellington, but in the convex mirror grin unstruckthe bonham eyes and fatchuckcheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.__At Antonio Pabaiottis door Bloom halts,sweated under the brightarclamp. He disappears. In a moment he reappears andhurries on.)_BLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah!_(He disappears into Olhausens, theporkbutchers, under the downcomingrollshutter. A few moments later he emergesfrom under the shutter,puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each hand he holds aparcel, onecontaining a lukewarm pigs crubeen, the other a cold sheepstrotter,sprinkled with wholepepper. He gasps, standing upright. Then bendingtoone side he presses a parcel against his ribs and groans.)_BLOOM: Stitch in my side. Why did I run?_(He takes breath with care and goes forwardslowly towards the lampsetsiding. The glow leaps again.)_BLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight._(He stands at Cormacks corner, watching)_BLOOM: _Aurora borealis_ or a steel foundry?Ah, the brigade, of course.South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house.Beggars bush. Weresafe. _(He hums cheerfully)_ Londons burning, Londonsburning! Onfire, on fire! (_He catches sight of the navvy lurching throughthecrowd at the farther side of Talbot street_) Ill miss him. Run.Quick.Better cross here._(He darts to cross the road. Urchinsshout.)_THE URCHINS: Mind out, mister! (_Twocyclists, with lighted paperlanterns aswing, swim by him, grazing him, theirbells rattling_)THE BELLS: Haltyaltyaltyall.BLOOM: _(Halts erect, stung by a spasm)_ Ow!_(He looks round, darts forward suddenly.Through rising fog a dragonsandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavilydown upon him,its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the wire.Themotorman bangs his footgong.)_THE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo._(The brake cracks violently. Bloom, raisinga policemans whiteglovedhand, blunders stifflegged out of the track. Themotorman, thrownforward, pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells as he slides pastoverchains and keys.)_THE MOTORMAN: Hey, shitbreeches, are youdoing the hat trick?BLOOM: _(Bloom trickleaps to the curbstoneand halts again. He brushes amudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand.)_No thoroughfare. Closeshave that but cured the stitch. Must take up Sandowsexercises again.On the hands down. Insure against street accident too. TheProvidential._(He feels his trouser pocket)_ Poor mammas panacea. Heel easilycatchin track or bootlace in a cog. Day the wheel of the black Maria peeledoffmy shoe at Leonards corner. Third time is the charm. Shoe trick.Insolentdriver. I ought to report him. Tension makes them nervous.Might be the fellowbalked me this morning with that horsey woman. Samestyle of beauty. Quick ofhim all the same. The stiff walk. True wordspoken in jest. That awful cramp inLad lane. Something poisonous Iate. Emblem of luck. Why? Probably lost cattle.Mark of the beast. _(Hecloses his eyes an instant)_ Bit light in the head.Monthly or effect ofthe other. Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too much for menow. Ow!(A sinister figure leans on plaited legsagainst obeirnes wall, avisage unknown, injected with dark mercury. Fromunder a wideleavedsombrero the figure regards him with evil eye.)BLOOM: _Buenas noches, se√±orita Blanca, quecalle es esta?_THE FIGURE: (_Impassive, raises a signalarm_) Password. _Sraid Mabbot._BLOOM: Haha. _Merci._ Esperanto. _Slan leath.(He mutters)_ Gaelicleague spy, sent by that fireeater._(He steps forward. A sackshouldered ragmanbars his path. He stepsleft, ragsackman left.)_BLOOM: I beg. (_He swerves, sidles,stepaside, slips past and on_.)BLOOM: Keep to the right, right, right. Ifthere is a signpost plantedby the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured thatpublic boon? I wholost my way and contributed to the columns of the _IrishCyclist_ theletter headed _In darkest Stepaside_. Keep, keep, keep to theright.Rags and bones at midnight. A fence more likely. First placemurderermakes for. Wash off his sins of the world._(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey,runs full tilt againstBloom.)_BLOOM: O_(Shocked, on weak hams, he halts. Tommy andJacky vanish there, there.Bloom pats with parcelled hands watch fobpocket,bookpocket, pursepoket,sweets of sin, potato soap.)_BLOOM: Beware of pickpockets. Old thievesdodge. Collide. Then snatchyour purse._(The retriever approaches sniffing, nose tothe ground. A sprawled formsneezes. A stooped bearded figure appears garbed inthe long caftanof an elder in Zion and a smokingcap with magenta tassels.Hornedspectacles hang down at the wings of the nose. Yellow poison streaksareon the drawn face.)_RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today.I told you not go withdrunken goy ever. So you catch no money.BLOOM: _(Hides the crubeen and trotter behindhis back and, crestfallen,feels warm and cold feetmeat) Ja, ich weiss,papachi._RUDOLPH: What you making down this place?Have you no soul? _(withfeeble vulture talons he feels the silent face ofBloom)_ Are you notmy son Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Are you not my dearson Leopoldwho left the house of his father and left the god of his fathersAbrahamand Jacob?BLOOM: _(With precaution)_ I suppose so,father. Mosenthal. All thatsleft of him.RUDOLPH: _(Severely)_ One night they bringyou home drunk as dog afterspend your good money. What you call them runningchaps?BLOOM: _(In youths smart blue Oxford suitwith white vestslips,narrowshouldered, in brown Alpine hat, wearing gentssterling silverwaterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with sealattached, oneside of him coated with stiffening mud)_ Harriers, father. Onlythatonce.RUDOLPH: Once! Mud head to foot. Cut yourhand open. Lockjaw. They makeyou kaputt, Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps.BLOOM: _(Weakly)_ They challenged me to asprint. It was muddy. Islipped.RUDOLPH: _(With contempt) Goim nachez_! Nicespectacles for your poormother!BLOOM: Mamma!ELLEN BLOOM: _(In pantomime dames stringedmobcap, widow Twankeyscrinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleevesbuttoned behind,grey mittens and cameo brooch, her plaited hair in a crispinenet,appears over the staircase banisters, a slanted candlestick in her hand,andcries out in shrill alarm)_ O blessed Redeemer, what have they doneto him! Mysmelling salts! _(She hauls up a reef of skirt and ransacksthe pouch of her stripedblay petticoat. A phial, an Agnus Dei, ashrivelled potato and a celluloid dollfall out)_ Sacred Heart of Mary,where were you at all at all?_(Bloom, mumbling, his eyes downcast, beginsto bestow his parcels inhis filled pockets but desists, muttering.)_A VOICE: _(Sharply)_ Poldy!BLOOM: Who? _(He ducks and wards off a blowclumsily)_ At your service._(He looks up. Beside her mirage of datepalmsa handsome woman inTurkish costume stands before him. Opulent curves fill outher scarlettrousers and jacket, slashed with gold. A wide yellow cummerbundgirdlesher. A white yashmak, violet in the night, covers her face, leavingfreeonly her large dark eyes and raven hair.)_BLOOM: Molly!MARION: Welly? Mrs Marion from this out, mydear man, when you speak tome. _(Satirically)_ Has poor little hubby cold feetwaiting so long?BLOOM: _(Shifts from foot to foot)_ No, no.Not the least little bit._(He breathes in deep agitation, swallowinggulps of air, questions,hopes, crubeens for her supper, things to tell her,excuse, desire,spellbound. A coin gleams on her forehead. On her feet arejewelledtoerings. Her ankles are linked by a slender fetterchain. Beside heracamel, hooded with a turreting turban, waits. A silk ladder ofinnumerable rungsclimbs to his bobbing howdah. He ambles near withdisgruntled hindquarters.Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her goldcurbwristbangles angriling, scolding himin Moorish.)_MARION: Nebrakada! Femininum!_(The camel, lifting a foreleg, plucks from atree a large mango fruit,offers it to his mistress, blinking, in his clovenhoof, then droops hishead and, grunting, with uplifted neck, fumbles to kneel.Bloom stoopshis back for leapfrog.)_BLOOM: I can give you... I mean as yourbusiness menagerer... MrsMarion... if you...MARION: So you notice some change? _(Herhands passing slowly over hertrinketed stomacher, a slow friendly mockery inher eyes)_ O Poldy,Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud! Go and see life.See thewide world.BLOOM: I was just going back for that lotionwhitewax, orangeflowerwater. Shop closes early on Thursday. But the first thingin themorning. _(He pats divers pockets)_ This moving kidney. Ah!_(He points to the south, then to the east. Acake of new clean lemonsoap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)_THE SOAP: Were a capital couple are Bloomand I. He brightens theearth. I polish the sky._(The freckled face of Sweny, the druggist,appears in the disc of thesoapsun.)_SWENY: Three and a penny, please.BLOOM: Yes. For my wife. Mrs Marion. Specialrecipe.MARION: _(Softly)_ Poldy!BLOOM: Yes, maam?MARION: _ti trema un poco il cuore?__(In disdain she saunters away, plump as apampered pouter pigeon,humming the duet from_ Don Giovanni.)BLOOM: Are you sure about that _voglio_? Imean the pronunciati..._(He follows, followed by the sniffingterrier. The elderly bawd seizeshis sleeve, the bristles of her chinmoleglittering.)_THE BAWD: Ten shillings a maidenhead. Freshthing was never touched.Fifteen. Theres no-one in it only her old fatherthats dead drunk._(She points. In the gap of her dark denfurtive, rainbedraggled, BridieKelly stands.)_BRIDIE: Hatch street. Any good in your mind?_(With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl andruns. A burly rough pursueswith booted strides. He stumbles on the steps,recovers, plunges intogloom. Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker.)_THE BAWD: _(Her wolfeyes shining)_ Hesgetting his pleasure. You wontget a virgin in the flash houses. Ten shillings.Dont be all nightbefore the polis in plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is abitch._(Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward. Shedraws from behind, ogling,and shows coyly her bloodied clout.)_GERTY: With all my worldly goods I thee andthou. _(She murmurs)_ Youdid that. I hate you.BLOOM: I? When? Youre dreaming. I never sawyou.THE BAWD: Leave the gentleman alone, youcheat. Writing the gentlemanfalse letters. Streetwalking and soliciting. Betterfor your mother takethe strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you.GERTY: _(To Bloom)_ When you saw all thesecrets of my bottom drawer._(She paws his sleeve, slobbering)_ Dirty marriedman! I love you fordoing that to me._(She glides away crookedly. Mrs Breen inmans frieze overcoatwith loose bellows pockets, stands in the causeway, herroguish eyeswideopen, smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth.)_MRS BREEN: Mr...BLOOM: _(Coughs gravely)_ Madam, when we lasthad this pleasure byletter dated the sixteenth instant...MRS BREEN: Mr Bloom! You down here in thehaunts of sin! I caught younicely! Scamp!BLOOM: _(Hurriedly)_ Not so loud my name.Whatever do you think of me?Dont give me away. Walls have ears. How do you do?Its ages since I.Youre looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable weather weare havingthis time of year. Black refracts heat. Short cut home here.Interestingquarter. Rescue of fallen women. Magdalen asylum. I am thesecretary...MRS BREEN: _(Holds up a finger)_ Now, donttell a big fib! I knowsomebody wont like that. O just wait till I see Molly!_(Slily)_Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!BLOOM: _(Looks behind)_ She often said shedlike to visit. Slumming.The exotic, you see. Negro servants in livery too ifshe had money.Othello black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones andcornerman atthe Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter._(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in whiteduck suits, scarlet socks,upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters intheir buttonholes,leap out. Each has his banjo slung. Their paler smallernegroid handsjingle the twingtwang wires. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and tuskstheyrattle through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back toback,toe heel, heel toe, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.)_TOM AND SAM:  Theres someone inthe house with Dina  Theres someone in the house, Iknow,  Theres someone in the house withDina  Playing on the old banjo._(They whisk black masks from raw babbyfaces: then, chuckling,chortling, trumming, twanging, they diddle diddlecakewalk dance away.)_BLOOM: _(With a sour tenderish smile)_ Alittle frivol, shall we, ifyou are so inclined? Would you like me perhaps toembrace you just for afraction of a second?MRS BREEN: _(Screams gaily)_ O, you ruck! Youought to see yourself!BLOOM: For old sake sake. I only meant asquare party, a mixed marriagemingling of our different little conjugials. Youknow I had a softcorner for you. _(Gloomily)_ Twas I sent you that valentineof the deargazelle.MRS BREEN: Glory Alice, you do look a holyshow! Killing simply. _(Sheputs out her hand inquisitively)_ What are youhiding behind your back?Tell us, theres a dear.BLOOM: _(Seizes her wrist with his freehand)_ Josie Powell that was,prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do youremember, harkingback in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night,GeorginaSimpsons housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishopgame,finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is inthissnuffbox?MRS BREEN: You were the lion of the nightwith your seriocomicrecitation and you looked the part. You were always afavourite with theladies.BLOOM: _(Squire of dames, in dinner jacketwith wateredsilk facings,blue masonic badge in his buttonhole, black bow andmother-of-pearlstuds, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his hand)_ Ladiesandgentlemen, I give you Ireland, home and beauty.MRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall.Loves old sweet song.BLOOM: _(Meaningfully dropping his voice)_ Iconfess Im teapot withcuriosity to find out whether some persons something isa little teapotat present.MRS BREEN: _(Gushingly)_ Tremendously teapot!Londons teapot and Imsimply teapot all over me! _(She rubs sides with him)_After the parlourmystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on thestaircaseottoman. Under the mistletoe. Two is company.BLOOM: _(Wearing a purple Napoleon hat withan amber halfmoon, hisfingers and thumb passing slowly down to her soft moistmeaty palm whichshe surrenders gently)_ The witching hour of night. I took thesplinterout of this hand, carefully, slowly. _(Tenderly, as he slips onherfinger a ruby ring) L√† ci darem la mano._MRS BREEN: _(In a onepiece evening frockexecuted in moonlight blue, atinsel sylphs diadem on her brow with herdancecard fallen besideher moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly,breathing quickly)Voglio e non._ Youre hot! Youre scalding! The left handnearest theheart.BLOOM: When you made your present choice theysaid it was beauty andthe beast. I can never forgive you for that. _(Hisclenched fist athis brow)_ Think what it means. All you meant to me then._(Hoarsely)_Woman, its breaking me!_(Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with WisdomHelys sandwich-boards,shuffles past them in carpet slippers, his dull beardthrust out,muttering to right and left. Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the pallofthe ace of spades, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter.)_ALF BERGAN: _(Points jeering at thesandwichboards)_ U. p: Up.MRS BREEN: _(To Bloom)_ High jinks belowstairs. _(She gives him theglad eye)_ Why didnt you kiss the spot to make itwell? You wanted to.BLOOM: _(Shocked)_ Mollys best friend! Couldyou?MRS BREEN: _(Her pulpy tongue between herlips, offers a pigeon kiss)_Hnhn. The answer is a lemon. Have you a littlepresent for me there?BLOOM: _(Offhandedly)_ Kosher. A snack forsupper. The home withoutpotted meat is incomplete. I was at _Leah._ MrsBandmann Palmer.Trenchant exponent of Shakespeare. Unfortunately threw awaytheprogramme. Rattling good place round there for pigs feet. Feel._(Richie Goulding, three ladies hats pinnedon his head, appearsweighted to one side by the black legal bag of Collis andWard on whicha skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash. He opensitand shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddiesandtightpacked pills.)_RICHIE: Best value in Dub._(Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands on thecurbstone, folding hisnapkin, waiting to wait.)_PAT: _(Advances with a tilted dish ofspillspilling gravy)_ Steak andkidney. Bottle of lager. Hee hee hee. Wait tillI wait.RICHIE: Goodgod. Inev erate inall..._(With hanging head he marches doggedlyforward. The navvy, lurching by,gores him with his flaming pronghorn.)_RICHIE: _(With a cry of pain, his hand to hisback)_ Ah! Brights!Lights!BLOOM: _(Ooints to the navvy)_ A spy. Dontattract attention. I hatestupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent. I am in agrave predicament.MRS BREEN: Humbugging and deluthering as perusual with your cock andbull story.BLOOM: I want to tell you a little secret abouthow I came to be here.But you must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a mostparticularreason.MRS BREEN: _(All agog)_ O, not for worlds.BLOOM: Lets walk on. Shall us?MRS BREEN: Lets._(The bawd makes an unheeded sign. Bloomwalks on with Mrs Breen. Theterrier follows, whining piteously, wagging histail.)_THE BAWD: Jewmans melt!BLOOM: _(In an oatmeal sporting suit, a sprigof woodbine in the lapel,tony buff shirt, shepherds plaid Saint Andrews crossscarftie, whitespats, fawn dustcoat on his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglassesinbandolier and a grey billycock hat)_ Do you remember a long long time,yearsand years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, wasweaned when weall went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?MRS BREEN: _(In smart Saxe tailormade, whitevelours hat and spiderveil)_ Leopardstown.BLOOM: I mean, Leopardstown. And Molly wonseven shillings on a threeyear old named Nevertell and coming home along byFoxrock in that oldfiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette you were in yourheyday then andyou had on that new hat of white velours with a surround ofmolefur thatMrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was marked down to nineteenandeleven, a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and Ill lay you whatyoulike she did it on purpose...MRS BREEN: She did, of course, the cat! Donttell me! Nice adviser!BLOOM: Because it didnt suit you one quarteras well as the other duckylittle tammy toque with the bird of paradise wing init that I admiredon you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it thoughit was apity to kill it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a thingwitha heart the size of a fullstop.MRS BREEN: _(Squeezes his arm, simpers)_Naughty cruel I was!BLOOM: _(Low, secretly, ever more rapidly)_And Molly was eating asandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallahers lunchbasket. Frankly,though she had her advisers or admirers, I never cared much forherstyle. She was...MRS BREEN: Too...BLOOM: Yes. And Molly was laughing becauseRogers and Maggot OReillywere mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse andMarcus Tertius Moses,the tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with hisdaughter, Dancer Moseswas her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up andyou asked me if Iever heard or read or knew or came across...MRS BREEN: _(Eagerly)_ Yes, yes, yes, yes,yes, yes, yes._(She fades from his side. Followed by thewhining dog he walks ontowards hellsgates. In an archway a standing woman, bentforward, herfeet apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered pub a bunch ofloitererslisten to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out withraucoushumour. An armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling, inmaimedsodden playfight.)_THE GAFFER: _(Crouches, his voice twisted inhis snout)_ And when Cairnscame down from the scaffolding in Beaver street whatwas he after doingit into only into the bucket of porter that was there waitingon theshavings for Derwans plasterers.THE LOITERERS: _(Guffaw with cleft palates)_O jays!_(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Spatteredwith size and lime of theirlodges they frisk limblessly about him.)_BLOOM: Coincidence too. They think it funny.Anything but that. Broaddaylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman.THE LOITERERS: Jays, thats a good one.Glauber salts. O jays, into themens porter._(Bloom passes. Cheap whores, singly,coupled, shawled, dishevelled,call from lanes, doors, corners.)_THE WHORES:  Are you going far,queer fellow?  Hows your middleleg?  Got a match on you?  Eh,come here till I stiffen it for you._(He plodges through their sump towards thelighted street beyond. Froma bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears abattered brazen trunk.In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy andthe tworedcoats.)_THE NAVVY: _(Belching)_ Wheres the bloodyhouse?THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street. Shilling abottle of stout.Respectable woman.THE NAVVY: _(Gripping the two redcoats,staggers forward with them)_Come on, you British army!PRIVATE CARR: _(Behind his back)_ He ainthalf balmy.PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Laughs)_ What ho!PRIVATE CARR: _(To the navvy)_ Portobellobarracks canteen. You ask forCarr. Just Carr.THE NAVVY: _(Shouts)_We are the boys. Of Wexford.PRIVATE COMPTON: Say! What price thesergeantmajor?PRIVATE CARR: Bennett? Hes my pal. I loveold Bennett.THE NAVVY: _(Shouts)_  The gallingchain.  And free our native land._(He staggers forward, dragging them withhim. Bloom stops, at fault.The dog approaches, his tongue outlolling, panting)_BLOOM: Wildgoose chase this. Disorderlyhouses. Lord knows where theyare gone. Drunks cover distance double quick. Nicemixup. Scene atWestland row. Then jump in first class with third ticket. Thentoo far.Train with engine behind. Might have taken me to Malahide or asidingfor the night or collision. Second drink does it. Once is a dose. WhatamI following him for? Still, hes the best of that lot. If I hadntheard aboutMrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldnt have gone and wouldnt havemet. Kismet. Helllose that cash. Relieving office here. Good biz forcheapjacks, organs. What doye lack? Soon got, soon gone. Might havelost my life too with thatmangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut onlyfor presence of mind. Cant alwayssave you, though. If I had passedTruelocks window that day two minutes laterwould have been shot.Absence of body. Still if bullet only went through my coatget damagesfor shock, five hundred pounds. What was he? Kildare street clubtoff.God help his gamekeeper._(He gazes ahead, reading on the wall ascrawled chalk legend_ Wet Dream_and a phallic design._) Odd! Molly drawing onthe frosted carriagepaneat Kingstown. Whats that like? _(Gaudy dollwomen lollin the lighteddoorways, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes.Theodour of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in slow roundovallingwreaths.)_THE WREATHS: Sweet are the sweets. Sweets ofsin.BLOOM: My spines a bit limp. Go or turn? Andthis food? Eat it and getall pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One andeightpence toomuch. _(The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against hishand,wagging his tail.)_ Strange how they take to me. Even that brutetoday.Better speak to him first. Like women they like _rencontres._ Stinkslikea polecat. _Chacun son gout_. He might be mad. Dogdays. Uncertainin hismovements. Good fellow! Fido! Good fellow! Garryowen! _(Thewolfdog sprawls onhis back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, hislong black tongue lollingout.)_ Influence of his surroundings. Giveand have done with it. Providednobody. _(Calling encouraging words heshambles back with a furtive poacherstread, dogged by the setter intoa dark stalestunk corner. He unrolls one parceland goes to dump thecrubeen softly but holds back and feels the trotter.)_Sizeable forthreepence. But then I have it in my left hand. Calls for moreeffort.Why? Smaller from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six._(With regret he lets the unrolled crubeenand trotter slide. Themastiff mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself withgrowling greed,crunching the bones. Two raincaped watch approach, silent,vigilant.They murmur together.)_THE WATCH: Bloom. Of Bloom. For Bloom. Bloom._(Each lays hand on Blooms shoulder.)_FIRST WATCH: Caught in the act. Commit nonuisance.BLOOM: _(Stammers)_ I am doing good toothers._(A covey of gulls, storm petrels, riseshungrily from Liffey slime withBanbury cakes in their beaks.)_THE GULLS: Kaw kave kankury kake.BLOOM: The friend of man. Trained bykindness._(He points. Bob Doran, toppling from a highbarstool, sways over themunching spaniel.)_BOB DORAN: Towser. Give us the paw. Give thepaw._(The bulldog growls, his scruff standing, agobbet of pigs knucklebetween his molars through which rabid scumspittledribbles. Bob Doranfills silently into an area.)_SECOND WATCH: Prevention of cruelty toanimals.BLOOM: _(Enthusiastically)_ A noble work! Iscolded that tramdriver onHarolds cross bridge for illusing the poor horsewith his harness scab.Bad French I got for my pains. Of course it was frostyand the lasttram. All tales of circus life are highly demoralising._(Signor Maffei, passionpale, in liontamerscostume with diamond studsin his shirtfront, steps forward, holding a circuspaperhoop, acurling carriagewhip and a revolver with which he covers thegorgingboarhound.)_SIGNOR MAFFEI: _(With a sinister smile)_Ladies and gentlemen, myeducated greyhound. It was I broke in the buckingbroncho Ajax with mypatent spiked saddle for carnivores. Lash under the bellywith a knottedthong. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your liontoheel, no matter how fractious, even _Leo ferox_ there, the Libyanmaneater. Aredhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning partproduced Fritz ofAmsterdam, the thinking hyena. _(He glares)_ I possessthe Indian sign. Theglint of my eye does it with these breastsparklers._(With a bewitching smile)_I now introduce Mademoiselle Ruby, the prideof the ring.FIRST WATCH: Come. Name and address.BLOOM: I have forgotten for the moment. Ah,yes! _(He takes off his highgrade hat, saluting)_ Dr Bloom, Leopold, dentalsurgeon. You have heardof von Blum Pasha. Umpteen millions. _Donnerwetter!_Owns half Austria.Egypt. Cousin.FIRST WATCH: Proof._(A card falls from inside the leatherheadband of Blooms hat.)_BLOOM: _(In red fez, cadis dress coat withbroad green sash, wearinga false badge of the Legion of Honour, picks up thecard hastily andoffers it)_ Allow me. My club is the Junior Army and Navy.Solicitors:Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelors Walk.FIRST WATCH: _(Reads)_ Henry Flower. No fixedabode. Unlawfully watchingand besetting.SECOND WATCH: An alibi. You are cautioned.BLOOM: _(Produces from his heartpocket acrumpled yellow flower)_ Thisis the flower in question. It was given me by aman I dont know hisname. _(Plausibly)_ You know that old joke, rose ofCastile. Bloom. Thechange of name. Virag. _(He murmurs privately andconfidentially)_ Weare engaged you see, sergeant. Lady in the case. Loveentanglement. _(Heshoulders the second watch gently)_ Dash it all. Its a waywe gallantshave in the navy. Uniform that does it. _(He turns gravely to thefirstwatch)_ Still, of course, you do get your Waterloo sometimes. Drop insomeevening and have a glass of old Burgundy. _(To the second watchgaily)_ Illintroduce you, inspector. Shes game. Do it in the shake ofa lambs tail._(Adark mercurialised face appears, leading a veiled figure.)_THE DARK MERCURY: The Castle is looking forhim. He was drummed out ofthe army.MARTHA: _(Thickveiled, a crimson halter roundher neck, a copy ofthe_ Irish Times _in her hand, in tone of reproach,pointing)_ Henry!Leopold! Lionel, thou lost one! Clear my name.FIRST WATCH: _(Sternly)_ Come to the station.BLOOM: _(Scared, hats himself, steps back,then, plucking at his heartand lifting his right forearm on the square, hegives the sign anddueguard of fellowcraft)_ No, no, worshipful master, light oflove.Mistaken identity. The Lyons mail. Lesurques and Dubosc. You remembertheChilds fratricide case. We medical men. By striking him dead witha hatchet. Iam wrongfully accused. Better one guilty escape thanninetynine wrongfullycondemned.MARTHA: _(Sobbing behind her veil)_ Breach ofpromise. My real nameis Peggy Griffin. He wrote to me that he was miserable.Ill tell mybrother, the Bective rugger fullback, on you, heartless flirt.BLOOM: _(Behind his hand)_ Shes drunk. Thewoman is inebriated. _(Hemurmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim)_ Shitbroleeth.SECOND WATCH: _(Tears in his eyes, to Bloom)_You ought to be thoroughlywell ashamed of yourself.BLOOM: Gentlemen of the jury, let me explain.A pure mares nest. I ama man misunderstood. I am being made a scapegoat of. Iam a respectablemarried man, without a stain on my character. I live in Ecclesstreet.My wife, I am the daughter of a most distinguished commander, agallantupstanding gentleman, what do you call him, Majorgeneral BrianTweedy,one of Britains fighting men who helped to win our battles. Gothismajority for the heroic defence of Rorkes Drift.FIRST WATCH: Regiment.BLOOM: _(Turns to the gallery)_ The royalDublins, boys, the salt of theearth, known the world over. I think I see someold comrades in armsup there among you. The R. D. F., with our own Metropolitanpolice,guardians of our homes, the pluckiest lads and the finest body of men,asphysique, in the service of our sovereign.A VOICE: Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booedJoe Chamberlain?BLOOM: _(His hand on the shoulder of thefirst watch)_ My old dad toowas a J. P. Im as staunch a Britisher as you are,sir. I fought withthe colours for king and country in the absentminded warunder generalGough in the park and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein,wasmentioned in dispatches. I did all a white man could. _(With quietfeeling)_Jim Bludso. Hold her nozzle again the bank.FIRST WATCH: Profession or trade.BLOOM: Well, I follow a literary occupation,author-journalist. In factwe are just bringing out a collection of prizestories of which I am theinventor, something that is an entirely new departure.I am connectedwith the British and Irish press. If you ring up..._(Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a quillbetween his teeth. Hisscarlet beak blazes within the aureole of his straw hat.He danglesa hank of Spanish onions in one hand and holds with the other handatelephone receiver nozzle to his ear.)_MYLES CRAWFORD: _(His cocks wattleswagging)_ Hello, seventyseveneightfour. Hello. _Freemans Urinal_ and _WeeklyArsewipe_ here.Paralyse Europe. You which? Bluebags? Who writes? Is it Bloom?_(Mr Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in thewitnessbox, in accuratemorning dress, outbreast pocket with peak ofhandkerchief showing,creased lavender trousers and patent boots. He carries alarge portfoliolabelled_ Matchams Masterstrokes.)BEAUFOY: _(Drawls)_ No, you arent. Not by along shot if I know it.I dont see it thats all. No born gentleman, no-onewith the mostrudimentary promptings of a gentleman would stoop to suchparticularlyloathsome conduct. One of those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapysneakmasquerading as a litterateur. Its perfectly obvious that with themostinherent baseness he has cribbed some of my bestselling copy,reallygorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in which arebeneathsuspicion. The Beaufoy books of love and great possessions, with whichyourlordship is doubtless familiar, are a household word throughout thekingdom.BLOOM: _(Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum)_That bit about thelaughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may...BEAUFOY: _(His lip upcurled, smilessuperciliously on the court)_ Youfunny ass, you! Youre too beastly awfullyweird for words! I dontthink you need over excessively disincommodate yourselfin that regard.My literary agent Mr J. B. Pinker is in attendance. I presume,mylord, we shall receive the usual witnesses fees, shant we? Weareconsiderably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdawofRheims, who has not even been to a university.BLOOM: _(Indistinctly)_ University of life.Bad art.BEAUFOY: _(Shouts)_ Its a damnably foul lie,showing the moralrottenness of the man! _(He extends his portfolio)_ We havehere damningevidence, the _corpus delicti_, my lord, a specimen of my maturerworkdisfigured by the hallmark of the beast.A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY:Moses, Moses, king of the jews, Wiped hisarse in the Daily News.BLOOM: _(Bravely)_ Overdrawn.BEAUFOY: You low cad! You ought to be duckedin the horsepond, yourotter! _(To the court)_ Why, look at the mans privatelife! Leadinga quadruple existence! Street angel and house devil. Not fit tobementioned in mixed society! The archconspirator of the age!BLOOM: _(To the court)_ And he, a bachelor,how...FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom. Call thewoman Driscoll.THE CRIER: Mary Driscoll, scullerymaid!_(Mary Driscoll, a slipshod servant girl,approaches. She has a bucketon the crook of her arm and a scouringbrush in herhand.)_SECOND WATCH: Another! Are you of theunfortunate class?MARY DRISCOLL: _(Indignantly)_ Im not a badone. I bear a respectablecharacter and was four months in my last place. I wasin a situation,six pounds a year and my chances with Fridays out and I had toleaveowing to his carryings on.FIRST WATCH: What do you tax him with?MARY DRISCOLL: He made a certain suggestionbut I thought more of myselfas poor as I am.BLOOM: _(In housejacket of ripplecloth,flannel trousers, heellessslippers, unshaven, his hair rumpled: softly)_ Itreated you white.I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above yourstation.Incautiously I took your part when you were accused of pilfering.Theresa medium in all things. Play cricket.MARY DRISCOLL: _(Excitedly)_ As God islooking down on me this night ifever I laid a hand to them oysters!FIRST WATCH: The offence complained of? Didsomething happen?MARY DRISCOLL: He surprised me in the rere ofthe premises, Your honour,when the missus was out shopping one morning with arequest for a safetypin. He held me and I was discoloured in four places as aresult. And heinterfered twict with my clothing.BLOOM: She counterassaulted.MARY DRISCOLL: _(Scornfully)_ I had morerespect for the scouringbrush,so I had. I remonstrated with him, Your lord, andhe remarked: keep itquiet._(General laughter.)_GEORGE FOTTRELL: _(Clerk of the crown andpeace, resonantly)_ Order incourt! The accused will now make a bogus statement._(Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding afullblown waterlily, beginsa long unintelligible speech. They would hear whatcounsel had to say inhis stirring address to the grand jury. He was down andout but, thoughbranded as a black sheep, if he might say so, he meant toreform, toretrieve the memory of the past in a purely sisterly way and returntonature as a purely domestic animal. A sevenmonths child, he hadbeencarefully brought up and nurtured by an aged bedridden parent. Theremighthave been lapses of an erring father but he wanted to turn overa new leaf andnow, when at long last in sight of the whipping post,to lead a homely life inthe evening of his days, permeated by theaffectionate surroundings of theheaving bosom of the family. Anacclimatised Britisher, he had seen that summereve from the footplateof an engine cab of the Loop line railway company whilethe rainrefrained from falling glimpses, as it were, through the windowsofloveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes trulyrural ofhappiness of the better land with Dockrells wallpaper at oneand ninepence adozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers tothe Sacred Infant,youthful scholars grappling with their pensums ormodel young ladies playing onthe pianoforte or anon all with fervourreciting the family rosary round thecrackling Yulelog while in theboreens and green lanes the colleens with theirswains strolled whattimes the strains of the organtoned melodeon Britanniametalbound withfour acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a sacrifice, greatestbargainever...__(Renewed laughter. He mumbles incoherently.Reporters complain thatthey cannot hear.)_LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: _(Without looking upfrom their notebooks)_Loosen his boots.PROFESSOR MACHUGH: _(From the presstable,coughs and calls)_ Cough itup, man. Get it out in bits._(The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom andthe bucket. A large bucket.Bloom himself. Bowel trouble. In Beaver streetGripe, yes. Quite bad.A plasterers bucket. By walking stifflegged. Suffereduntold misery.Deadly agony. About noon. Love or burgundy. Yes, some spinach.Crucialmoment. He did not look in the bucket Nobody. Rather a mess.Notcompletely._ A Titbits _back number_.)_(Uproar and catcalls. Bloom in a tornfrockcoat stained with whitewash,dinged silk hat sideways on his head, a stripof stickingplaster acrosshis nose, talks inaudibly.)_J. J. OMOLLOY: _(In barristers grey wig andstuffgown, speaking witha voice of pained protest)_ This is no place for indecentlevity atthe expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. We are not inabeargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. Myclient isan infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch asa stowaway and is nowtrying to turn an honest penny. The trumped upmisdemeanour was due to amomentary aberration of heredity, brought onby hallucination, suchfamiliarities as the alleged guilty occurrencebeing quite permitted in myclients native place, the land of thePharaoh. _Prima facie_, I put it to youthat there was no attempt atcarnally knowing. Intimacy did not occur and theoffence complained ofby Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was notrepeated. I woulddeal in especial with atavism. There have been cases ofshipwreck andsomnambulism in my clients family. If the accused could speak hecoulda tale unfold--one of the strangest that have ever been narratedbetweenthe covers of a book. He himself, my lord, is a physical wreckfromcobblers weak chest. His submission is that he is of Mongolianextractionand irresponsible for his actions. Not all there, in fact.BLOOM: _(Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, inlascars vest and trousers,apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny moleseyes and looks abouthim dazedly, passing a slow hand across his forehead. Thenhe hitcheshis belt sailor fashion and with a shrug of oriental obeisancesalutesthe court, pointing one thumb heavenward.)_ Him makee velly mucheefinenight. _(He begins to lilt simply)_  Li li poo lilchile  Blingee pigfoot evlynight  Payee two shilly..._(He is howled down.)_J. J. OMOLLOY: _(Hotly to the populace)_This is a lonehand fight. ByHades, I will not have any client of mine gaggedand badgered in thisfashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. The Mosaic codehassuperseded the law of the jungle. I say it and I say it emphatically,withoutwishing for one moment to defeat the ends of justice, accusedwas not accessorybefore the act and prosecutrix has not been tamperedwith. The young person wastreated by defendant as if she were his veryown daughter. _(Bloom takes J. J.OMolloys hand and raises it to hislips.)_ I shall call rebutting evidence toprove up to the hilt that thehidden hand is again at its old game. When indoubt persecute Bloom. Myclient, an innately bashful man, would be the last manin the world todo anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object toorcast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when somedastard,responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her.Hewants to go straight. I regard him as the whitest man I know. He is downonhis luck at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive propertyatAgendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now beshown. _(ToBloom)_ I suggest that you will do the handsome thing.BLOOM: A penny in the pound._(The image of the lake of Kinnereth withblurred cattle cropping insilver haze is projected on the wall. Moses Dlugacz,ferreteyed albino,in blue dungarees, stands up in the gallery, holding in eachhand anorange citron and a pork kidney.)_DLUGACZ: _(Hoarsely)_ Bleibtreustrasse,Berlin, W.13._(J. J. OMolloy steps on to a low plinth andholds the lapel of hiscoat with solemnity. His face lengthens, grows pale andbearded, withsunken eyes, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones ofJohn F.Taylor. He applies his handkerchief to his mouth and scrutinisesthegalloping tide of rosepink blood.)_J.J.OMOLLOY: _(Almost voicelessly)_ Excuseme. I am suffering from asevere chill, have recently come from a sickbed. A fewwellchosen words._(He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and proboscidaleloquence ofSeymour Bushe.)_ When the angels book comes to be opened ifaughtthat the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and ofsoultransfiguringdeserves to live I say accord the prisoner at the barthe sacred benefit of thedoubt. _(A paper with something written on itis handed into court._)BLOOM: _(In court dress)_ Can give bestreferences. Messrs Callan,Coleman. Mr Wisdom Hely J. P. My old chief Joe Cuffe.Mr V. B. Dillon,ex lord mayor of Dublin. I have moved in the charmed circle ofthehighest... Queens of Dublin society. _(Carelessly)_ I was just chattingthisafternoon at the viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir Robert andlady Ball, astronomerroyal at the levee. Sir Bob, I said...MRS YELVERTON BARRY: _(In lowcorsaged opalballdress and elbowlengthivory gloves, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilteddolman, a comb ofbrilliants and panache of osprey in her hair)_ Arrest him,constable. Hewrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husbandwasin the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster circuit, signedJamesLovebirch. He said that he had seen from the gods my peerless globes asIsat in a box of the _Theatre Royal_ at a command performance of _LaCigale_. Ideeply inflamed him, he said. He made improper overturesto me to misconductmyself at half past four p.m. on the followingThursday, Dunsink time. Heoffered to send me through the post a workof fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock,entitled _The Girl with the ThreePairs of Stays_.MRS BELLINGHAM: _(In cap and seal coneymantle, wrapped up to thenose, steps out of her brougham and scans throughtortoiseshellquizzing-glasses which she takes from inside her huge opossummuff)_Also to me. Yes, I believe it is the same objectionable person. Becauseheclosed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stokers one sleety dayduring thecold snap of February ninetythree when even the grid of thewastepipe and theballstop in my bath cistern were frozen. Subsequentlyhe enclosed a bloom ofedelweiss culled on the heights, as he said,in my honour. I had it examined bya botanical expert and elicited theinformation that it was ablossom of thehomegrown potato plant purloinedfrom a forcingcase of the model farm.MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Shame on him!_(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surgesforward)_THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: _(Screaming)_ Stopthief! Hurrah there,Bluebeard! Three cheers for Ikey Mo!SECOND WATCH: _(Produces handcuffs)_ Here arethe darbies.MRS BELLINGHAM: He addressed me in severalhandwritings with fulsomecompliments as a Venus in furs and alleged profoundpity for myfrostbound coachman Palmer while in the same breath he expressedhimselfas envious of his earflaps and fleecy sheepskins and of hisfortunateproximity to my person, when standing behind my chair wearing myliveryand the armorial bearings of the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable,abucks head couped or. He lauded almost extravagantly my netherextremities, myswelling calves in silk hose drawn up to the limit, andeulogised glowingly myother hidden treasures in priceless lace which,he said, he could conjure up. Heurged me (stating that he felt ithis mission in life to urge me) to defile themarriage bed, to commitadultery at the earliest possible opportunity.THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(Inamazon costume, hard hat,jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, fawnmusketeer gauntletswith braided drums, long train held up and hunting crop withwhich shestrikes her welt constantly)_ Also me. Because he saw me on thepologround of the Phoenix park at the match All Ireland versus the RestofIreland. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain SloggerDennehyof the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob_Centaur._ Thisplebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney carand sent me in doubleenvelopes an obscene photograph, such as are soldafter dark on Parisboulevards, insulting to any lady. I have it still.It represents a partiallynude se√±orita, frail and lovely (his wife, ashe solemnly assured me, taken byhim from nature), practising illicitintercourse with a muscular torero,evidently a blackguard. He urged meto do likewise, to misbehave, to sin withofficers of the garrison. Heimplored me to soil his letter in an unspeakablemanner, to chastisehim as he richly deserves, to bestride and ride him, to givehim a mostvicious horsewhipping.MRS BELLINGHAM: Me too.MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Me too._(Several highly respectable Dublin ladieshold up improper lettersreceived from Bloom.)_THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(Stampsher jingling spurs in asudden paroxysm of fury)_ I will, by the God above me.Ill scourge thepigeonlivered cur as long as I can stand over him. Ill flayhim alive.BLOOM: _(His eyes closing, quailsexpectantly)_ Here? _(He squirms)_Again! _(He pants cringing)_ I love thedanger.THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Very muchso! Ill make it hot foryou. Ill make you dance Jack Latten for that.MRS BELLINGHAM: Tan his breech well, theupstart! Write the stars andstripes on it!MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful! Theres noexcuse for him! A marriedman!BLOOM: All these people. I meant only thespanking idea. A warm tinglingglow without effusion. Refined birching tostimulate the circulation.THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: _(Laughsderisively)_ O, did you, myfine fellow? Well, by the living God, youll get thesurprise of yourlife now, believe me, the most unmerciful hiding a man everbargainedfor. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury.MRS BELLINGHAM: _(Shakes her muff andquizzing-glasses vindictively)_Make him smart, Hanna dear. Give him ginger.Thrash the mongrel withinan inch of his life. The cat-o-nine-tails. Geld him.Vivisect him.BLOOM: _(Shuddering, shrinking, joins hishands: with hangdog mien)_ Ocold! O shivery! It was your ambrosial beauty.Forget, forgive. Kismet.Let me off this once. _(He offers the other cheek)_MRS YELVERTON BARRY: _(Severely)_ Dont do soon any account, MrsTalboys! He should be soundly trounced!THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS:_(Unbuttoning her gauntletviolently)_ Ill do no such thing. Pigdog and alwayswas ever sincehe was pupped! To dare address me! Ill flog him black and blueinthe public streets. Ill dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. He isawellknown cuckold. _(She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the air)_Takedown his trousers without loss of time. Come here, sir! Quick!Ready?BLOOM: _(Trembling, beginning to obey)_ Theweather has been so warm._(Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with abevy of barefoot newsboys.)_DAVY STEPHENS: _Messenger of the Sacred Heartand Evening Telegraph_with Saint Patricks Day supplement. Containing the newaddresses of allthe cuckolds in Dublin._(The very reverend Canon OHanlon in clothof gold cope elevates andexposes a marble timepiece. Before him Father Conroyand the reverendJohn Hughes S.J. bend low.)_THE TIMEPIECE: _(Unportalling)_ Cuckoo.  Cuckoo.  Cuckoo._(The brass quoits of a bed are heard tojingle.)_THE QUOITS: Jigjag. Jigajiga. Jigjag._(A panel of fog rolls back rapidly,revealing rapidly in the juryboxthe faces of Martin Cunningham, foreman,silkhatted, Jack Power, SimonDedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John HenryMenton Myles Crawford,Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, MCoy and thefeatureless face of aNameless One.)_THE NAMELESS ONE: Bareback riding. Weight forage. Gob, he organisedher.THE JURORS: _(All their heads turned to hisvoice)_ Really?THE NAMELESS ONE: _(Snarls)_ Arse over tip.Hundred shillings to five.THE JURORS: _(All their heads lowered inassent)_ Most of us thought asmuch.FIRST WATCH: He is a marked man. Anothergirls plait cut. Wanted: Jackthe Ripper. A thousand pounds reward.SECOND WATCH: _(Awed, whispers)_ And in black.A mormon. Anarchist.THE CRIER: _(Loudly)_ Whereas Leopold Bloomof no fixed abode is awellknown dynamitard, forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckoldand a publicnuisance to the citizens of Dublin and whereas at this commissionofassizes the most honourable..._(His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner,recorder of Dublin, in judicialgarb of grey stone rises from the bench,stonebearded. He bears in hisarms an umbrella sceptre. From his forehead arisestarkly the Mosaicramshorns.)_THE RECORDER: I will put an end to this whiteslave traffic and ridDublin of this odious pest. Scandalous! _(He dons theblack cap)_ Lethim be taken, Mr Subsheriff, from the dock where he now standsanddetained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majestys pleasureandthere be hanged by the neck until he is dead and therein fail notat your perilor may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Remove him. _(Ablack skullcap descendsupon his head.)__(The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears,smoking a pungent HenryClay.)_LONG JOHN FANNING: _(Scowls and calls withrich rolling utterance)_Wholl hang Judas Iscariot?_(H. Rumbold, master barber, in abloodcoloured jerkin and tannersapron, a rope coiled over his shoulder, mountsthe block. A lifepreserver and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his belt. Herubsgrimly his grappling hands, knobbed with knuckledusters.)_RUMBOLD: _(To the recorder with sinisterfamiliarity)_ Hanging Harry,your Majesty, the Mersey terror. Five guineas ajugular. Neck ornothing._(The bells of Georges church toll slowly,loud dark iron.)_THE BELLS: Heigho! Heigho!BLOOM: _(Desperately)_ Wait. Stop. Gulls.Good heart. I saw. Innocence.Girl in the monkeyhouse. Zoo. Lewd chimpanzee._(Breathlessly)_ Pelvicbasin. Her artless blush unmanned me. _(Overcome withemotion)_ I leftthe precincts. (He turns to a figure in the crowd, appealing)Hynes, mayI speak to you? You know me. That three shillings you can keep. Ifyouwant a little more...HYNES: _(Coldly)_ You are a perfect stranger.SECOND WATCH: _(Points to the corner)_ Thebomb is here.FIRST WATCH: Infernal machine with a timefuse.BLOOM: No, no. Pigs feet. I was at afuneral.FIRST WATCH: _(Draws his truncheon)_ Liar!_(The beagle lifts his snout, showing thegrey scorbutic face of PaddyDignam. He has gnawed all. He exhales a putridcarcasefed breath.He grows to human size and shape. His dachshund coat becomesa brownmortuary habit. His green eye flashes bloodshot. Half of one ear, allthenose and both thumbs are ghouleaten.)_PADDY DIGNAM: _(In a hollow voice)_ It is true.It was my funeral.Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed tothe diseasefrom natural causes._(He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwardsand bays lugubriously.)_BLOOM: _(In triumph)_ You hear?PADDY DIGNAM: Bloom, I am Paddy Dignamsspirit. List, list, O list!BLOOM: The voice is the voice of Esau.SECOND WATCH: _(Blesses himself)_ How is thatpossible?FIRST WATCH: It is not in the pennycatechism.PADDY DIGNAM: By metempsychosis. Spooks.A VOICE: O rocks.PADDY DIGNAM: _(Earnestly)_ Once I was in theemploy of Mr J. H. Menton,solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of27 Bachelors Walk.Now I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Hardlines. Thepoor wife was awfully cut up. How is she bearing it? Keep her off thatbottleof sherry. _(He looks round him)_ A lamp. I must satisfy ananimal need. Thatbuttermilk didnt agree with me._(The portly figure of John OConnell,caretaker, stands forth, holdinga bunch of keys tied with crape. Beside himstands Father Coffey,chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in a surplice andbandanna nightcap,holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.)_FATHER COFFEY: _(Yawns, then chants with ahoarse croak)_ Namine.Jacobs. Vobiscuits. Amen.JOHN OCONNELL: _(Foghorns stormily throughhis megaphone)_ Dignam,Patrick T, deceased.PADDY DIGNAM: _(With pricked up ears,winces)_ Overtones. _(He wrigglesforward and places an ear to the ground)_ Mymasters voice!JOHN OCONNELL: Burial docket letter numberU. P. eightyfive thousand.Field seventeen. House of Keys. Plot, one hundred andone._(Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort,thinking, his tailstiffpointcd, his ears cocked.)_PADDY DIGNAM: Pray for the repose of hissoul._(He worms down through a coalhole, his brownhabit trailing its tetherover rattling pebbles. After him toddles an obesegrandfather rat onfungus turtle paws under a grey carapace. Dignams voice,muffled, isheard baying under ground:_ Dignams dead and gone below. _TomRochford,robinredbreasted, in cap and breeches, jumps from histwocolumnedmachine.)_TOM ROCHFORD: _(A hand to his breastbone,bows)_ Reuben J. A florin Ifind him. _(He fixes the manhole with a resolutestare)_ My turn now on.Follow me up to Carlow._(He executes a daredevil salmon leap in theair and is engulfed in thecoalhole. Two discs on the columns wobble, eyes ofnought. All recedes.Bloom plodges forward again through the sump. Kisses chirpamidthe rifts of fog a piano sounds. He stands before a lightedhouse,listening. The kisses, winging from their bowers fly abouthim,twittering, warbling, cooing.)_THE KISSES: _(Warbling)_ Leo! _(Twittering)_Icky licky micky sticky forLeo! _(Cooing)_ Coo coocoo! Yummyyum, Womwom!_(Warbling)_ Big comebig!Pirouette! Leopopold! _(Twittering)_ Leeolee!_(Warbling)_ O Leo!_(They rustle, flutter upon his garments,alight, bright giddy flecks,silvery sequins.)_BLOOM: A mans touch. Sad music. Churchmusic. Perhaps here._(Zoe Higgins, a young whore in a sapphireslip, closed with threebronze buckles, a slim black velvet fillet round herthroat, nods, tripsdown the steps and accosts him.)_ZOE: Are you looking for someone? Hes insidewith his friend.BLOOM: Is this Mrs Macks?ZOE: No, eightyone. Mrs Cohens. You might gofarther and fare worse.Mother Slipperslapper. _(Familiarly)_ Shes on the jobherself tonightwith the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and paysforher son in Oxford. Working overtime but her lucks turnedtoday._(Suspiciously)_ Youre not his father, are you?BLOOM: Not I!ZOE: You both in black. Has little mousey anytickles tonight?_(His skin, alert, feels her fingertipsapproach. A hand glides over hisleft thigh.)_ZOE: Hows the nuts?BLOOM: Off side. Curiously they are on theright. Heavier, I suppose.One in a million my tailor, Mesias, says.ZOE: _(In sudden alarm)_ Youve a hardchancre.BLOOM: Not likely.ZOE: I feel it._(Her hand slides into his left trouserpocket and brings out a hardblack shrivelled potato. She regards it and Bloomwith dumb moistlips.)_BLOOM: A talisman. Heirloom.ZOE: For Zoe? For keeps? For being so nice,eh?_(She puts the potato greedily into a pocketthen links his arm,cuddling him with supple warmth. He smiles uneasily. Slowly,note bynote, oriental music is played. He gazes in the tawny crystal ofhereyes, ringed with kohol. His smile softens.)_ZOE: Youll know me the next time.BLOOM: _(Forlornly)_ I never loved a deargazelle but it was sure to..._(Gazelles are leaping, feeding on themountains. Near are lakes. Roundtheir shores file shadows black of cedargroves.Aroma rises, a stronghairgrowth of resin. It burns, the orient, a sky ofsapphire, cleft bythe bronze flight of eagles. Under it lies the womancitynude, white,still, cool, in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses.Mammothroses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. A wine of shame, lust, bloodexudes,strangely murmuring.)_ZOE: _(Murmuring singsong with the music, herodalisk lips lusciouslysmeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater) Schorachani wenowach,benoith Hierushaloim._BLOOM: _(Fascinated)_ I thought you were ofgood stock by your accent.ZOE: And you know what thought did?_(She bites his ear gently with littlegoldstopped teeth, sending onhim a cloying breath of stale garlic. The rosesdraw apart, disclose asepulchre of the gold of kings and their moulderingbones.)_BLOOM: _(Draws back, mechanically caressingher right bub with a flatawkward hand)_ Are you a Dublin girl?ZOE: _(Catches a stray hair deftly and twistsit to her coil)_ No bloodyfear. Im English. Have you a swaggerroot?BLOOM: _(As before)_ Rarely smoke, dear.Cigar now and then. Childishdevice. _(Lewdly)_ The mouth can be better engagedthan with a cylinderof rank weed.ZOE: Go on. Make a stump speech out of it.BLOOM: _(In workmans corduroy overalls,black gansy with red floatingtie and apache cap)_ Mankind is incorrigible. SirWalter Ralegh broughtfrom the new world that potato and that weed, the one akiller ofpestilence by absorption, the other a poisoner of the ear, eye,heart,memory, will understanding, all. That is to say he brought the poisonahundred years before another person whose name I forget brought thefood.Suicide. Lies. All our habits. Why, look at our public life!_(Midnight chimes from distant steeples.)_THE CHIMES: Turn again, Leopold! Lord mayorof Dublin!BLOOM: _(In aldermans gown and chain)_Electors of Arran Quay, InnsQuay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better runa tramline, I say,from the cattlemarket to the river. Thats the music of thefuture.Thats my programme. _Cui bono_? But our bucaneering Vanderdeckensintheir phantom ship of finance...AN ELECTOR: Three times three for our futurechief magistrate!_(The aurora borealis of the torchlightprocession leaps.)_THE TORCHBEARERS: Hooray!_(Several wellknown burgesses, city magnatesand freemen of the cityshake hands with Bloom and congratulate him. TimothyHarrington, latethrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, goldchain andwhite silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locumtenens.They nod vigorously in agreement.)_LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: _(In scarlet robewith mace, gold mayoralchain and large white silk scarf)_ That alderman sir LeoBlooms speechbe printed at the expense of the ratepayers. That the house inwhichhe was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and thatthethoroughfare hitherto known as Cow Parlour off Cork street behenceforthdesignated Boulevard Bloom.COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: Carriedunanimously.BLOOM: _(Impassionedly)_ These flyingDutchmen or lying Dutchmen asthey recline in their upholstered poop, castingdice, what reck they?Machines is their cry, their chimera, their panacea.Laboursavingapparatuses, supplanters, bugbears, manufactured monsters formutualmurder, hideous hobgoblins produced by a horde of capitalistic lustsuponour prostituted labour. The poor man starves while they aregrassing their royalmountain stags or shooting peasants and phartridgesin their purblind pomp ofpelf and power. But their reign is rover forrever and ever and ev..._(Prolonged applause. Venetian masts,maypoles and festal arches springup. A streamer bearing the legends_ Cead MileFailte _and_ Mah TtobMelek Israel _Spans the street. All the windows arethronged withsightseers, chiefly ladies. Along the route the regiments of theroyalDublin Fusiliers, the Kings own Scottish Borderers, the CameronHighlanders andthe Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep backthe crowd. Boys from Highschool are perched on the lampposts,telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices,gutters, chimneypots, railings,rainspouts, whistling and cheering the pillar ofthe cloud appears. Afife and drum band is heard in the distance playing the KolNidre. Thebeaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing bannersandwaving oriental palms. The chryselephantine papal standard riseshigh,surrounded by pennons of the civic flag. The van of the processionappearsheaded by John Howard Parnell, city marshal, in a chessboardtabard, the AthlonePoursuivant and Ulster King of Arms. They arefollowed by the Right HonourableJoseph Hutchinson, lord mayor ofDublin, his lordship the lord mayor of Cork,their worships themayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeightIrishrepresentative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the clothofestate, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the chapter of thesaints offinance in their plutocratic order of precedence, the bishopof Down and Connor,His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop ofArmagh, primate of allIreland, His Grace, the most reverend Dr WilliamAlexander, archbishop ofArmagh, primate of all Ireland, the chiefrabbi, the presbyterian moderator, theheads of the baptist, anabaptist,methodist and Moravian chapels and thehonorary secretary of the societyof friends. After them march the guilds andtrades and trainbandswith flying colours: coopers, bird fanciers, millwrights,newspapercanvassers, law scriveners, masseurs, vintners,trussmakers,chimneysweeps, lard refiners, tabinet and poplin weavers,farriers,Italian warehousemen, church decorators, bootjackmanufacturers,undertakers, silk mercers, lapidaries, salesmasters,corkcutters,assessors of fire losses, dyers and cleaners, exportbottlers,fellmongers, ticketwriters, heraldic seal engravers, horserepositoryhands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters,riddlemakers,egg and potato factors, hosiers and glovers, plumbing contractors.Afterthem march gentlemen of the bedchamber, Black Rod, Deputy Garter,GoldStick, the master of horse, the lord great chamberlain, the earlmarshal, the highconstable carrying the sword of state, saint Stephensiron crown, the chaliceand bible. Four buglers on foot blow a sennet.Beefeaters reply, windingclarions of welcome. Under an arch of triumphBloom appears, bareheaded, in acrimson velvet mantle trimmed withermine, bearing Saint Edwards staff the orband sceptre with the dove,the curtana. He is seated on a milkwhite horse withlong flowing crimsontail, richly caparisoned, with golden headstall. Wildexcitement. Theladies from their balconies throw down rosepetals. The air isperfumedwith essences. The men cheer. Blooms boys run amid the bystanderswithbranches of hawthorn and wrenbushes.)_BLOOMS BOYS:  The wren, thewren,  The king of all birds, Saint Stephens his day  Was caught in the furze.A BLACKSMITH: _(Murmurs)_ For the honour ofGod! And is that Bloom? Hescarcely looks thirtyone.A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: Thats the famous Bloomnow, the worlds greatestreformer. Hats off!_(All uncover their heads. Women whispereagerly.)_A MILLIONAIRESS: _(Richly)_ Isnt he simplywonderful?A NOBLEWOMAN: _(Nobly)_ All that man hasseen!A FEMINIST: _(Masculinely)_ And done!A BELLHANGER: A classic face! He has theforehead of a thinker._(Blooms weather. A sunburst appears in the northwest.)_THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: I here presentyour undoubtedemperor-president and king-chairman, the most serene and potentand verypuissant ruler of this realm. God save Leopold the First!ALL: God save Leopold the First!BLOOM: _(In dalmatic and purple mantle, tothe bishop of Down andConnor, with dignity)_ Thanks, somewhat eminent sir.WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: _(In purplestock and shovel hat)_Will you to your power cause law and mercy to be executedin all yourjudgments in Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?BLOOM: _(Placing his right hand on histesticles, swears)_ So may theCreator deal with me. All this I promise to do.MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: _(Pours acruse of hairoil over Bloomshead) Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis. Habemuscarneficem._ Leopold,Patrick, Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed!_(Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold andputs on a ruby ring. Heascends and stands on the stone of destiny. Therepresentative peers puton at the same time their twentyeight crowns. Joybellsring in Christchurch, Saint Patricks, Georges and gay Malahide. Mirusbazaarfireworks go up from all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnicdesigns.The peers do homage, one by one, approaching andgenuflecting.)_THE PEERS: I do become your liege man of lifeand limb to earthlyworship._(Bloom holds up his right hand on whichsparkles the Koh-i-Noordiamond. His palfrey neighs. Immediate silence.Wirelessintercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set forreceptionof message.)_BLOOM: My subjects! We hereby nominate ourfaithful charger Copula Felixhereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we havethis day repudiatedour former spouse and have bestowed our royal hand upon theprincessSelene, the splendour of night._(The former morganatic spouse of Bloom ishastily removed in the BlackMaria. The princess Selene, in moonblue robes, asilver crescent on herhead, descends from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants.An outburst ofcheering.)_JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: _(Raises the royal standard)_Illustrious Bloom!Successor to my famous brother!BLOOM: _(Embraces John Howard Parnell)_ Wethank you from our heart,John, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, thepromised land ofour common ancestors._(The freedom of the city is presented to himembodied in a charter. Thekeys of Dublin, crossed on a crimson cushion, aregiven to him. He showsall that he is wearing green socks.)_TOM KERNAN: You deserve it, your honour.BLOOM: On this day twenty years ago weovercame the hereditary enemy atLadysmith. Our howitzers and camel swivel gunsplayed on his lines withtelling effect. Half a league onward! They charge! Allis lost now! Dowe yield? No! We drive them headlong! Lo! We charge! Deployingto theleft our light horse swept across the heights of Plevna and,utteringtheir warcry _Bonafide Sabaoth_, sabred the Saracen gunners to a man.THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Hear!Hear!JOHN WYSE NOLAN: Theres the man that gotaway James Stephens.A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: Bravo!AN OLD RESIDENT: Youre a credit to yourcountry, sir, thats what youare.AN APPLEWOMAN: Hes a man like Ireland wants.BLOOM: My beloved subjects, a new era isabout to dawn. I, Bloom, tellyou verily it is even now at hand. Yea, on theword of a Bloom, ye shallere long enter into the golden city which is to be,the new Bloomusalemin the Nova Hibernia of the future._(Thirtytwo workmen, wearing rosettes, fromall the counties of Ireland,under the guidance of Derwan the builder, constructthe new Bloomusalem.It is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in theshape of ahuge pork kidney, containing forty thousand rooms. In the course ofitsextension several buildings and monuments are demolished. Governmentofficesare temporarily transferred to railway sheds. Numerous housesare razed to theground. The inhabitants are lodged in barrels andboxes, all marked in red withthe letters: L. B. several paupersfill from a ladder. A part of the walls ofDublin, crowded with loyalsightseers, collapses.)_THE SIGHTSEERS: _(Dying) Morituri te salutant.(They die)__(A man in a brown macintosh springs upthrough a trapdoor. He points anelongated finger at Bloom.)_THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Dont you believe aword he says. That man isLeopold MIntosh, the notorious fireraiser. His realname is Higgins.BLOOM: Shoot him! Dog of a christian! So muchfor MIntosh!_(A cannonshot. The man in the macintoshdisappears. Bloom with hissceptre strikes down poppies. The instantaneousdeaths of manypowerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members ofstandingcommittees, are reported. Blooms bodyguard distribute Maundymoney,commemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges,expensiveHenry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservativesinsealed envelopes tied with gold thread, butter scotch, pineapplerock,_billets doux _in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringersoftoad in the hole, bottles of Jeyes Fluid, purchase stamps, 40daysindulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes,seasontickets available for all tramlines, coupons of the royal andprivilegedHungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints ofthe Worlds TwelveWorst Books: Froggy And Fritz (politic), Care of theBaby (infantilic), 50 Mealsfor 7/6 (culinic), Was Jesus a Sun Myth?(historic), Expel that Pain (medic),Infants Compendium of theUniverse (cosmic), Lets All Chortle (hilaric),Canvassers Vade Mecum(journalic), Loveletters of Mother Assistant (erotic),Whos Who inSpace (astric), Songs that Reached Our Heart (melodic), PennywisesWayto Wealth (parsimonic). A general rush and scramble. Women press forwardtotouch the hem of Blooms robe. The Lady Gwendolen Dubedat burststhrough thethrong, leaps on his horse and kisses him on both cheeksamid great acclamation.A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken.Babes and sucklings are held up.)_THE WOMEN: Little father! Little father!THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS:  Clap clap hands tillPoldy comes home,  Cakes in his pocket for Leo alone._(Bloom, bending down, pokes Baby Boardmangently in the stomach.)_BABY BOARDMAN: _(Hiccups, curdled milkflowing from his mouth)_Hajajaja.BLOOM: _(Shaking hands with a blindstripling)_ My more than Brother!_(Placing his arms round the shoulders of anold couple)_ Dear oldfriends! _(He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys andgirls)_Peep! Bopeep! _(He wheels twins in a perambulator)_Ticktacktwowouldyousetashoe? _(He performs jugglers tricks, draws red,orange,yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from hismouth)_Roygbiv. 32 feet per second. _(He consoles a widow)_ Absencemakes the heartgrow younger. _(He dances the Highland fling withgrotesque antics)_ Leg it, yedevils! _(He kisses the bedsores of apalsied veteran_) Honourable wounds! _(Hetrips up a fit policeman)_U. p: up. U. p: up. _(He whispers in the ear of ablushing waitress andlaughs kindly)_ Ah, naughty, naughty! _(He eats a rawturnip offeredhim by Maurice Butterly, farmer)_ Fine! Splendid! _(He refusestoaccept three shillings offered him by Joseph Hynes, journalist)_ Mydearfellow, not at all! (He gives his coat to a beggar) Please accept._(Hetakes part in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples)_Comeon, boys! Wriggle it, girls!THE CITIZEN: _(Choked with emotion, brushesaside a tear in his emeraldmuffler)_ May the good God bless him!_(The rams horns sound for silence. Thestandard of Zion is hoisted.)_BLOOM: _(Uncloaks impressively, revealingobesity, unrolls a paper andreads solemnly)_ Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth HagadahTephilim Kosher YomKippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah MazzothAskenazimMeshuggah Talith._(An official translation is read by JimmyHenry, assistant townclerk.)_JIMMY HENRY: The Court of Conscience is nowopen. His Most CatholicMajesty will now administer open air justice. Freemedical and legaladvice, solution of doubles and other problems. All cordiallyinvited.Given at this our loyal city of Dublin in the year I of theParadisiacalEra.PADDY LEONARD: What am I to do about my ratesand taxes?BLOOM: Pay them, my friend.PADDY LEONARD: Thank you.NOSEY FLYNN: Can I raise a mortgage on myfire insurance?BLOOM: _(Obdurately)_ Sirs, take notice thatby the law of torts you arebound over in your own recognisances for six monthsin the sum of fivepounds.J. J. OMOLLOY: A Daniel did I say? Nay! APeter OBrien!NOSEY FLYNN: Where do I draw the five pounds?PISSER BURKE: For bladder trouble?BLOOM:  _Acid. nit.hydrochlor. dil.,_ 20 minims  _Tinct. nux vom.,_ 5minims  _Extr. taraxel. iiq.,_ 30 minims. _Aq. dis. ter in die._CHRIS CALLINAN: What is the parallax of thesubsolar ecliptic ofAldebaran?BLOOM: Pleased to hear from you, Chris. K.II.JOE HYNES: Why arent you in uniform?BLOOM: When my progenitor of sainted memorywore the uniform of theAustrian despot in a dank prison where was yours?BEN DOLLARD: Pansies?BLOOM: Embellish (beautify) suburbangardens.BEN DOLLARD: When twins arrive?BLOOM: Father (pater, dad) starts thinking.LARRY OROURKE: An eightday licence for mynew premises. You rememberme, sir Leo, when you were in number seven. Imsending around a dozenof stout for the missus.BLOOM: _(Coldly)_ You have the advantage ofme. Lady Bloom accepts nopresents.CROFTON: This is indeed a festivity.BLOOM: _(Solemnly)_ You call it a festivity.I call it a sacrament.ALEXANDER KEYES: When will we have our ownhouse of keys?BLOOM: I stand for the reform of municipalmorals and the plain tencommandments. New worlds for old. Union of all, jew,moslem and gentile.Three acres and a cow for all children of nature. Saloonmotor hearses.Compulsory manual labour for all. All parks open to the publicday andnight. Electric dishscrubbers. Tuberculosis, lunacy, war andmendicancymust now cease. General amnesty, weekly carnival with masked licence,bonusesfor all, esperanto the universal language with universalbrotherhood. No morepatriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors.Free money, free rent, freelove and a free lay church in a free laystate.OMADDEN BURKE: Free fox in a free henroost.DAVY BYRNE: _(Yawning)_ Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach!BLOOM: Mixed races and mixed marriage.LENEHAN: What about mixed bathing?_(bloom explains to those near him hisschemes for social regeneration.All agree with him. The keeper of the KildareStreet Museum appears,dragging a lorry on which are the shaking statues ofseveral nakedgoddesses, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos, Venus Metempsychosis,andplaster figures, also naked, representing the new nine muses,Commerce,Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Speech,PluralVoting, Gastronomy, Private Hygiene, Seaside ConcertEntertainments,Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.)_FATHER FARLEY: He is an episcopalian, anagnostic, an anythingarianseeking to overthrow our holy faith.MRS RIORDAN: _(Tears up her will)_ Imdisappointed in you! You bad man!MOTHER GROGAN: _(Removes her boot to throw itat Bloom)_ You beast! Youabominable person!NOSEY FLYNN: Give us a tune, Bloom. One ofthe old sweet songs.BLOOM: _(With rollicking humour)_  I vowed that I neverwould leave her,  She turned out a crueldeceiver.  With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloomtooraloom.HOPPY HOLOHAN: Good old Bloom! Theres nobodylike him after all.PADDY LEONARD: Stage Irishman!BLOOM: What railway opera is like a tramlinein Gibraltar? The Rows ofCasteele._(Laughter.)_LENEHAN: Plagiarist! Down with Bloom!THE VEILED SIBYL: _(Enthusiastically)_ Im aBloomite and I glory in it.I believe in him in spite of all. Id give my lifefor him, the funniestman on earth.BLOOM: _(Winks at the bystanders)_ I betshes a bonny lassie.THEODORE PUREFOY: _(In fishingcap and oilskinjacket)_ He employs amechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature.THE VEILED SIBYL: _(Stabs herself)_ My herogod! _(She dies)__(Many most attractive and enthusiastic womenalso commit suicide bystabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite,arsenic, openingtheir veins, refusing food, casting themselves understeamrollers, fromthe top of Nelsons Pillar, into the great vat of Guinnesssbrewery,asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads in gasovens,hangingthemselves in stylish garters, leaping from windows ofdifferentstoreys.)_ALEXANDER J DOWIE: _(Violently)_Fellowchristians and antiBloomites, theman called Bloom is from the roots ofhell, a disgrace to christianmen. A fiendish libertine from his earliest yearsthis stinking goatof Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery,recalling thecities of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. This vilehypocrite,bronzed with infamy, is the white bull mentioned in the Apocalypse.Aworshipper of the Scarlet Woman, intrigue is the very breath of hisnostrils.The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him.Caliban!THE MOB: Lynch him! Roast him! Hes as bad asParnell was. Mr Fox!_(Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom.Several shopkeepers from upperand lower Dorset street throw objects of littleor no commercial value,hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stalebread, sheepstails, odd pieces of fat.)_BLOOM: _(Excitedly)_ This is midsummermadness, some ghastly joke again.By heaven, I am guiltless as the unsunnedsnow! It was my brother Henry.He is my double. He lives in number 2 DolphinsBarn. Slander, theviper, has wrongfully accused me. Fellowcountrymen, _sgenlinn ban batacoisde gan capall._ I call on my old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan,sexspecialist, to give medical testimony on my behalf.DR MULLIGAN: _(In motor jerkin, greenmotorgoggles on his brow)_ DrBloom is bisexually abnormal. He has recentlyescaped from Dr Eustacesprivate asylum for demented gentlemen. Born out ofbedlock hereditaryepilepsy is present, the consequence of unbridled lust.Traces ofelephantiasis have been discovered among his ascendants. Therearemarked symptoms of chronic exhibitionism. Ambidexterity is alsolatent. He isprematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic inconsequence, areformed rake, and has metal teeth. In consequence of afamily complex he hastemporarily lost his memory and I believe himto be more sinned against thansinning. I have made a pervaginalexamination and, after application of the acidtest to 5427 anal,axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be_virgo intacta.__(Bloom holds his high grade hat over hisgenital organs.)_DR MADDEN: Hypsospadia is also marked. In theinterest of cominggenerations I suggest that the parts affected should bepreserved inspirits of wine in the national teratological museum.DR CROTTHERS: I have examined the patientsurine. It is albuminoid.Salivation is insufficient, the patellar reflexintermittent.DR PUNCH COSTELLO: The _fetor judaicus_ ismost perceptible.DR DIXON: _(Reads a bill of health)_Professor Bloom is a finishedexample of the new womanly man. His moral natureis simple and lovable.Many have found him a dear man, a dear person. He is arather quaintfellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the medicalsense.He has written a really beautiful letter, a poem in itself, to thecourtmissionary of the Reformed Priests Protection Society which clearsupeverything. He is practically a total abstainer and I can affirm thathesleeps on a straw litter and eats the most Spartan food, cold driedgrocerspeas. He wears a hairshirt of pure Irish manufacture winter andsummer andscourges himself every Saturday. He was, I understand, at onetime a firstclassmisdemeanant in Glencree reformatory. Another reportstates that he was a veryposthumous child. I appeal for clemency in thename of the most sacred word ourvocal organs have ever been called uponto speak. He is about to have a baby._(General commotion and compassion. Womenfaint. A wealthy Americanmakes a street collection for Bloom. Gold and silvercoins, blankcheques, banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds, maturing bills ofexchange,I. O. Us, wedding rings, watchchains, lockets, necklaces andbraceletsare rapidly collected.)_BLOOM: O, I so want to be a mother.MRS THORNTON: _(In nursetenders gown)_Embrace me tight, dear. Youllbe soon over it. Tight, dear._(Bloom embraces her tightly and bears eightmale yellow and whitechildren. They appear on a redcarpeted staircase adornedwith expensiveplants. All the octuplets are handsome, with valuable metallicfaces,wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking fivemodernlanguages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences. Eachhashis name printed in legible letters on his shirtfront: Nasodoro,Goldfinger,Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber,Vifargent, Panargyros. Theyare immediately appointed to positions ofhigh public trust in several differentcountries as managing directorsof banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmenof limited liabilitycompanies, vicechairmen of hotel syndicates.)_A VOICE: Bloom, are you the Messiah benJoseph or ben David?BLOOM: _(Darkly)_ You have said it.BROTHER BUZZ: Then perform a miracle likeFather Charles.BANTAM LYONS: Prophesy who will win the SaintLeger._(Bloom walks on a net, covers his left eyewith his left ear, passesthrough several walls, climbs Nelsons Pillar, hangsfrom the top ledgeby his eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters (shells included),healsseveral sufferers from kings evil, contracts his face so as toresemblemany historical personages, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Byron, WatTyler,Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, RipvanWinkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild,RobinsonCrusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each footsimultaneously in differentdirections, bids the tide turn back,eclipses the sun by extending his littlefinger.)_BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: _(In papal zouavesuniform, steel cuirasses asbreastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates,large profane moustachesand brown paper mitre) Leopoldi autem generatio._ Mosesbegat Noahand Noah begat Eunuch and Eunuch begat OHalloran and OHalloranbegatGuggenheim and Guggenheim begat Agendath and Agendath begat NetaimandNetaim begat Le Hirsch and Le Hirsch begat Jesurum and Jesurum begatMacKayand MacKay begat Ostrolopsky and Ostrolopsky begat Smerdozand Smerdoz begatWeiss and Weiss begat Schwarz and Schwarz begatAdrianopoli and Adrianopolibegat Aranjuez and Aranjuez begat LewyLawson and Lewy Lawson begatIchabudonosor and Ichabudonosor begatODonnell Magnus and ODonnell Magnusbegat Christbaum and Christbaumbegat ben Maimun and ben Maimun begat DustyRhodes and Dusty Rhodesbegat Benamor and Benamor begat Jones-Smith andJones-Smith begatSavorgnanovich and Savorgnanovich begat Jasperstone andJasperstonebegat Vingtetunieme and Vingtetunieme begat Szombathely andSzombathelybegat Virag and Virag begat Bloom _et vocabitur nomen eiusEmmanuel._A DEADHAND: _(Writes on the wall)_ Bloom is acod.CRAB: _(In bushrangers kit)_ What did you doin the cattlecreep behindKilbarrack?A FEMALE INFANT: _(Shakes a rattle)_ Andunder Ballybough bridge?A HOLLYBUSH: And in the devils glen?BLOOM: _(Blushes furiously all over fromfrons to nates, three tearsfilling from his left eye)_ Spare my past.THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: _(In bodycoats,kneebreeches, with Donnybrookfair shillelaghs)_ Sjambok him!_(Bloom with asses ears seats himself in thepillory with crossed arms,his feet protruding. He whistles_ Don Giovanni, acenar teco. _Artaneorphans, joining hands, caper round him. Girls of the PrisonGateMission, joining hands, caper round in the opposite direction.)_THE ARTANE ORPHANS:  You hig, you hog,you dirty dog!  You think the ladies loveyou!  THE PRISON GATE GIRLS:  If you seeKay  Tell him he may  See you intea  Tell him from me.HORNBLOWER: _(In ephod and huntingcap,announces)_ And he shall carrythe sins of the people to Azazel, the spiritwhich is in the wilderness,and to Lilith, the nighthag. And they shall stonehim and defile him,yea, all from Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the land ofHam._(All the people cast soft pantomime stonesat Bloom. Many bonafidetravellers and ownerless dogs come near him and defilehim. Mastianskyand Citron approach in gaberdines, wearing long earlocks. Theywag theirbeards at Bloom.)_MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: Belial! Laemlein ofIstria, the false Messiah!Abulafia! Recant!_(George R Mesias, Blooms tailor, appears, atailors goose under hisarm, presenting a bill)_MESIAS: To alteration one pair trouserseleven shillings.BLOOM: _(Rubs his hands cheerfully)_ Justlike old times. Poor Bloom!_(Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, badshepherd, bearing on hisshoulders the drowned corpse of his son, approaches thepillory.)_REUBEN J: _(Whispers hoarsely)_ The squeak isout. A split is gone forthe flatties. Nip the first rattler.THE FIRE BRIGADE: Pflaap!BROTHER BUZZ: _(Invests Bloom in a yellowhabit with embroidery ofpainted flames and high pointed hat. He places a bag ofgunpowder roundhis neck and hands him over to the civil power, saying)_ Forgivehim histrespasses._(Lieutenant Myers of the Dublin Fire Brigadeby general request setsfire to Bloom. Lamentations.)_THE CITIZEN: Thank heaven!BLOOM: _(In a seamless garment marked I. H.S. stands upright amidphoenix flames)_ Weep not for me, O daughters of Erin._(He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces ofburning. The daughters ofErin, in black garments, with large prayerbooks andlong lighted candlesin their hands, kneel down and pray.)_THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN:  Kidney of Bloom,pray for us  Flower of the Bath, pray forus  Mentor of Menton, pray forus  Canvasser for the Freeman, pray forus  Charitable Mason, pray forus  Wandering Soap, pray for us Sweets of Sin, pray for us  Music without Words, prayfor us  Reprover of the Citizen, pray forus  Friend of all Frillies, pray forus  Midwife Most Merciful, pray forus  Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence,pray for us._(A choir of six hundred voices, conducted byVincent Obrien, singsthe chorus from Handels Messiah alleluia for the lordgod omnipotentreigneth, accompanied on the organ by Joseph Glynn. Bloom becomesmute,shrunken, carbonised.)_ZOE: Talk away till youre black in the face.BLOOM: _(In caubeen with clay pipe stuck inthe band, dusty brogues, anemigrants red handkerchief bundle in his hand,leading a black bogoakpig by a sugaun, with a smile in his eye)_ Let me begoing now, woman ofthe house, for by all the goats in Connemara Im afterhaving thefather and mother of a bating. _(With a tear in his eye)_ Allinsanity.Patriotism, sorrow for the dead, music, future of the race. To be ornotto be. Lifes dream is oer. End it peacefully. They can live on. _(Hegazesfar away mournfully)_ I am ruined. A few pastilles of aconite. Theblinds drawn.A letter. Then lie back to rest. _(He breathes softly)_ Nomore. I have lived.Fare. Farewell.ZOE: _(Stiffly, her finger in herneckfillet)_ Honest? Till the nexttime. _(She sneers)_ Suppose you got up thewrong side of the bed orcame too quick with your best girl. O, I can read yourthoughts!BLOOM: _(Bitterly)_ Man and woman, love, whatis it? A cork and bottle.Im sick of it. Let everything rip.ZOE: _(In sudden sulks)_ I hate a rotterthats insincere. Give ableeding whore a chance.BLOOM: _(Repentantly)_ I am verydisagreeable. You are a necessary evil.Where are you from? London?ZOE: _(Glibly)_ Hogs Norton where the pigsplays the organs. ImYorkshire born. _(She holds his hand which is feeling forher nipple)_I say, Tommy Tittlemouse. Stop that and begin worse. Have you cashfor ashort time? Ten shillings?BLOOM: _(Smiles, nods slowly)_ More, houri,more.ZOE: And mores mother? _(She pats himoffhandedly with velvet paws)_Are you coming into the musicroom to see our newpianola? Come and Illpeel off.BLOOM: _(Feeling his occiput dubiously withthe unparalleledembarrassment of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of herpeeledpears)_ Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew. Thegreeneyedmonster. _(Earnestly)_ You know how difficult it is. I neednt tellyou.ZOE: _(Flattered)_ What the eye cant see theheart cant grieve for._(She pats him)_ Come.BLOOM: Laughing witch! The hand that rocksthe cradle.ZOE: Babby!BLOOM: _(In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded,with a caul of dark hair,fixes big eyes on her fluid slip and counts its bronzebuckles with achubby finger, his moist tongue lolling and lisping)_ One twotlee: tleetlwo tlone.THE BUCKLES: Love me. Love me not. Love me.ZOE: Silent means consent. _(With littleparted talons she captures hishand, her forefinger giving to his palm thepasstouch of secret monitor,luring him to doom.)_ Hot hands cold gizzard._(He hesitates amid scents, music,temptations. She leads him towardsthe steps, drawing him by the odour of herarmpits, the vice of herpainted eyes, the rustle of her slip in whose sinuousfolds lurks thelion reek of all the male brutes that have possessed her.)_THE MALE BRUTES: _(Exhaling sulphur of rutand dung and ramping in theirloosebox, faintly roaring, their drugged headsswaying to and fro)_Good!_(Zoe and Bloom reach the doorway where twosister whores are seated.They examine him curiously from under their pencilledbrows and smile tohis hasty bow. He trips awkwardly.)_ZOE: _(Her lucky hand instantly saving him)_Hoopsa! Dont fallupstairs.BLOOM: The just man falls seven times. _(Hestands aside at thethreshold)_ After you is good manners.ZOE: Ladies first, gentlemen after._(She crosses the threshold. He hesitates.She turns and, holding outher hands, draws him over. He hops. On the antleredrack of the hallhang a man s hat and waterproof. Bloom uncovers himself but,seeingthem, frowns, then smiles, preoccupied. A door on the return landingisflung open. A man in purple shirt and grey trousers, brownsocked, passeswithan apes gait, his bald head and goatee beard upheld, hugging afullwaterjugjar, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels. Avertinghis facequickly Bloom bends to examine on the halltable the spanieleyes of a runningfox: then, his lifted head sniffing, follows Zoeinto the musicroom. A shade ofmauve tissuepaper dims the light of thechandelier. Round and round a mothflies, colliding, escaping. Thefloor is covered with an oilcloth mosaic of jadeand azure and cinnabarrhomboids. Footmarks are stamped over it in all senses,heel to heel,heel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a morris of shufflingfeetwithout body phantoms, all in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. The wallsaretapestried with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. In the grateis spread a screenof peacock feathers. Lynch squats crosslegged onthe hearthrug of matted hair,his cap back to the front. With a wand hebeats time slowly. Kitty Ricketts, abony pallid whore in navy costume,doeskin gloves rolled back from a coralwristlet, a chain purse inher hand, sits perched on the edge of the tableswinging her leg andglancing at herself in the gilt mirror over themantelpiece. A tagof her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket. Lynchindicatesmockingly the couple at the piano.)_KITTY: _(Coughs behind her hand)_ Shes a bitimbecillic. _(She signswith a waggling forefinger)_ Blemblem. _(Lynch lifts upher skirt andwhite petticoat with his wand she settles them down quickly.)_Respectyourself. _(She hiccups, then bends quickly her sailor hat underwhichher hair glows, red with henna)_ O, excuse!ZOE: More limelight, Charley. _(She goes tothe chandelier and turns thegas full cock)_KITTY: _(Peers at the gasjet)_ What ails ittonight?LYNCH: _(Deeply)_ Enter a ghost andhobgoblins.ZOE: Clap on the back for Zoe._(The wand in Lynchs hand flashes: a brasspoker. Stephen stands atthe pianola on which sprawl his hat and ashplant. Withtwo fingers herepeats once more the series of empty fifths. Florry Talbot, ablondfeeble goosefat whore in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewedstrawberry,lolls spreadeagle in the sofacorner, her limp forearm pendent overthebolster, listening. A heavy stye droops over her sleepy eyelid.)_KITTY: _(Hiccups again with a kick of herhorsed foot)_ O, excuse!ZOE: _(Promptly)_ Your boys thinking of you.Tie a knot on your shift._(Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Her boauncoils, slides, glides overher shoulder, back, arm, chair to the ground. Lynchlifts the curledcaterpillar on his wand. She snakes her neck, nestling. Stephenglancesbehind at the squatted figure with its cap back to the front.)_STEPHEN: As a matter of fact it is of noimportance whether BenedettoMarcello found it or made it. The rite is thepoets rest. It may be anold hymn to Demeter or also illustrate _Coela enarrantgloriam Domini._It is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart ashyperphrygian andmixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihoopinground Davidsthat is Circes or what am I saying Ceres altar and Davidstipfrom the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness ofhisalmightiness. _Mais nom de nom,_ that is another pair of trousers._Jetez lagourme. Faut que jeunesse se passe. (He stops, points atLynchs cap, smiles,laughs)_ Which side is your knowledge bump?THE CAP: _(With saturnine spleen)_ Bah! It isbecause it is. Womansreason. Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet. Death is thehighest formof life. Bah!STEPHEN: You remember fairly accurately allmy errors, boasts, mistakes.How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty?Whetstone!THE CAP: Bah!STEPHEN: Heres another for you. _(Hefrowns)_ The reason is becausethe fundamental and the dominant are separated bythe greatest possibleinterval which...THE CAP: Which? Finish. You cant.STEPHEN: _(With an effort)_ Interval which.Is the greatest possibleellipse. Consistent with. The ultimate return. Theoctave. Which.THE CAP: Which?_(Outside the gramophone begins to blare_ TheHoly City.)STEPHEN: _(Abruptly)_ What went forth to theends of the world totraverse not itself, God, the sun, Shakespeare, acommercial traveller,having itself traversed in reality itself becomes thatself. Wait amoment. Wait a second. Damn that fellows noise in the street.Selfwhich it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. _Ecco!_LYNCH: _(With a mocking whinny of laughtergrins at Bloom and ZoeHiggins)_ What a learned speech, eh?ZOE: _(Briskly)_ God help your head, he knowsmore than you haveforgotten._(With obese stupidity Florry Talbot regardsStephen.)_FLORRY: They say the last day is coming thissummer.KITTY: No!ZOE: _(Explodes in laughter)_ Great unjustGod!FLORRY: _(Offended)_ Well, it was in thepapers about Antichrist. O, myfoots tickling._(Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtailkite, patter past,yelling.)_THE NEWSBOYS: Stop press edition. Result ofthe rockinghorse races. Seaserpent in the royal canal. Safe arrival ofAntichrist._(Stephen turns and sees Bloom.)_STEPHEN: A time, times and half a time._(Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, aclutching hand open on hisspine, stumps forward. Across his loins is slung apilgrims wallet fromwhich protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills.Aloft over hisshoulder he bears a long boatpole from the hook of which thesoddenhuddled mass of his only son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs fromtheslack of its breeches. A hobgoblin in the image of Punch Costello,hipshot,crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding foreheadand Ally Slopernose, tumbles in somersaults through the gatheringdarkness.)_ALL: What?THE HOBGOBLIN: _(His jaws chattering, capersto and fro, goggling hiseyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretchedclutching arms, thenall at once thrusts his lipless face through the fork ofhis thighs) Ilvient! Cest moi! Lhomme qui rit! Lhomme primigene! (He whirlsroundand round with dervish howls) Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux!(Hecrouches juggling. Tiny roulette planets fly from his hands.) Les jeuxsontfaits! (The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks) Rienva plus! (Theplanets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and away. Hesprings off intovacuum.)_FLORRY: _(Sinking into torpor, crossingherself secretly)_ The end ofthe world!_(A female tepid effluvium leaks out fromher. Nebulous obscurityoccupies space. Through the drifting fog without thegramophone blaresover coughs and feetshuffling.)_THE GRAMOPHONE: Jerusalem!Open your gates and singHosanna..._(A rocket rushes up the sky and bursts. Awhite star fills from it,proclaiming the consummation of all things and secondcoming of Elijah.Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith tonadir the Endof the World, a twoheaded octopus in gillies kilts, busby andtartanfilibegs, whirls through the murk, head over heels, in the form oftheThree Legs of Man.)_THE END OF THE WORLD: _(with a Scotchaccent)_ Whall dance the keelrow, the keel row, the keel row?_(Over the possing drift and chokingbreathcoughs, Elijahs voice, harshas a corncrakes, jars on high. Perspiringin a loose lawn surplice withfunnel sleeves he is seen, vergerfaced, above arostrum about which thebanner of old glory is draped. He thumps the parapet.)_ELIJAH: No yapping, if you please, in thisbooth. Jake Crane, CreoleSue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughingwith your mouthsshut. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. Boys, do it now.Godstime is 12.25. Tell mother youll be there. Rush your order and you playaslick ace. Join on right here. Book through to eternity junction, thenonstoprun. Just one word more. Are you a god or a doggone clod? If thesecond adventcame to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ, StephenChrist, Zoe Christ,Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, its up toyou to sense that cosmicforce. Have we cold feet about the cosmos?No. Be on the side of the angels. Bea prism. You have that somethingwithin, the higher self. You can rub shoulderswith a Jesus, a Gautama,an Ingersoll. Are you all in this vibration? I say youare. You oncenobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes abacknumber. You got me? Its a lifebrightener, sure. The hottest stuff everwas.Its the whole pie with jam in. Its just the cutest snappiest lineout. It isimmense, supersumptuous. It restores. It vibrates. I knowand I am somevibrator. Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A.J. Christ Dowie and theharmonial philosophy, have you got that? O. K.Seventyseven west sixtyninthstreet. Got me? Thats it. You call me upby sunphone any old time. Bumboosers,save your stamps. _(He shouts)_Now then our glory song. All join heartily inthe singing. Encore! _(Hesings)_ Jeru...THE GRAMOPHONE: _(Drowning his voice)_Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh..._(The disc rasps gratingly against the needle)_THE THREE WHORES: _(Covering their ears,squawk)_ Ahhkkk!ELIJAH: _(In rolledup shirtsleeves, black inthe face, shouts at the topof his voice, his arms uplifted)_ Big Brother upthere, Mr President,you hear what I done just been saying to you. Certainly, Isort ofbelieve strong in you, Mr President. I certainly am thinking nowMissHiggins and Miss Ricketts got religion way inside them. Certainly seemstome I dont never see no wusser scared female than the way you been,Miss Florry,just now as I done seed you. Mr President, you come longand help me save oursisters dear. _(He winks at his audience)_ Our MrPresident, he twig the wholelot and he aint saying nothing.KITTY-KATE: I forgot myself. In a weak momentI erred and did what I didon Constitution hill. I was confirmed by the bishopand enrolled inthe brown scapular. My mothers sister married a Montmorency. Itwas aworking plumber was my ruination when I was pure.ZOE-FANNY: I let him larrup it into me forthe fun of it.FLORRY-TERESA: It was in consequence of aportwine beverage on top ofHennessys three star. I was guilty with Whelan whenhe slipped into thebed.STEPHEN: In the beginning was the word, inthe end the world withoutend. Blessed be the eight beatitudes._(The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers,Costello, Lenehan, Bannon,Mulligan and Lynch in white surgical students gowns,four abreast,goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching)_THE BEATITUDES: _(Incoherently)_ Beer beefbattledog buybull businumbarnum buggerum bishop.LYSTER: _(In quakergrey kneebreeches andbroadbrimmed hat, saysdiscreetly)_ He is our friend. I need not mention names.Seek thou thelight._(He corantos by. Best enters inhairdressers attire, shinilylaundered, his locks in curlpapers. He leads JohnEglinton who wears amandarins kimono of Nankeen yellow, lizardlettered, and ahigh pagodahat.)_BEST: _(Smiling, lifts the hat and displays ashaven poll from the crownof which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with anorange topknot)_ I wasjust beautifying him, dont you know. A thing of beauty,dont you know,Yeats says, or I mean, Keats says.JOHN EGLINTON: _(Produces a greencapped darklantern and flashes ittowards a corner: with carping accent)_ Esthetics andcosmetics are forthe boudoir. I am out for truth. Plain truth for a plain man.Tanderageewants the facts and means to get them._(In the cone of the searchlight behind thecoalscuttle, ollave,holyeyed, the bearded figure of Mananaun Maclir broods,chin on knees.He rises slowly. A cold seawind blows from his druid mouth. Abouthishead writhe eels and elvers. He is encrusted with weeds and shells. Hisrighthand holds a bicycle pump. His left hand grasps a huge crayfish byits twotalons.)_MANANAUN MACLIR: _(With a voice of waves)_Aum! Hek! Wal! Ak! Lub! Mor!Ma! White yoghin of the gods. Occult pimander ofHermes Trismegistos._(With a voice of whistling seawind)_ Punarjanampatsypunjaub! I wonthave my leg pulled. It has been said by one: beware theleft, the cultof Shakti. _(With a cry of stormbirds)_ Shakti Shiva, darkhiddenFather!_(He smites with his bicycle pump the crayfish in his left hand. On itscooperativedial glow the twelve signs of the zodiac. He wails withthe vehemence of theocean.)_ Aum! Baum! Pyjaum! I am the light of thehomestead! I am the dreamerycreamery butter._(A skeleton judashand strangles the light.The green light wanes tomauve. The gasjet wails whistling.)_THE GASJET: Pooah! Pfuiiiiiii!_(Zoe runs to the chandelier and, crookingher leg, adjusts themantle.)_ZOE: Who has a fag as Im here?LYNCH: _(Tossing a cigarette on to thetable)_ Here.ZOE: _(Her head perched aside in mock pride)_Is that the way to handthe _pot_ to a lady? _(She stretches up to light thecigarette over theflame, twirling it slowly, showing the brown tufts of herarmpits. Lynchwith his poker lifts boldly a side of her slip. Bare from hergarters upher flesh appears under the sapphire a nixies green. She puffscalmlyat her cigarette.)_ Can you see the beautyspot of my behind?LYNCH: Im not lookingZOE: _(Makes sheeps eyes)_ No? You wouldntdo a less thing. Would yousuck a lemon?_(Squinting in mock shame she glances withsidelong meaning at Bloom,then twists round towards him, pulling her slip freeof the poker. Bluefluid again flows over her flesh. Bloom stands, smilingdesirously,twirling his thumbs. Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger withherspittle and, gazing in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. LipotiVirag,basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the chimneyflue andstrutstwo steps to the left on gawky pink stilts. He is sausaged intoseveralovercoats and wears a brown macintosh under which he holds a rollofparchment. In his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel BoyleOconnorFitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. On his head is perched an Egyptianpshent.Two quills project over his ears.)_VIRAG: _(Heels together, bows)_ My name isVirag Lipoti, of Szombathely._(He coughs thoughtfully, drily)_ Promiscuousnakedness is much inevidence hereabouts, eh? Inadvertently her backviewrevealed the factthat she is not wearing those rather intimate garments ofwhich youare a particular devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I hopeyouperceived? Good.BLOOM: Granpapachi. But...VIRAG: Number two on the other hand, she ofthe cherry rouge andcoiffeuse white, whose hair owes not a little to our tribalelixir ofgopherwood, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit,Ishould opine. Backbone in front, so to say. Correct me but I alwaysunderstoodthat the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses oflingerie appealedto you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. In aword. Hippogriff. Am I right?BLOOM: She is rather lean.VIRAG: _(Not unpleasantly)_ Absolutely! Wellobserved and those pannierpockets of the skirt and slightly pegtop effect aredevised to suggestbunchiness of hip. A new purchase at some monster sale forwhich a gullhas been mulcted. Meretricious finery to deceive the eye. Observetheattention to details of dustspecks. Never put on you tomorrow what youcanwear today. Parallax! _(With a nervous twitch of his head)_ Did youhear mybrain go snap? Pollysyllabax!BLOOM: _(An elbow resting in a hand, aforefinger against his cheek)_She seems sad.VIRAG: _(Cynically, his weasel teeth baredyellow, draws down his lefteye with a finger and barks hoarsely)_ Hoax! Bewareof the flapperand bogus mournful. Lily of the alley. All possess bachelorsbuttondiscovered by Rualdus Columbus. Tumble her. Columble her.Chameleon._(More genially)_ Well then, permit me to draw your attention toitemnumber three. There is plenty of her visible to the naked eye. Observethemass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull. What ho, shebumps! The uglyduckling of the party, longcasted and deep in keel.BLOOM: _(Regretfully)_ When you come outwithout your gun.VIRAG: We can do you all brands, mild, mediumand strong. Pay yourmoney, take your choice. How happy could you be witheither...BLOOM: With...?VIRAG: _(His tongue upcurling)_ Lyum! Look.Her beam is broad. Sheis coated with quite a considerable layer of fat.Obviously mammal inweight of bosom you remark that she has in front well to thefore twoprotuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall inthenoonday soupplate, while on her rere lower down are twoadditionalprotuberances, suggestive of potent rectum and tumescent forpalpation,which leave nothing to be desired save compactness. Such fleshypartsare the product of careful nurture. When coopfattened their liversreach anelephantine size. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek andgumbenjamin swampeddown by potions of green tea endow them during theirbrief existence withnatural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. Thatsuits your book, eh?Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after. Wallow init. Lycopodium. _(His throattwitches)_ Slapbang! There he goes again.BLOOM: The stye I dislike.VIRAG: _(Arches his eyebrows)_ Contact with agoldring, they say._Argumentum ad feminam_, as we said in old Rome and ancientGreecein the consulship of Diplodocus and Ichthyosauros. For the restEvessovereign remedy. Not for sale. Hire only. Huguenot. _(He twitches)_ Itisa funny sound. _(He coughs encouragingly)_ But possibly it is only awart. Ipresume you shall have remembered what I will have taught you onthat head?Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg.BLOOM: _(Reflecting)_ Wheatenmeal withlycopodium and syllabax. Thissearching ordeal. It has been an unusuallyfatiguing day, a chapter ofaccidents. Wait. I mean, wartsblood spreads warts,you said...VIRAG: _(Severely, his nose hardhumped, hisside eye winking)_ Stoptwirling your thumbs and have a good old thunk. See, youhave forgotten.Exercise your mnemotechnic. _La causa √® santa_. Tara. Tara._(Aside)_ Hewill surely remember.BLOOM: Rosemary also did I understand you tosay or willpower overparasitic tissues. Then nay no I have an inkling. Thetouch of adeadhand cures. Mnemo?VIRAG: _(Excitedly)_ I say so. I say so. Eenso. Technic. _(He taps hisparchmentroll energetically)_ This book tells you howto act with alldescriptive particulars. Consult index for agitated fear ofaconite,melancholy of muriatic, priapic pulsatilla. Virag is going to talkaboutamputation. Our old friend caustic. They must be starved. Snip offwithhorsehair under the denned neck. But, to change the venue to the Bulgarandthe Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislikewomen in malehabiliments? _(With a dry snigger)_ You intended to devotean entire year to thestudy of the religious problem and the summermonths of 1886 to square thecircle and win that million. Pomegranate!From the sublime to the ridiculous isbut a step. Pyjamas, let us say?Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? Or,put we the case,those complicated combinations, camiknickers? _(He crowsderisively)_Keekeereekee!_(Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whoresthen gazes at the veiledmauve light, hearing the everflying moth.)_BLOOM: I wanted then to have now concluded.Nightdress was never. Hencethis. But tomorrow is a new day will be. Past was istoday. What now iswill then morrow as now was be past yester.VIRAG: _(Prompts in a pigs whisper)_ Insectsof the day spend theirbrief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smellof theinferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified pudendal nerveindorsal region. Pretty Poll! _(His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally)_They had aproverb in the Carpathians in or about the year five thousandfive hundred andfifty of our era. One tablespoonful of honey willattract friend Bruin more thanhalf a dozen barrels of first choice maltvinegar. Bears buzz bothers bees. Butof this apart. At another timewe may resume. We were very pleased, we others._(He coughs and, bendinghis brow, rubs his nose thoughtfully with a scoopinghand)_ You shallfind that these night insects follow the light. An illusion forremembertheir complex unadjustable eye. For all these knotty points seetheseventeenth book of my Fundamentals of Sexology or the Love PassionwhichDoctor L.B. says is the book sensation of the year. Some, toexample, there areagain whose movements are automatic. Perceive. Thatis his appropriate sun.Nightbird nightsun nighttown. Chase me, Charley!_(He blows into blooms ear)_Buzz!BLOOM: Bee or bluebottle too other daybutting shadow on wall dazed selfthen me wandered dazed down shirt good jobI...VIRAG: _(His face impassive, laughs in a richfeminine key)_ Splendid!Spanish fly in his fly or mustard plaster on hisdibble. _(He gobblesgluttonously with turkey wattles)_ Bubbly jock! Bubblyjock! Where arewe? Open Sesame! Cometh forth! _(He unrolls his parchmentrapidly andreads, his glowworms nose running backwards over the letters whichheclaws)_ Stay, good friend. I bring thee thy answer. Redbank oysterswillshortly be upon us. Im the best ocook. Those succulent bivalves mayhelpus and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through misteromnivorousporker, were unsurpassed in cases of nervous debility orviragitis. Though theystink yet they sting. _(He wags his head withcackling raillery)_ Jocular. Withmy eyeglass in my ocular. _(Hesneezes)_ Amen!BLOOM: _(Absently)_ Ocularly womans bivalvecase is worse. Always opensesame. The cloven sex. Why they fear vermin,creeping things. Yet Eveand the serpent contradicts. Not a historical fact.Obvious analogyto my idea. Serpents too are gluttons for womans milk. Windtheir waythrough miles of omnivorous forest to sucksucculent her breast dry.Likethose bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis.VIRAG: _(His mouth projected in hardwrinkles, eyes stonily forlornlyclosed, psalms in outlandish monotone)_ Thatthe cows with their thosedistended udders that they have been the the known...BLOOM: I am going to scream. I beg yourpardon. Ah? So. _(He repeats)_Spontaneously to seek out the saurians lair inorder to entrust theirteats to his avid suction. Ant milks aphis._(Profoundly)_ Instinctrules the world. In life. In death.VIRAG: _(Head askew, arches his back andhunched wingshoulders, peersat the moth out of blear bulged eyes, points ahorning claw and cries)_Whos moth moth? Whos dear Gerald? Dear Ger, that you?O dear, he isGerald. O, I much fear he shall be most badly burned. Will some pleashepershonnot now impediment so catastrophics mit agitation of firstclasstablenumpkin?_(He mews)_ Puss puss puss puss! _(He sighs, draws backand stares sideways downwith dropping underjaw)_ Well, well. He dothrest anon. (He snaps his jawssuddenly on the air)THE MOTH:  Im a tiny tinything  Ever flying in the spring Round and round a ringaring.  Long ago I was aking  Now I do this kind of thing On the wing, on the wing!  Bing!_(He rushes against the mauve shade, flappingnoisily)_ Pretty prettypretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats._(From left upper entrance with two glidingsteps Henry Flower comesforward to left front centre. He wears a dark mantleand drooping plumedsombrero. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and alongstemmedbamboo Jacobs pipe, its clay bowl fashioned as a female head. Hewearsdark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps. He has the romanticSavioursface with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache. His spindlelegsandsparrow feet are those of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia. He settlesdownhis goffered ruffs and moistens his lips with a passage of hisamorous tongue.)_HENRY: _(In a low dulcet voice, touching thestrings of his guitar)_There is a flower that bloometh._(Virag truculent, his jowl set, stares atthe lamp. Grave Bloom regardsZoes neck. Henry gallant turns with pendantdewlap to the piano.)_STEPHEN: _(To himself)_ Play with your eyesshut. Imitate pa. Filling mybelly with husks of swine. Too much of this. I willarise and go to my.Expect this is the. Steve, thou art in a parlous way. Mustvisit oldDeasy or telegraph. Our interview of this morning has left on me adeepimpression. Though our ages. Will write fully tomorrow. Im partiallydrunk,by the way. _(He touches the keys again)_ Minor chord comes now.Yes. Not muchhowever._(Almidano Artifoni holds out a batonroll ofmusic with vigorousmoustachework.)_ARTIFONI: _Ci rifletta. Lei rovina tutto._FLORRY: Sing us something. Loves old sweetsong.STEPHEN: No voice. I am a most finishedartist. Lynch, did I show youthe letter about the lute?FLORRY: _(Smirking)_ The bird that can singand wont sing._(The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and PhilipSober, two Oxford dons withlawnmowers, appear in the window embrasure. Both aremasked with MatthewArnolds face.)_PHILIP SOBER: Take a fools advice. All isnot well. Work it out withthe buttend of a pencil, like a good young idiot.Three pounds twelveyou got, two notes, one sovereign, two crowns, if youth butknew.Mooneys en ville, Mooneys sur mer, the Moira, Larchets, Hollesstreethospital, Burkes. Eh? I am watching you.PHILIP DRUNK: _(Impatiently)_ Ah, bosh, man.Go to hell! I paid my way.If I could only find out about octaves. Reduplicationof personality.Who was it told me his name? _(His lawnmower begins to purr)_Aha, yes._Zoe mou sas agapo_. Have a notion I was here before. When was itnotAtkinson his card I have somewhere. Mac Somebody. Unmack I have it. Hetoldme about, hold on, Swinburne, was it, no?FLORRY: And the song?STEPHEN: Spirit is willing but the flesh isweak.FLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth? Youre likesomeone I knew once.STEPHEN: Out of it now. _(To himself)_Clever.PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: _(Theirlawnmowers purring with arigadoon of grasshalms)_ Clever ever. Out of it out ofit. By thebye have you the book, the thing, the ashplant? Yes, there it,yes.Cleverever outofitnow. Keep in condition. Do like us.ZOE: There was a priest down here two nightsago to do his bit ofbusiness with his coat buttoned up. You neednt try tohide, I says tohim. I know youve a Roman collar.VIRAG: Perfectly logical from his standpoint.Fall of man. _(Harshly,his pupils waxing)_ To hell with the pope! Nothing newunder the sun. Iam the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks andMaidens. WhyI left the church of Rome. Read the Priest, the Woman andtheConfessional. Penrose. Flipperty Jippert. _(He wriggles)_ Woman, undoingwithsweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to manslingam.Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat.Woman shows joyand covers herself with featherskins. Man loves her yonifiercely with biglingam, the stiff one. _(He cries) Coactus volui._Then giddy woman will runabout. Strong man grapses womans wrist.Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Man, nowfierce angry, strikes womans fatyadgana. _(He chases his tail)_ Piffpaff!Popo! _(He stops, sneezes)_Pchp! _(He worries his butt)_ Prrrrrht!LYNCH: I hope you gave the good father apenance. Nine glorias forshooting a bishop.ZOE: _(Spouts walrus smoke through hernostrils)_ He couldnt get aconnection. Only, you know, sensation. A dry rush.BLOOM: Poor man!ZOE: _(Lightly)_ Only for what happened him.BLOOM: How?VIRAG: _(A diabolic rictus of blackluminosity contracting his visage,cranes his scraggy neck forward. He lifts amooncalf nozzle and howls.)Verfluchte Goim!_ He had a father, forty fathers. Henever existed. PigGod! He had two left feet. He was Judas Iacchia, a Libyaneunuch, thepopes bastard. _(He leans out on tortured forepaws, elbows bentrigid,his eye agonising in his flat skullneck and yelps over the mute world)_Ason of a whore. Apocalypse.KITTY: And Mary Shortall that was in the lockwith the pox she got fromJimmy Pidgeon in the blue caps had a child off himthat couldnt swallowand was smothered with the convulsions in the mattress andwe allsubscribed for the funeral.PHILIP DRUNK: _(Gravely) Qui vous a mis danscette fichue position,Philippe?_PHILIP SOBER: _(Gaily) c√©tait le sacr√©pigeon, Philippe.__(Kitty unpins her hat and sets it downcalmly, patting her henna hair.And a prettier, a daintier head of winsome curlswas never seen on awhores shoulders. Lynch puts on her hat. She whips itoff.)_LYNCH: _(Laughs)_ And to such delights hasMetchnikoff inoculatedanthropoid apes.FLORRY: _(Nods)_ Locomotor ataxy.ZOE: _(Gaily)_ O, my dictionary.LYNCH: Three wise virgins.VIRAG: _(Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawnfoaming over his bonyepileptic lips)_ She sold lovephiltres, whitewax,orangeflower. Panther,the Roman centurion, polluted her with his genitories._(He sticks outa flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his hand on hisfork)_Messiah! He burst her tympanum. _(With gibbering baboons cries hejerkshis hips in the cynical spasm)_ Hik! Hek! Hak! Hok! Huk! Kok! Kuk!_(Ben Jumbo Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound,hairynostrilled,hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned,fat-papped, standsforth, his loins and genitals tightened into a pair of blackbathingbagslops.)_BEN DOLLARD: _(Nakkering castanet bones inhis huge padded paws, yodelsjovially in base barreltone)_ When love absorbs myardent soul._(The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigleyburst through theringkeepers and the ropes and mob him with open arms.)_THE VIRGINS: _(Gushingly)_ Big Ben! Ben myChree!A VOICE: Hold that fellow with the badbreeches.BEN DOLLARD: _(Smites his thigh in abundantlaughter)_ Hold him now.HENRY: _(Caressing on his breast a severedfemale head, murmurs)_ Thineheart, mine love. _(He plucks his lutestrings)_When first I saw...VIRAG: _(Sloughing his skins, hismultitudinous plumage moulting)_ Rats!_(He yawns, showing a coalblack throat,and closes his jaws by an upwardpush of his parchmentroll)_ After having saidwhich I took my departure.Farewell. Fare thee well. _Dreck!__(Henry Flower combs his moustache and beardrapidly with a pocketcomband gives a cows lick to his hair. Steered by hisrapier, he glides tothe door, his wild harp slung behind him. Virag reaches thedoor in twoungainly stilthops, his tail cocked, and deftly claps sideways onthewall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with his head.)_THE FLYBILL: K. II. Post No Bills. Strictlyconfidential. Dr Hy Franks.HENRY: All is lost now._(Virag unscrews his head in a trice andholds it under his arm.)_VIRAGS HEAD: Quack!_(Exeunt severally.)_STEPHEN: _(Over his shoulder to zoe)_ Youwould have preferredthe fighting parson who founded the protestant error. ButbewareAntisthenes, the dog sage, and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus.Theagony in the closet.LYNCH: All one and the same God to her.STEPHEN: _(Devoutly)_ And sovereign Lord ofall things.FLORRY: _(To Stephen)_ Im sure youre aspoiled priest. Or a monk.LYNCH: He is. A cardinals son.STEPHEN: Cardinal sin. Monks of the screw._(His Eminence Simon Stephen CardinalDedalus, Primate of all Ireland,appears in the doorway, dressed in red soutane,sandals and socks. Sevendwarf simian acolytes, also in red, cardinal sins,uphold his train,peeping under it. He wears a battered silk hat sideways on hishead. Histhumbs are stuck in his armpits and his palms outspread. Round hisneckhangs a rosary of corks ending on his breast in a corkscrew cross.Releasing histhumbs, he invokes grace from on high with large wavegestures and proclaimswith bloated pomp:)_THE CARDINAL:  Conservio liescaptured  He lies in the lowestdungeon  With manacles and chains around hislimbs  Weighing upwards of three tons._(He looks at all for a moment, his right eyeclosed tight, his leftcheek puffed out. Then, unable to repress his merriment,he rocks to andfro, arms akimbo, and sings with broad rollicking humour:)_  O, the poor littlefellow  Hihihihihis legs they wereyellow  He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as asnake  But some bloody savage  Tograize his white cabbage  He murdered Nell Flahertysduckloving drake._(A multitude of midges swarms white over hisrobe. He scratches himselfwith crossed arms at his ribs, grimacing, andexclaims:)_Im suffering the agony of the damned. By thehoky fiddle, thanks be toJesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous. Ifthey were theydwalk me off the face of the bloody globe._(His head aslant he blesses curtly with foreand middle fingers,imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically,swayinghis hat from side to side, shrinking quickly to the size ofhistrainbearers. The dwarf acolytes, giggling, peeping, nudging,ogling,Easterkissing, zigzag behind him. His voice is heard mellow fromafar,merciful male, melodious:)_  Shall carry my heartto thee,  Shall carry my heart tothee,  And the breath of the balmynight  Shall carry my heart tothee!  _(The trick doorhandle turns.)_THE DOORHANDLE: Theeee!ZOE: The devil is in that door._(A male form passes down the creakingstaircase and is heard takingthe waterproof and hat from the rack. Bloom startsforward involuntarilyand, half closing the door as he passes, takes thechocolate from hispocket and offers it nervously to Zoe.)_ZOE: _(Sniffs his hair briskly)_ Hmmm! Thankyour mother for therabbits. Im very fond of what I like.BLOOM: _(Hearing a male voice in talk withthe whores on the doorstep,pricks his ears)_ If it were he? After? Or becausenot? Or the doubleevent?ZOE: _(Tears open the silverfoil)_ Fingerswas made before forks. _(Shebreaks off and nibbles a piece gives a piece toKitty Ricketts and thenturns kittenishly to Lynch)_ No objection to Frenchlozenges? _(He nods.She taunts him.)_ Have it now or wait till you get it? _(Heopens hismouth, his head cocked. She whirls the prize in left circle. Hisheadfollows. She whirls it back in right circle. He eyes her.)_ Catch!_(She tosses a piece. With an adroit snap hecatches it and bites itthrough with a crack.)_KITTY: _(Chewing)_ The engineer I was with atthe bazaar does havelovely ones. Full of the best liqueurs. And the viceroy wasthere withhis lady. The gas we had on the Tofts hobbyhorses. Im giddy still.BLOOM: _(In Svengalis fur overcoat, withfolded arms and Napoleonicforelock, frowns in ventriloquial exorcism withpiercing eagle glancetowards the door. Then rigid with left foot advanced hemakes a swiftpass with impelling fingers and gives the sign of past master,drawinghis right arm downwards from his left shoulder.)_ Go, go, go, I conjureyou,whoever you are!_(A male cough and tread are heard passingthrough the mist outside.Blooms features relax. He places a hand in hiswaistcoat, posingcalmly. Zoe offers him chocolate.)_BLOOM: _(Solemnly)_ Thanks.ZOE: Do as youre bid. Here!_(A firm heelclacking tread is heard on thestairs.)_BLOOM: _(Takes the chocolate)_ Aphrodisiac?Tansy and pennyroyal. But Ibought it. Vanilla calms or? Mnemo. Confused lightconfuses memory. Redinfluences lupus. Colours affect womens characters, anythey have. Thisblack makes me sad. Eat and be merry for tomorrow. _(He eats)_Influencetaste too, mauve. But it is so long since I. Seems new. Aphro.Thatpriest. Must come. Better late than never. Try truffles at Andrews._(The door opens. Bella Cohen, a massive whoremistress,enters. Sheis dressed in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the hemwithtasselled selvedge, and cools herself flirting a black horn fan likeMinnieHauck in_ Carmen. _On her left hand are wedding and keeper rings.Her eyes aredeeply carboned. She has a sprouting moustache. Herolive face is heavy,slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetaintednostrils. She has largependant beryl eardrops.)_BELLA: My word! Im all of a mucksweat._(She glances round her at the couples. Thenher eyes rest on Bloom withhard insistence. Her large fan winnows wind towardsher heated faceneckand embonpoint. Her falcon eyes glitter.)_THE FAN: _(Flirting quickly, then slowly)_Married, I see.BLOOM: Yes. Partly, I have mislaid...THE FAN: _(Half opening, then closing)_ Andthe missus is master.Petticoat government.BLOOM: _(Looks down with a sheepish grin)_That is so.THE FAN: _(Folding together, rests againsther left eardrop)_ Have youforgotten me?BLOOM: Yes. Yo.THE FAN: _(Folded akimbo against her waist)_Is me her was you dreamedbefore? Was then she him you us since knew? Am allthem and the same nowwe?_(Bella approaches, gently tapping with thefan.)_BLOOM: _(Wincing)_ Powerful being. In my eyesread that slumber whichwomen love.THE FAN: _(Tapping)_ We have met. You aremine. It is fate.BLOOM: _(Cowed)_ Exuberant female. EnormouslyI desiderate yourdomination. I am exhausted, abandoned, no more young. I stand,so tospeak, with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee beforethetoo late box of the general postoffice of human life. The doorand window openat a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet persecond according to thelaw of falling bodies. I have felt this instanta twinge of sciatica in my leftglutear muscle. It runs in our family.Poor dear papa, a widower, was a regularbarometer from it. He believedin animal heat. A skin of tabby lined his winterwaistcoat. Near theend, remembering king David and the Sunamite, he shared hisbed withAthos, faithful after death. A dogs spittle as you probably..._(Hewinces)_ Ah!RICHIE GOULDING: _(Bagweighted, passes thedoor)_ Mocking is catch. Bestvalue in Dub. Fit for a princes. Liver andkidney.THE FAN: _(Tapping)_ All things end. Be mine.Now.BLOOM: _(Undecided)_ All now? I should not haveparted with my talisman.Rain, exposure at dewfall on the searocks, a peccadilloat my time oflife. Every phenomenon has a natural cause.THE FAN: _(Points downwards slowly)_ You may.BLOOM: _(Looks downwards and perceives herunfastened bootlace)_ We areobserved.THE FAN: _(Points downwards quickly)_ Youmust.BLOOM: _(With desire, with reluctance)_ I canmake a true black knot.Learned when I served my time and worked the mail orderline forKelletts. Experienced hand. Every knot says a lot. Let me. In courtesy.Iknelt once before today. Ah!_(Bella raises her gown slightly and,steadying her pose, lifts to theedge of a chair a plump buskined hoof and afull pastern, silksocked.Bloom, stifflegged, aging, bends over her hoof andwith gentle fingersdraws out and in her laces.)_BLOOM: _(Murmurs lovingly)_ To be ashoefitter in Manfields was myloves young dream, the darling joys of sweetbuttonhooking, to laceup crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwearsatinlined, soincredibly impossibly small, of Clyde Road ladies. Even their waxmodelRaymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick ofrhubarbtoe, as worn in Paris.THE HOOF: Smell my hot goathide. Feel myroyal weight.BLOOM: _(Crosslacing)_ Too tight?THE HOOF: If you bungle, Handy Andy, Illkick your football for you.BLOOM: Not to lace the wrong eyelet as I didthe night of the bazaardance. Bad luck. Hook in wrong tache of her... personyou mentioned.That night she met... Now!_(He knots the lace. Bella places her foot onthe floor. Bloom raiseshis head. Her heavy face, her eyes strike him inmidbrow. His eyes growdull, darker and pouched, his nose thickens.)_BLOOM: _(Mumbles)_ Awaiting your furtherorders we remain, gentlemen,...BELLO: _(With a hard basilisk stare, in abaritone voice)_ Hound ofdishonour!BLOOM: _(Infatuated)_ Empress!BELLO: _(His heavy cheekchops sagging)_Adorer of the adulterous rump!BLOOM: _(Plaintively)_ Hugeness!BELLO: Dungdevourer!BLOOM: _(With sinews semiflexed)_Magmagnificence!BELLO: Down! _(He taps her on the shoulderwith his fan)_ Incline feetforward! Slide left foot one pace back! You willfall. You are falling.On the hands down!BLOOM: _(Her eyes upturned in the sign ofadmiration, closing, yaps)_Truffles!_(With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks onall fours, grunting,snuffling, rooting at his feet: then lies, shamming dead,with eyes shuttight, trembling eyelids, bowed upon the ground in the attitudeof mostexcellent master.)_BELLO: _(With bobbed hair, purple gills, fitmoustache rings round hisshaven mouth, in mountaineers puttees, greensilverbuttoned coat, sportskirt and alpine hat with moorcocks feather, hishands stuck deep inhis breeches pockets, places his heel on her neck and grindsit in)_Footstool! Feel my entire weight. Bow, bondslave, before the throneofyour despots glorious heels so glistening in their proud erectness.BLOOM: _(Enthralled, bleats)_ I promise neverto disobey.BELLO: _(Laughs loudly)_ Holy smoke! Youlittle know whats in store foryou. Im the Tartar to settle your little lotand break you in! Ill betKentucky cocktails all round I shame it out of you,old son. Cheek me,I dare you. If you do tremble in anticipation of heeldiscipline to beinflicted in gym costume._(Bloom creeps under the sofa and peers out throughthe fringe.)_ZOE: _(Widening her slip to screen her)_Shes not here.BLOOM: _(Closing her eyes)_ Shes not here.FLORRY: _(Hiding her with her gown)_ Shedidnt mean it, Mr Bello.Shell be good, sir.KITTY: Dont be too hard on her, Mr Bello.Sure you wont, maamsir.BELLO: _(Coaxingly)_ Come, ducky dear, I wanta word with you, darling,just to administer correction. Just a little heart toheart talk,sweety. _(Bloom puts out her timid head)_ Theres a good girlynow._(Bello grabs her hair violently and drags her forward)_ I only wanttocorrect you for your own good on a soft safe spot. Hows that tenderbehind? O,ever so gently, pet. Begin to get ready.BLOOM: _(Fainting)_ Dont tear my...BELLO: _(Savagely)_ The nosering, the pliers,the bastinado, the hanginghook, the knout Ill make you kiss while the flutesplay like the Nubianslave of old. Youre in for it this time! Ill make youremember me forthe balance of your natural life. _(His forehead veins swollen,his facecongested)_ I shall sit on your ottoman saddleback every morningaftermy thumping good breakfast of Mattersons fat hamrashers and a bottleofGuinnesss porter. _(He belches)_ And suck my thumping good StockExchange cigarwhile I read the _Licensed Victuallers Gazette_. Verypossibly I shall have youslaughtered and skewered in my stables andenjoy a slice of you with crispcrackling from the baking tin bastedand baked like sucking pig with rice andlemon or currant sauce. It willhurt you. _(He twists her arm. Bloom squeals,turning turtle.)_BLOOM: Dont be cruel, nurse! Dont!BELLO: _(Twisting)_ Another!BLOOM: _(Screams)_ O, its hell itself! Everynerve in my body acheslike mad!BELLO: _(Shouts)_ Good, by the rumpingjumping general! Thats the bestbit of news I heard these six weeks. Here,dont keep me waiting, damnyou! _(He slaps her face)_BLOOM: _(Whimpers)_ Youre after hitting me.Ill tell...BELLO: Hold him down, girls, till I squat onhim.ZOE: Yes. Walk on him! I will.FLORRY: I will. Dont be greedy.KITTY: No, me. Lend him to me._(The brothel cook, mrs keogh, wrinkled,greybearded, in a greasy bib,mens grey and green socks and brogues,floursmeared, a rollingpin stuckwith raw pastry in her bare red arm and hand,appears at the door.)_MRS KEOGH: _(Ferociously)_ Can I help? _(Theyhold and pinion Bloom.)_BELLO: _(Squats with a grunt on Bloomsupturned face, puffingcigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg)_ I see Keating Clay iselectedvicechairman of the Richmond asylum and by the by Guinnessspreferenceshares are at sixteen three quaffers. Curse me for a fool thatdidntbuy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about. Just my infernal luck,curseit. And that Goddamned outsider _Throwaway_ at twenty to one._(He quenches hiscigar angrily on Blooms ear)_ Wheres that Goddamnedcursed ashtray?BLOOM: _(Goaded, buttocksmothered)_ O! O!Monsters! Cruel one!BELLO: Ask for that every ten minutes. Beg.Pray for it as you neverprayed before. _(He thrusts out a figged fist and foulcigar)_ Here,kiss that. Both. Kiss. _(He throws a leg astride and, pressingwithhorsemans knees, calls in a hard voice)_ Gee up! A cockhorse toBanburycross. Ill ride him for the Eclipse stakes. _(He bends sidewaysandsqueezes his mounts testicles roughly, shouting)_ Ho! Off we pop! Illnurseyou in proper fashion. _(He horserides cockhorse, leaping in thesaddle)_ Thelady goes a pace a pace and the coachman goes a trot a trotand the gentlemangoes a gallop a gallop a gallop a gallop.FLORRY: _(Pulls at Bello)_ Let me on him now.You had enough. I askedbefore you.ZOE: _(Pulling at florry)_ Me. Me. Are younot finished with him yet,suckeress?BLOOM: _(Stifling)_ Cant.BELLO: Well, Im not. Wait. _(He holds in hisbreath)_ Curse it. Here.This bungs about burst. _(He uncorks himself behind:then, contortinghis features, farts loudly)_ Take that! _(He recorks himself)_Yes, byJingo, sixteen three quarters.BLOOM: _(A sweat breaking out over him)_ Notman. _(He sniffs)_ Woman.BELLO: _(Stands up)_ No more blow hot andcold. What you longed for hascome to pass. Henceforth you are unmanned and minein earnest, a thingunder the yoke. Now for your punishment frock. You will shedyour malegarments, you understand, Ruby Cohen? and don the shot silkluxuriouslyrustling over head and shoulders. And quickly too!BLOOM: _(Shrinks)_ Silk, mistress said! Ocrinkly! scrapy! Must Itiptouch it with my nails?BELLO: _(Points to his whores)_ As they arenow so will you be, wigged,singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, withsmoothshaven armpits. Tapemeasurements will be taken next your skin. You willbe laced with cruelforce into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille withwhalebone busk tothe diamondtrimmed pelvis, the absolute outside edge, whileyour figure,plumper than when at large, will be restrained in nettightfrocks,pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things stamped, ofcourse,with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for Alice and nicescentfor Alice. Alice will feel the pullpull. Martha and Mary will bea little chillyat first in such delicate thighcasing but the frillyflimsiness of lace roundyour bare knees will remind you...BLOOM: _(A charming soubrette with daubycheeks, mustard hair and largemale hands and nose, leering mouth)_ I tried herthings on only twice,a small prank, in Holles street. When we were hard up Iwashed them tosave the laundry bill. My own shirts I turned. It was the purestthrift.BELLO: _(Jeers)_ Little jobs that make motherpleased, eh? And showedoff coquettishly in your domino at the mirror behindclosedrawn blindsyour unskirted thighs and hegoats udders in various poses ofsurrender,eh? Ho! ho! I have to laugh! That secondhand black operatop shiftandshort trunkleg naughties all split up the stitches at her last rape thatMrsMiriam Dandrade sold you from the Shelbourne hotel, eh?BLOOM: Miriam. Black. Demimondaine.BELLO: _(Guffaws)_ Christ Almighty its tootickling, this! You werea nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgatehairs andlay swooning in the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about tobeviolated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M.P.,signor Laci Daremo, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the liftboy,Henri Fleuryof Gordon Bennett fame, Sheridan, the quadroon Croesus, thevarsity wetbob eightfrom old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundlandand Bobs, dowager duchess ofManorhamilton. _(He guffaws again)_ Christ,wouldnt it make a Siamese catlaugh?BLOOM: _(Her hands and features working)_ Itwas Gerald converted me tobe a true corsetlover when I was female impersonatorin the High Schoolplay _Vice Versa_. It was dear Gerald. He got that kink,fascinated bysisters stays. Now dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint andgilds hiseyelids. Cult of the beautiful.BELLO: _(With wicked glee)_ Beautiful! Giveus a breather! When youtook your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowyflounces, on thesmoothworn throne.BLOOM: Science. To compare the various joyswe each enjoy. _(Earnestly)_And really its better the position... becauseoften I used to wet...BELLO: _(Sternly)_ No insubordination! Thesawdust is there in thecorner for you. I gave you strict instructions, didntI? Do itstanding, sir! Ill teach you to behave like a jinkleman! If I catchatrace on your swaddles. Aha! By the ass of the Dorans youll find Imamartinet. The sins of your past are rising against you. Many. Hundreds.THE SINS OF THE PAST: _(In a medley ofvoices)_ He went through a formof clandestine marriage with at least one womanin the shadow of theBlack church. Unspeakable messages he telephoned mentallyto Miss Dunnat an address in DOlier street while he presented himselfindecently tothe instrument in the callbox. By word and deed he franklyencourageda nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in anunsanitaryouthouse attached to empty premises. In five public convenienceshewrote pencilled messages offering his nuptial partner to allstrongmemberedmales. And by the offensively smelling vitriol works didhe not pass night afternight by loving courting couples to see if andwhat and how much he could see? Didhe not lie in bed, the gross boar,gloating over a nauseous fragment of wellusedtoilet paper presented tohim by a nasty harlot, stimulated by gingerbread and apostal order?BELLO: _(Whistles loudly)_ Say! What was themost revolting piece ofobscenity in all your career of crime? Go the whole hog.Puke it out! Becandid for once._(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, leering,vanishing, gibbering,Booloohoom. Poldy Kock, Bootlaces a penny Cassidys hag,blindstripling, Larry Rhinoceros, the girl, the woman, the whore, theother,the...)_BLOOM: Dont ask me! Our mutual faith.Pleasants street. I only thoughtthe half of the... I swear on my sacred oath...BELLO: _(Peremptorily)_ Answer. Repugnantwretch! I insist on knowing.Tell me something to amuse me, smut or a bloodygood ghoststory or aline of poetry, quick, quick, quick! Where? How? What time?With howmany? I give you just three seconds. One! Two! Thr...BLOOM: _(Docile, gurgles)_ I rererepugnosedin rerererepugnantBELLO: _(Imperiously)_ O, get out, you skunk!Hold your tongue! Speakwhen youre spoken to.BLOOM: _(Bows)_ Master! Mistress! Mantamer!_(He lifts his arms. His bangle braceletsfill.)_BELLO: _(Satirically)_ By day you will souseand bat our smellingunderclothes also when we ladies are unwell, and swab outour latrineswith dress pinned up and a dishclout tied to your tail. Wont thatbenice? _(He places a ruby ring on her finger)_ And there now! With thisring Ithee own. Say, thank you, mistress.BLOOM: Thank you, mistress.BELLO: You will make the beds, get my tubready, empty the pisspots inthe different rooms, including old Mrs Keoghs thecooks, a sandy one.Ay, and rinse the seven of them well, mind, or lap it uplike champagne.Drink me piping hot. Hop! You will dance attendance or Ill lectureyouon your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and spank your bare bot right well, miss,withthe hairbrush. Youll be taught the error of your ways. At nightyourwellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton glovesnewpowdered withtalc and having delicately scented fingertips. For suchfavours knights of oldlaid down their lives. _(He chuckles)_ My boyswill be no end charmed to see youso ladylike, the colonel, aboveall, when they come here the night before thewedding to fondle my newattraction in gilded heels. First Ill have a go at youmyself. A man Iknow on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh (I was in bed withhim justnow and another gentleman out of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office) isonthe lookout for a maid of all work at a short knock. Swell the bust.Smile.Droop shoulders. What offers? _(He points)_ For that lot. Trainedby owner tofetch and carry, basket in mouth. _(He bares his arm andplunges it elbowdeep inBlooms vulva)_ Theres fine depth for you!What, boys? That give you a hardon?_(He shoves his arm in a biddersface)_ Here wet the deck and wipe it round!A BIDDER: A florin._(Dillons lacquey rings his handbell.)_THE LACQUEY: Barang!A VOICE: One and eightpence too much.CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: Must be virgin. Goodbreath. Clean.BELLO: _(Gives a rap with his gavel)_ Twobar. Rockbottom figure andcheap at the price. Fourteen hands high. Touch andexamine his points.Handle him. This downy skin, these soft muscles, this tenderflesh. IfI had only my gold piercer here! And quite easy to milk. Threenewlaidgallons a day. A pure stockgetter, due to lay within the hour. Hissiresmilk record was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks.Whoa my jewel!Beg up! Whoa! _(He brands his initial C on Bloomscroup)_ So! Warranted Cohen!What advance on two bob, gentlemen?A DARKVISAGED MAN: _(In disguised accent)_Hoondert punt sterlink.VOICES: _(Subdued)_ For the Caliph. Haroun AlRaschid.BELLO: _(Gaily)_ Right. Let them all come.The scanty, daringly shortskirt, riding up at the knee to show a peep of whitepantalette, is apotent weapon and transparent stockings, emeraldgartered, withthelong straight seam trailing up beyond the knee, appeal to thebetterinstincts of the _blas√©_ man about town. Learn the smooth mincing walkonfour inch Louis Quinze heels, the Grecian bend with provoking croup,the thighsfluescent, knees modestly kissing. Bring all your powers offascination to bearon them. Pander to their Gomorrahan vices.BLOOM: _(Bends his blushing face into hisarmpit and simpers withforefinger in mouth)_ O, I know what youre hinting atnow!BELLO: What else are you good for, animpotent thing like you? _(Hestoops and, peering, pokes with his fan rudelyunder the fat suet foldsof Blooms haunches)_ Up! Up! Manx cat! What have wehere? Wheres yourcurly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, cockyolly?Sing, birdy,sing. Its as limp as a boy of sixs doing his pooly behind a cart.Buya bucket or sell your pump. _(Loudly)_ Can you do a mans job?BLOOM: Eccles street...BELLO: _(Sarcastically)_ I wouldnt hurt yourfeelings for the world buttheres a man of brawn in possession there. Thetables are turned, mygay young fellow! He is something like a fullgrown outdoorman. Well foryou, you muff, if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and wartsallover it. He shot his bolt, I can tell you! Foot to foot, knee to knee,bellyto belly, bubs to breast! Hes no eunuch. A shock of red hair hehas stickingout of him behind like a furzebush! Wait for nine months,my lad! Holy ginger,its kicking and coughing up and down in her gutsalready! That makes you wild,dont it? Touches the spot? _(He spits incontempt)_ Spittoon!BLOOM: I was indecently treated, I... Informthe police. Hundredpounds. Unmentionable. I...BELLO: Would if you could, lame duck. A downpourwe want not yourdrizzle.BLOOM: To drive me mad! Moll! I forgot!Forgive! Moll... We... Still...BELLO: _(Ruthlessly)_ No, Leopold Bloom, allis changed by womans willsince you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow yournight of twenty years.Return and see._(Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the wold.)_SLEEPY HOLLOW: Rip van Wink! Rip van Winkle!BLOOM: _(In tattered mocassins with a rustyfowlingpiece, tiptoeing,fingertipping, his haggard bony bearded face peeringthrough the diamondpanes, cries out)_ I see her! Its she! The first night atMat Dillons!But that dress, the green! And her hair is dyed gold and he...BELLO: _(Laughs mockingly)_ Thats yourdaughter, you owl, with aMullingar student._(Milly Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested,slimsandalled, her blue scarfin the seawind simply swirling, breaks from thearms of her lover andcalls, her young eyes wonderwide.)_MILLY: My! Its Papli! But, O Papli, how oldyouve grown!BELLO: Changed, eh? Our whatnot, ourwritingtable where we never wrote,aunt Hegartys armchair, our classic reprintsof old masters. A man andhis menfriends are living there in clover. The_Cuckoos Rest!_ Why not?How many women had you, eh, following them up darkstreets, flatfoot,exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you maleprostitute?Blameless dames with parcels of groceries. Turn about. Sauce forthegoose, my gander O.BLOOM: They... I...BELLO: _(Cuttingly)_ Their heelmarks willstamp the Brusselette carpetyou bought at Wrens auction. In their horseplaywith Moll the romp tofind the buck flea in her breeches they will deface thelittle statueyou carried home in the rain for art for art sake. They willviolatethe secrets of your bottom drawer. Pages will be torn from yourhandbookof astronomy to make them pipespills. And they will spit in yourtenshilling brass fender from Hampton Leedoms.BLOOM: Ten and six. The act of lowscoundrels. Let me go. I will return.I will prove...A VOICE: Swear!_(Bloom clenches his fists and crawlsforward, a bowieknife between histeeth.)_BELLO: As a paying guest or a kept man? Toolate. You have made yoursecondbest bed and others must lie in it. Your epitaphis written. Youare down and out and dont you forget it, old bean.BLOOM: Justice! All Ireland versus one! Hasnobody...? _(He bites histhumb)_BELLO: Die and be damned to you if you haveany sense of decencyor grace about you. I can give you a rare old wine thatllsend youskipping to hell and back. Sign a will and leave us any coin youhave!If you have none see you damn well get it, steal it, rob it! Well buryyouin our shrubbery jakes where youll be dead and dirty with old CuckCohen, mystepnephew I married, the bloody old gouty procurator andsodomite with a crickin his neck, and my other ten or eleven husbands,whatever the buggers nameswere, suffocated in the one cesspool. _(Heexplodes in a loud phlegmy laugh)_Well manure you, Mr Flower! _(Hepipes scoffingly)_ Byby, Poldy! Byby, Papli!BLOOM: _(Clasps his head)_ My willpower!Memory! I have sinned! I havesuff..._(He weeps tearlessly)_BELLO: _(Sneers)_ Crybabby! Crocodile tears!_(Bloom, broken, closely veiled for thesacrifice, sobs, his face tothe earth. The passing bell is heard. Darkshawledfigures of thecircumcised, in sackcloth and ashes, stand by the wailing wall.M.Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M.Moisel, J.Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Reverend LeopoldAbramovitz, Chazen.With swaying arms they wail in pneuma over therecreant Bloom.)_THE CIRCUMCISED: _(In dark guttural chant asthey cast dead sea fruitupon him, no flowers) Shema Israel Adonai ElohenuAdonai Echad._VOICES: _(Sighing)_ So hes gone. Ah yes.Yes, indeed. Bloom? Neverheard of him. No? Queer kind of chap. Theres thewidow. That so? Ah,yes._(From the suttee pyre the flame of gumcamphire ascends. The pall ofincense smoke screens and disperses. Out of heroakframe a nymph withhair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours,descends from hergrotto and passing under interlacing yews stands over Bloom.)_THE YEWS: _(Their leaves whispering)_ Sister.Our sister. Ssh!THE NYMPH: _(Softly)_ Mortal! _(Kindly)_ Nay,dost not weepest!BLOOM: _(Crawls jellily forward under theboughs, streaked by sunlight,with dignity)_ This position. I felt it wasexpected of me. Force ofhabit.THE NYMPH: Mortal! You found me in evilcompany, highkickers, costerpicnicmakers, pugilists, popular generals, immoralpanto boys infleshtights and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Aurora and Karini,musicalact, the hit of the century. I was hidden in cheap pink paper thatsmeltof rock oil. I was surrounded by the stale smut of clubmen, storiestodisturb callow youth, ads for transparencies, truedup dice andbustpads,proprietary articles and why wear a truss with testimonial fromrupturedgentleman. Useful hints to the married.BLOOM: _(Lifts a turtle head towards herlap)_ We have met before. Onanother star.THE NYMPH: _(Sadly)_ Rubber goods. Neverripbrand as supplied to thearistocracy. Corsets for men. I cure fits or moneyrefunded. Unsolicitedtestimonials for Professor Waldmanns wonderful chestexuber. My bustdeveloped four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublinwith photo.BLOOM: You mean _Photo Bits?_THE NYMPH: I do. You bore me away, framed mein oak and tinsel, set meabove your marriage couch. Unseen, one summer eve, youkissed me infour places. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosomand myshame.BLOOM: _(Humbly kisses her long hair)_ Yourclassic curves, beautifulimmortal, I was glad to look on you, to praise you, athing of beauty,almost to pray.THE NYMPH: During dark nights I heard yourpraise.BLOOM: _(Quickly)_ Yes, yes. You mean thatI... Sleep reveals the worstside of everyone, children perhaps excepted. I knowI fell out of bedor rather was pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. Forthe restthere is that English invention, pamphlet of which I received somedaysago, incorrectly addressed. It claims to afford a noiseless,inoffensivevent. _(He sighs)_ Twas ever thus. Frailty, thy name is marriage.THE NYMPH: _(Her fingers in her ears)_ Andwords. They are not in mydictionary.BLOOM: You understood them?THE YEWS: Ssh!THE NYMPH: _(Covers her face with her hands)_What have I not seen inthat chamber? What must my eyes look down on?BLOOM: _(Apologetically)_ I know. Soiledpersonal linen, wrong side upwith care. The quoits are loose. From Gibraltar bylong sea long ago.THE NYMPH: _(Bends her head)_ Worse, worse!BLOOM: _(Reflects precautiously)_ Thatantiquated commode. It wasnt herweight. She scaled just eleven stone nine. Sheput on nine poundsafter weaning. It was a crack and want of glue. Eh? And thatabsurdorangekeyed utensil which has only one handle._(The sound of a waterfall is heard in brightcascade.)_THE WATERFALL:  PoulaphoucaPoulaphouca  Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.THE YEWS: _(Mingling their boughs)_ Listen.Whisper. She is right, oursister. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. We gaveshade on languoroussummer days.JOHN WYSE NOLAN: _(In the background, inIrish National Forestersuniform, doffs his plumed hat)_ Prosper! Give shade onlanguorous days,trees of Ireland!THE YEWS: _(Murmuring)_ Who came toPoulaphouca with the High Schoolexcursion? Who left his nutquesting classmatesto seek our shade?BLOOM: _(Scared)_ High School of Poula?Mnemo? Not in full possession offaculties. Concussion. Run over by tram.THE ECHO: Sham!BLOOM: _(Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered,padded, in nondescriptjuvenile grey and black striped suit, too small for him,white tennisshoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a red schoolcapwithbadge)_ I was in my teens, a growing boy. A little then sufficed, ajoltingcar, the mingling odours of the ladies cloakroom and lavatory,the throngpenned tight on the old Royal stairs (for they love crushes,instinct of theherd, and the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridlesvice), even a pricelist oftheir hosiery. And then the heat. There weresunspots that summer. End ofschool. And tipsycake. Halcyon days._(Halcyon days, high school boys in blue andwhite football jerseys andshorts, Master Donald Turnbull, Master AbrahamChatterton, Master OwenGoldberg, Master Jack Meredith, Master Percy Apjohn,stand in a clearingof the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)_THE HALCYON DAYS: Mackerel! Live us again.Hurray! _(They cheer)_BLOOM: _(Hobbledehoy, warmgloved,mammamufflered, starred with spentsnowballs, struggles to rise)_ Again! I feelsixteen! What a lark! Letsring all the bells in Montague street. _(He cheersfeebly)_ Hurray forthe High School!THE ECHO: Fool!THE YEWS: _(Rustling)_ She is right, oursister. Whisper. _(Whisperedkisses are heard in all the wood. Faces ofhamadryads peep out fromthe boles and among the leaves and break, blossominginto bloom.)_ Whoprofaned our silent shade?THE NYMPH: _(Coyly, through parting fingers)_There? In the open air?THE YEWS: _(Sweeping downward)_ Sister, yes.And on our virgin sward.THE WATERFALL:  PoulaphoucaPoulaphouca  Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.THE NYMPH: _(With wide fingers)_ O, infamy!BLOOM: I was precocious. Youth. The fauna. Isacrificed to the god ofthe forest. The flowers that bloom in the spring. Itwas pairingtime. Capillary attraction is a natural phenomenon. LottyClarke,flaxenhaired, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtainswithpoor papas operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. She rolleddownhill atRialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits.She climbed theircrooked tree and I... A saint couldnt resist it. Thedemon possessed me.Besides, who saw?_(Staggering Bob, a whitepolled calf, thrustsa ruminating head withhumid nostrils through the foliage.)_STAGGERING BOB: (LARGE TEARDROPS ROLLING FROMHIS PROMINENT EYES,SNIVELS) Me. Me see.BLOOM: Simply satisfying a need I... _(Withpathos)_ No girl would whenI went girling. Too ugly. They wouldnt play..._(High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons anannygoat passes,plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.)_THE NANNYGOAT: _(Bleats)_ Megeggaggegg!Nannannanny!BLOOM: _(Hatless, flushed, covered with burrsof thistledown andgorsespine)_ Regularly engaged. Circumstances alter cases._(He gazesintently downwards on the water)_ Thirtytwo head over heels persecond.Press nightmare. Giddy Elijah. Fall from cliff. Sad end ofgovernmentprinters clerk. _(Through silversilent summer air the dummy ofBloom,rolled in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the Lions Head cliff intothepurple waiting waters.)_THE DUMMYMUMMY: Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg!_(Far out in the bay between bailey and kishlights the_ Erins King_sails, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from herfunnel towardsthe land.)_COUNCILLOR NANNETII: _(Alone on deck, in darkalpaca, yellowkitefaced,his hand in his waistcoat opening, declaims)_ When mycountry takes herplace among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then,let myepitaph be written. I have...BLOOM: Done. Prff!THE NYMPH: _(Loftily)_ We immortals, as yousaw today, have not sucha place and no hair there either. We are stonecold andpure. We eatelectric light. _(She arches her body in lascivious crispation,placingher forefinger in her mouth)_ Spoke to me. Heard from behind. Howthencould you...?BLOOM: _(Pawing the heather abjectly)_ O, Ihave been a perfect pig.Enemas too I have administered. One third of a pint ofquassia to whichadd a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Up the fundament. WithHamilton Longssyringe, the ladies friend.THE NYMPH: In my presence. The powderpuff._(She blushes and makes aknee)_ And the rest!BLOOM: _(Dejected)_ Yes. _Peccavi!_ I havepaid homage on that livingaltar where the back changes name. _(With suddenfervour)_ For whyshould the dainty scented jewelled hand, the hand thatrules...?_(Figures wind serpenting in slow woodlandpattern around the treestems,cooeeing)_THE VOICE OF KITTY: _(In the thicket)_ Showus one of them cushions.THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Here._(A grouse wings clumsily through theunderwood.)_THE VOICE OF LYNCH: _(In the thicket)_ Whew!Piping hot!THE VOICE OF ZOE: _(From the thicket)_ Camefrom a hot place.THE VOICE OF VIRAG: _(A birdchief,bluestreaked and feathered in warpanoply with his assegai, striding through acrackling canebrake overbeechmast and acorns)_ Hot! Hot! Ware Sitting Bull!BLOOM: It overpowers me. The warm impress ofher warm form. Even to sitwhere a woman has sat, especially with divaricatedthighs, as though togrant the last favours, most especially with previouslywell upliftedwhite sateen coatpans. So womanly, full. It fills me full.THE WATERFALL:  _PhillaphullaPoulaphouca  Poulaphouca Poulaphouca._THE YEWS: Ssh! Sister, speak!THE NYMPH: _(Eyeless, in nuns white habit,coif and hugewinged wimple,softly, with remote eyes)_ Tranquilla convent.Sister Agatha. MountCarmel. The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. No moredesire. _(Shereclines her head, sighing)_ Only the ethereal. Where dreamy creamygullwaves oer the waters dull._(Bloom half rises. His back trouserbuttonsnaps.)_THE BUTTON: Bip!_(Two sluts of the coombe dance rainily by,shawled, yelling flatly.)_THE SLUTS:  O, Leopold lost thepin of his drawers  He didnt know what todo,  To keep it up,  To keep itup.BLOOM: _(Coldly)_ You have broken the spell.The last straw. If therewere only ethereal where would you all be, postulantsand novices? Shybut willing like an ass pissing.THE YEWS: _(Their silverfoil of leavesprecipitating, their skinny armsaging and swaying)_ Deciduously!THE NYMPH: _(Her features hardening, gropesin the folds of her habit)_Sacrilege! To attempt my virtue! _(A large moiststain appears on herrobe)_ Sully my innocence! You are not fit to touch thegarment of apure woman. _(She clutches again in her robe)_ Wait. Satan, youllsingno more lovesongs. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. _(She draws a poniard and,cladin the sheathmail of an elected knight of nine, strikes at hisloins)_ Nekum!BLOOM: _(Starts up, seizes her hand)_ Hoy!Nebrakada! Cat o nine lives!Fair play, madam. No pruningknife. The fox and thegrapes, is it? Whatdo you lack with your barbed wire? Crucifix not thickenough? _(Heclutches her veil)_ A holy abbot you want or Brophy, the lamegardener,or the spoutless statue of the watercarrier, or good motherAlphonsus,eh Reynard?THE NYMPH: _(With a cry flees from himunveiled, her plaster castcracking, a cloud of stench escaping from thecracks)_ Poli...!BLOOM: _(Calls after her)_ As if you didntget it on the doubleyourselves. No jerks and multiple mucosities all over you.I tried it.Your strength our weakness. Whats our studfee? What will you payonthe nail? You fee mendancers on the Riviera, I read. _(The fleeing nymphraisesa keen)_ Eh? I have sixteen years of black slave labour behindme. And would ajury give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh? Foolsomeone else, not me._(He sniffs)_ Rut. Onions. Stale. Sulphur. Grease._(The figure of Bella Cohen stands beforehim.)_BELLA: Youll know me the next time.BLOOM: _(Composed, regards her) Pass√©e._Mutton dressed as lamb. Longin the tooth and superfluous hair. A raw onion thelast thing at nightwould benefit your complexion. And take some double chindrill. Youreyes are as vapid as the glasseyes of your stuffed fox. They havethedimensions of your other features, thats all. Im not a triplescrewpropeller.BELLA: _(Contemptuously)_ Youre not game, infact. _(Her sowcuntbarks)_ Fbhracht!BLOOM: _(Contemptuously)_ Clean your naillessmiddle finger first, yourbullys cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb.Take a handful ofhay and wipe yourself.BELLA: I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!BLOOM: I saw him, kipkeeper! Pox and gleetvendor!BELLA: _(Turns to the piano)_ Which of youwas playing the dead marchfrom _Saul?_ZOE: Me. Mind your cornflowers. _(She dartsto the piano and bangschords on it with crossed arms)_ The cats ramble throughthe slag._(She glances back)_ Eh? Whos making love to my sweeties? _(She dartsbackto the table)_ Whats yours is mine and whats mine is my own._(Kitty, disconcerted, coats her teeth withthe silver paper. Bloomapproaches Zoe.)_BLOOM: _(Gently)_ Give me back that potato,will you?ZOE: Forfeits, a fine thing and a superfinething.BLOOM: _(With feeling)_ It is nothing, butstill, a relic of poor mamma.ZOE:  Give a thing andtake it back  Godll ask you where isthat  Youll say you dont know Godll send you down below.BLOOM: There is a memory attached to it. I shouldlike to have it.STEPHEN: To have or not to have that is thequestion.ZOE: Here. _(She hauls up a reef of her slip,revealing her bare thigh,and unrolls the potato from the top of her stocking)_Those that hidesknows where to find.BELLA: _(Frowns)_ Here. This isnt a musicalpeepshow. And dont yousmash that piano. Whos paying here?_(She goes to the pianola. Stephen fumbles inhis pocket and, taking outa banknote by its corner, hands it to her.)_STEPHEN: _(With exaggerated politeness)_ Thissilken purse I made outof the sows ear of the public. Madam, excuse me. If youallow me. _(Heindicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom)_ We are all in the samesweepstake,Kinch and Lynch. _Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre √©tat_.LYNCH: _(Calls from the hearth)_ Dedalus!Give her your blessing for me.STEPHEN: _(Hands Bella a coin)_ Gold. She hasit.BELLA: _(Looks at the money, then at Stephen,then at Zoe, Florry andKitty)_ Do you want three girls? Its ten shillingshere.STEPHEN: _(Delightedly)_ A hundred thousandapologies. _(He fumblesagain and takes out and hands her two crowns)_ Permit,_brevi manu_, mysight is somewhat troubled._(Bella goes to the table to count the moneywhile Stephen talks tohimself in monosyllables. Zoe bends over the table. Kittyleans overZoes neck. Lynch gets up, rights his cap and, clasping Kittyswaist,adds his head to the group.)_FLORRY: _(Strives heavily to rise)_ Ow! Myfoots asleep. _(She limpsover to the table. Bloom approaches.)_BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: _(Chatteringand squabbling)_ Thegentleman... ten shillings... paying for the three... allowme amoment... this gentleman pays separate... whos touching it?... ow!... mindwho youre pinching... are you staying the night or a shorttime?... who did?...youre a liar, excuse me... the gentleman paiddown like a gentleman... drink...its long after eleven.STEPHEN: _(At the pianola, making a gestureof abhorrence)_ No bottles!What, eleven? A riddle!ZOE: _(Lifting up her pettigown and folding ahalf sovereign into thetop of her stocking)_ Hard earned on the flat of myback.LYNCH: _(Lifting Kitty from the table)_ Come!KITTY: Wait. _(She clutches the two crowns)_FLORRY: And me?LYNCH: Hoopla! _(He lifts her, carries herand bumps her down on thesofa.)_STEPHEN:   The fox crew, thecocks flew,  The bells in heaven Were striking eleven.  Tis time for her poorsoul  To get out of heaven.BLOOM: _(Quietly lays a half sovereign on thetable between bella andflorry)_ So. Allow me. _(He takes up the poundnote)_Three times ten.Were square.BELLA: _(Admiringly)_ Youre such a slyboots,old cocky. I could kissyou.ZOE: _(Points)_ Him? Deep as a drawwell._(Lynch bends Kitty back overthe sofa and kisses her. Bloom goes with thepoundnote to Stephen.)_BLOOM: This is yours.STEPHEN: How is that? _Les distrait_ orabsentminded beggar. _(Hefumbles again in his pocket and draws out a handful ofcoins. An objectfills.)_ That fell.BLOOM: _(Stooping, picks up and hands a boxof matches)_ This.STEPHEN: Lucifer. Thanks.BLOOM: _(Quietly)_ You had better hand overthat cash to me to take careof. Why pay more?STEPHEN: _(Hands him all his coins)_ Be justbefore you are generous.BLOOM: I will but is it wise? _(He counts)_One, seven, eleven, andfive. Six. Eleven. I dont answer for what you may havelost.STEPHEN: Why striking eleven? Proparoxyton.Moment before the nextLessing says. Thirsty fox. _(He laughs loudly)_ Buryinghis grandmother.Probably he killed her.BLOOM: That is one pound six and eleven. Onepound seven, say.STEPHEN: Doesnt matter a rambling damn.BLOOM: No, but...STEPHEN: _(Comes to thetable)_ Cigarette, please. _(Lynch tosses acigarette from the sofa to thetable)_ And so Georgina Johnson is deadand married. _(A cigarette appears onthe table. Stephen looks at it)_Wonder. Parlour magic. Married. Hm. _(Hestrikes a match and proceeds tolight the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy)_LYNCH: _(Watching him)_ You would have abetter chance of lighting it ifyou held the match nearer.STEPHEN: _(Brings the match near his eye)_Lynx eye. Must get glasses.Broke them yesterday. Sixteen years ago. Distance.The eye sees allflat. _(He draws the match away. It goes out.)_ Brain thinks.Near:far. Ineluctable modality of the visible. _(He frowns mysteriously)_ Hm.Sphinx.The beast that has twobacks at midnight. Married.ZOE: It was a commercial traveller marriedher and took her away withhim.FLORRY: _(Nods)_ Mr Lambe from London.STEPHEN: Lamb of London, who takest away thesins of our world.LYNCH: _(Embracing Kitty on the sofa, chantsdeeply) Dona nobis pacem.__(The cigarette slips from Stephen sfingers. Bloom picks it up andthrows it in the grate.)_BLOOM: Dont smoke. You ought to eat. Curseddog I met. _(To Zoe)_ Youhave nothing?ZOE: Is he hungry?STEPHEN: _(Extends his hand to her smilingand chants to the air of thebloodoath in the_ Dusk of the Gods)  HangendeHunger,  Fragende Frau,  Machtuns alle kaputt.ZOE: _(Tragically)_ Hamlet, I am thy fathersgimlet! _(She takeshis hand)_ Blue eyes beauty Ill read your hand. _(Shepoints to hisforehead)_ No wit, no wrinkles. _(She counts)_ Two, three, Mars,thatscourage. _(Stephen shakes his head)_ No kid.LYNCH: Sheet lightning courage. The youth whocould not shiver andshake. _(To Zoe)_ Who taught you palmistry?ZOE: _(Turns)_ Ask my ballocks that I haventgot. _(To Stephen)_ I seeit in your face. The eye, like that. _(She frowns withlowered head)_LYNCH: _(Laughing, slaps Kitty behind twice)_Like that. Pandybat._(Twice loudly a pandybat cracks, the coffinof the pianola flies open,the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of FatherDolan springs up.)_FATHER DOLAN: Any boy want flogging? Brokehis glasses? Lazy idle littleschemer. See it in your eye._(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, thehead of Don John Conmee risesfrom the pianola coffin.)_DON JOHN CONMEE: Now, Father Dolan! Now. Imsure that Stephen is a verygood little boy!ZOE: _(Examining Stephens palm)_ Womanshand.STEPHEN: _(Murmurs)_ Continue. Lie. Hold me.Caress. I never could readHis handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on thehaddock.ZOE: What day were you born?STEPHEN: Thursday. Today.ZOE: Thursdays child has far to go. _(Shetraces lines on his hand)_Line of fate. Influential friends.FLORRY: _(Pointing)_ Imagination.ZOE: Mount of the moon. Youll meet with a..._(She peers at his handsabruptly)_ I wont tell you whats not good for you. Ordo you want toknow?BLOOM: _(Detaches her fingers and offers hispalm)_ More harm than good.Here. Read mine.BELLA: Show. _(She turns up blooms hand)_ Ithought so. Knobby knucklesfor the women.ZOE: _(Peering at blooms palm)_ Gridiron.Travels beyond the sea andmarry money.BLOOM: Wrong.ZOE: _(Quickly)_ O, I see. Short littlefinger. Henpecked husband. Thatwrong?_(Black Liz, a huge rooster hatching in achalked circle, rises,stretches her wings and clucks.)_BLACK LIZ: Gara. Klook. Klook. Klook._(She sidles from her newlaid egg and waddlesoff)_BLOOM: _(Points to his hand)_ That weal thereis an accident. Fell andcut it twentytwo years ago. I was sixteen.ZOE: I see, says the blind man. Tell us news.STEPHEN: See? Moves to one great goal. I amtwentytwo. Sixteen years agohe was twentytwo too. Sixteen years ago I twentytwotumbled. Twentytwoyears ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse. _(He winces)_Hurt my handsomewhere. Must see a dentist. Money?_(Zoe whispers to Florry. They giggle. Bloomreleases his hand andwrites idly on the table in backhand, pencilling slowcurves.)_FLORRY: What?_(A hackneycar, number three hundred andtwentyfour, with agallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, HarmonyAvenue,Donnybrook, trots past. Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying onthesideseats. The Ormond boots crouches behind on the axle. Sadly overthecrossblind Lydia Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze.)_THE BOOTS: _(Jogging, mocks them with thumband wriggling wormfingers)_Haw haw have you the horn?_(Bronze by gold they whisper.)_ZOE: _(To Florry)_ Whisper._(They whisper again)__(Over the well of the car Blazes Boylan leans,his boater straw setsideways, a red flower in his mouth. Lenehan in yachtsmanscap andwhite shoes officiously detaches a long hair from Blazes Boylanscoatshoulder.)_LENEHAN: Ho! What do I here behold? Were youbrushing the cobwebs off afew quims?BOYLAN: _(Seated, smiles)_ Plucking a turkey.LENEHAN: A good nights work.BOYLAN: _(Holding up four thickbluntungulated fingers, winks)_ BlazesKate! Up to sample or your money back._(He holds out a forefinger)_Smell that.LENEHAN: _(Smells gleefully)_ Ah! Lobster andmayonnaise. Ah!ZOE AND FLORRY: _(Laugh together)_ Ha ha haha.BOYLAN: _(Jumps surely from the car and callsloudly for all to hear)_Hello, Bloom! Mrs Bloom dressed yet?BLOOM: _(In flunkeys prune plush coat andkneebreeches, buff stockingsand powdered wig)_ Im afraid not, sir. The lastarticles...BOYLAN: _(Tosses him sixpence)_ Here, to buyyourself a gin and splash._(He hangs his hat smartly on a peg of Bloomsantlered head)_ Show mein. I have a little private business with your wife, youunderstand?BLOOM: Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. Madam Tweedyis in her bath, sir.MARION: He ought to feel himself highlyhonoured. _(She plops splashingout of the water)_ Raoul darling, come and dryme. Im in my pelt. Onlymy new hat and a carriage sponge.BOYLAN: _(A merry twinkle in his eye)_Topping!BELLA: What? What is it?_(Zoe whispers to her.)_MARION: Let him look, the pishogue! Pimp! Andscourge himself! Illwrite to a powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, thebearded woman, toraise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring meback a signedand stamped receipt.BOYLAN: (clasps himself) Here, I cant holdthis little lot much longer.(he strides off on stiff cavalry legs)BELLA: _(Laughing)_ Ho ho ho ho.BOYLAN: _(To Bloom, over his shoulder)_ Youcan apply your eye to thekeyhole and play with yourself while I just go throughher a few times.BLOOM: Thank you, sir. I will, sir. May Ibring two men chums to witnessthe deed and take a snapshot? _(He holds out anointment jar)_ Vaseline,sir? Orangeflower...? Lukewarm water...?KITTY: _(From the sofa)_ Tell us, Florry.Tell us. What._(Florry whispers to her. Whisperinglovewords murmur, liplappingloudly, poppysmic plopslop.)_MINA KENNEDY: _(Her eyes upturned)_ O, itmust be like the scent ofgeraniums and lovely peaches! O, he simply idolisesevery bit of her!Stuck together! Covered with kisses!LYDIA DOUCE: _(Her mouth opening)_ Yumyum. O,hes carrying her roundthe room doing it! Ride a cockhorse. You could hear themin Paris andNew York. Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream.KITTY: _(Laughing)_ Hee hee hee.BOYLANS VOICE: _(Sweetly, hoarsely, in thepit of his stomach)_ Ah!Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht!MARIONS VOICE: _(Hoarsely, sweetly, risingto her throat)_ O!Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck?BLOOM: _(His eyes wildly dilated, claspshimself)_ Show! Hide! Show!Plough her! More! Shoot!BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Ho ho! Ha ha! Heehee!LYNCH: _(Points)_ The mirror up to nature._(He laughs)_ Hu hu hu hu hu!_(Stephen and Bloom gaze in the mirror. Theface of William Shakespeare,beardless, appears there, rigid in facialparalysis, crowned by thereflection of the reindeer antlered hatrack in thehall.)_SHAKESPEARE: _(In dignified ventriloquy)_Tis the loud laugh bespeaksthe vacant mind. _(To Bloom)_ Thou thoughtest ashow thou wastestinvisible. Gaze. _(He crows with a black capons laugh)_Iagogo! How myOldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. Iagogogo!BLOOM: _(Smiles yellowly at the threewhores)_ When will I hear thejoke?ZOE: Before youre twice married and once awidower.BLOOM: Lapses are condoned. Even the greatNapoleon when measurementswere taken next the skin after his death..._(Mrs Dignam, widow woman, her snubnose andcheeks flushed withdeathtalk, tears and Tunneys tawny sherry, hurries by inher weeds,her bonnet awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose,apen chivvying her brood of cygnets. Beneath her skirt appear her latehusbandseveryday trousers and turnedup boots, large eights. She holdsa Scottish widowsinsurance policy and a large marquee umbrella underwhich her brood run withher, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his collarloose, a hank of porksteaksdangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with acrying cods mouth, Alice strugglingwith the baby. She cuffs them on,her streamers flaunting aloft.)_FREDDY: Ah, ma, youre dragging me along!SUSY: Mamma, the beeftea is fizzing over!SHAKESPEARE: _(With paralytic rage)_ Wedaseca whokilla farst._(The face of Martin Cunningham, bearded,refeatures Shakespearesbeardless face. The marquee umbrella sways drunkenly,the children runaside. Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widowhat andkimono gown. She glides sidling and bowing, twirling japanesily.)_MRS CUNNINGHAM: _(Sings)_And they call me the jewel of Asia!MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: _(Gazes on her,impassive)_ Immense! Most bloodyawful demirep!STEPHEN: _Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti._Queens lay with prize bulls.Remember Pasiphae for whose lust mygrandoldgrossfather made the firstconfessionbox. Forget not Madam GrisselSteevens nor the suine scionsof the house of Lambert. And Noah was drunk withwine. And his ark wasopen.BELLA: None of that here. Come to the wrongshop.LYNCH: Let him alone. Hes back from Paris.ZOE: _(Runs to stephen and links him)_ O goon! Give us some parleyvoo._(Stephen claps hat on head and leaps over tothe fireplace where hestands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, apainted smileon his face.)_LYNCH: _(Oommelling on the sofa)_ Rmm Rmm RmmRrrrrrmmmm.STEPHEN: _(Gabbles with marionette jerks)_Thousand places ofentertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladiessaling glovesand other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfectfashionablehouse very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed muchaboutprincesses like are d