Public Domain Tales: Ulysses: Book Four is the one-hundred-and-eighteenth book in the Public Domain Tales series.
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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! Who’s 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 stars fade. 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._La cloche!_ 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 you the? Each, and for other,plash and silent roar.
Pearls: when she. Liszt’s rhapsodies. Hissss.
You don’t?
Did not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd. With a co*ck with a carra.
Black. Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.
Wait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while you hee.
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 a co*ck.
Pray for him! Pray, good people!
His gouty fingers nakkering.
Big Benaben. Big Benben.
Last rose Castile of summer left bloom I feel so 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 from afar? Where hoofs?
Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.
Then not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be pfrwritt.
Done.
Begin!
Bronze by gold, miss Douce’s head by miss Kennedy’s head, over thecrossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go 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 Douce’s wet lips said, laughing in thesun.
He’s 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:
—He’s killed looking back.
She laughed:
—O wept! Aren’t men frightful idiots?
With sadness.
Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hairbehind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined ahair. Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.
—It’s them has the fine times, sadly then she said.
A man.
Bloowho went by by Moulang’s pipes bearing in his breast the sweets ofsin, by Wine’s antiques, in memory bearing sweet sinful words, byCarroll’s dusky battered plate, for Raoul.
The boots to them, them in the bar, them barmaids came. For themunheeding him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china.And
—There’s your teas, he said.
Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to an upturnedlithia crate, safe from eyes, low.
—What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.
—Find out, miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.
—Your _beau,_ is it?
A haughty bronze replied:
—I’ll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I hear any more of yourimpertinent insolence.
—Imperthnthn thnthnthn, bootssnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated asshe threatened as he had come.
Bloom.
On her flower frowning miss Douce said:
—Most aggravating that young brat is. If he doesn’t conduct himselfI’ll 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 the teapot tea. They coweredunder their reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned,waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both of blacksatin, two and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two andseven.
Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar, heard steel from anear,hoofs ring from afar, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel.
—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 askance in the barmirrorgildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmered and in theirmidst a shell.
—And leave it to my hands, she said.
—Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy advised.
Bidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce
—Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked thatold fogey in Boyd’s for something for my skin.
Miss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced and prayed:
—O, don’t remind me of him for mercy’ sake!
—But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated.
Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two earswith little fingers.
—No, don’t, she cried.
—I won’t listen, she cried.
But Bloom?
Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey’s tone:
—For your what? says he.
Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but said, but prayedagain:
—Don’t let me think of him or I’ll expire. The hideous old wretch! Thatnight in the Antient Concert Rooms.
She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped, sweet tea.
—Here he was, miss Douce said, co*cking her bronze head three quarters,ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa!
Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy’s throat. Miss Doucehuffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like asnout in quest.
—O! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget his goggle eye?
Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting:
—And your other eye!
Bloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatner’s name. Why do I always thinkFigather? Gathering figs, I think. And Prosper Loré’s huguenot name. ByBassi’s blessed virgins Bloom’s dark eyes went by. Bluerobed, whiteunder, come to me. God they believe she is: or goddess. Those today. Icould not see. That fellow spoke. A student. After with Dedalus’ son.He might be Mulligan. All comely virgins. That brings those rakes offellows in: her white.
By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets.
Of sin.
In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedyyour other eye. They threw young heads back, bronze gigglegold, to letfreefly their laughter, screaming, your other, signals to each 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, ruffled again hernose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping, herfair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed,spluttered out of her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter,coughing with choking, crying:
—O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that! she cried.With his bit of beard!
Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of full woman,delight, joy, indignation.
—Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.
Shrill, with deep laughter, after, gold after bronze, 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, braided andpinnacled by glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!),panting, sweating (O!), all breathless.
Married to Bloom, to greaseabloom.
—O saints above! miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. Iwished I hadn’t laughed so much. I feel all wet.
—O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!
And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.
By Cantwell’s offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi’s virgins, bright oftheir oils. Nannetti’s father hawked those things about, wheedling atdoors as I. Religion pays. Must see him for that par. Eat first. Iwant. Not yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhandsturning. On. Where eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If Inet five guineas with those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet.The sweets of sin.
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 I am. Lying out on thestrand all day.
Bronze whiteness.
—That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressedher hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.
Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.
—O go away! she said. You’re very simple, I don’t think.
He was.
—Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle theychristened me simple Simon.
—You must have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did thedoctor order today?
—Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I’ll troubleyou for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.
Jingle.
—With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed.
With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane’sshe turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold whisky fromher crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus broughtpouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two huskyfifenotes.
—By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must bea great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes atlast, they say. Yes. Yes.
Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid’s, intothe bowl. 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. Mr Bloom reached Essexbridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write.Buy paper. Daly’s. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloom is onthe 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 was upstairs?
She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, hergaze upon a page:
—No. He was not.
Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round thesandwichbell wound his round body round.
—Peep! Who’s in the corner?
No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind herstops. To read only the black ones: round o and crooked ess.
Jingle jaunty jingle.
Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took nonotice while he read by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly:
—Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put yourbill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?
He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to her tea aside.
He sighed aside:
—Ah me! O my!
He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.
—Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.
—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 filled pipe.
—I see, he said. I didn’t recognise him for the moment. I hear he iskeeping very select company. Have you seen him lately?
He had.
—I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this very day, said Lenehan. InMooney’s _en ville_ and in Mooney’s _sur mer._ He had received therhino for the labour of his muse.
He smiled at bronze’s teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes:
—The _élite_ of Erin hung upon his lips. The ponderous pundit, HughMacHugh, Dublin’s most brilliant scribe and editor and that minstrelboy of the wild wet west who is known by the euphonious appellation ofthe O’Madden Burke.
After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grog and
—That must have been highly diverting, said he. I see.
He see. He drank. With faraway mourning mountain 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?
—Didn’t he, miss Kennedy? The real classical, you know. And blind too,poor fellow. Not twenty I’m sure he was.
—Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.
He drank and strayed away.
—So sad to look at his face, miss Douce condoled.
God’s curse on bitch’s bastard.
Tink to her pity cried a diner’s bell. To the door of the bar anddiningroom came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter ofOrmond. Lager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served.
With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan with impatience, forjinglejaunty blazes boy.
Upholding the lid he (who?) gazed in the coffin (coffin?) at theoblique triple (piano!) wires. He pressed (the same who pressedindulgently her hand), soft pedalling, a triple of keys to see thethicknesses of felt advancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall inaction.
Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I was inWisdom Hely’s wise Bloom in Daly’s 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.Respectable girl meet after mass. Thanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloomeyed on the door a poster, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves.Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming: lovelorn. Forsome man. For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hatriding on a jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence.
Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the 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 Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi qui go.Ternoon. Think you’re 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 call again. 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 diner’s popcorked bottle: and over tumbler, tray andpopcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered, with missDouce.
—_The bright stars fade_...
A voiceless song sang from within, singing:
—... _the morn is breaking._
A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble 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 love’sleavetaking, life’s, love’s morn.
—_The dewdrops pearl_...
Lenehan’s lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.
—But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.
Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.
She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn,dreamily rose.
—Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.
She answered, slighting:
—Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies.
Like lady, ladylike.
Blazes Boylan’s smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where hestrode. Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehan heard andknew and hailed 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. Black wary hecatwalked towards Richie Goulding’s 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 his slanted straw. She smiledon him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her richerhair, a bosom and a rose.
Smart Boylan bespoke potions.
—What’s your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and asloegin for me. Wire in yet?
Not yet. At four she. Who said four?
Cowley’s red lugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriff’soffice.
Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting.Wait.
Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was just. In here. What,Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom. Sit tight there.See, not be seen. I think I’ll join you. Come on. Richie led on. 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 each stretch. O!
But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.
—Why don’t you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.
Shebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for hislips, looked as it flowed (flower in his coat: who gave him?), andsyrupped with her voice:
—Fine goods in small parcels.
That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.
—Here’s fortune, Blazes said.
He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.
—Hold on, said Lenehan, till I...
—Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.
—Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.
—I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking and drinking. Not on my own, youknow. Fancy of a friend of mine.
Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at miss Douce’slips that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips 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 Boylan’s coin, struck boldly the cashregister. Itclanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the tilland hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. Forme.
—What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?
O’clock.
Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming, tuggedBlazes Boylan’s elbowsleeve.
—Let’s hear the time, he said.
The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom floweredtables. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a tablenear the door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a trick. Notcome: whet appetite. I couldn’t do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.
Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure’s skyblue bow and eyes.
—Go on, pressed Lenehan. There’s no-one. He never heard.
—... _to Flora’s lips did hie._
High, a high note pealed in the treble clear.
Bronzedouce communing with her rose that sank and rose sought BlazesBoylan’s 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. _Sonnez la cloche!_ O do! There’s 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 her knee. Delayed. Tauntedthem still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.
_—Sonnez!_
Smack. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic gartersmackwarm against her smackable a woman’s warmhosed thigh.
—_La cloche!_ cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdustthere.
She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren’t men?), but, lightwardgliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.
—You’re the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.
Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off hischalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. His spellboundeyes went after, after her gliding head as it went down the bar bymirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glassesshimmering, a spiky shell, where it concerted, mirrored, bronze withsunnier bronze.
Yes, bronze from anearby.
—... _Sweetheart, goodbye!_
—I’m off, said Boylan with impatience.
He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.
—Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. 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. I’m coming.
He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by thethreshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.
—How do you do, Mr Dollard?
—Eh? How do? How do? Ben Dollard’s vague bass answered, turning aninstant from Father Cowley’s woe. He won’t give you any trouble, Bob.Alf Bergan will speak to the long fellow. We’ll put a barleystraw inthat Judas Iscariot’s ear this time.
Sighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger soothing aneyelid.
—Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon. Give us aditty. We heard the piano.
Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drink orders. Power for Richie.And Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice. His corns. Four now.How warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?) heat.Let me see. Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.
—What’s that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, 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 him Dollard on the stool. Hisgouty paws plumped chords. Plumped, stopped abrupt.
Bald Pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered, he wantedPower and cider. Bronze by the window, watched, bronze from afar.
Jingle a tinkle jaunted.
Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. He’s off. Light sob of breath Bloomsighed on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling. He’s gone. Jingle.Hear.
—Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times.
Miss Douce’s brave eyes, unregarded, turned from the crossblind,smitten by sunlight. Gone. Pensive (who knows?), smitten (the smitinglight), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drew downpensive (why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze, over the barwhere bald stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrastinexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth ofshadow, _eau de Nil._
—Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley remindedthem. There was a slight difference of opinion between himself and theCollard grand.
There was.
—A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said. The devil wouldn’t stop him.He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink.
—God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from thepunished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment.
They laughed all three. He had no wed. All trio laughed. No weddinggarment.
—Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said. Where’smy pipe, by the way?
He wandered back to the bar to the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carriedtwo diners’ drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed again.
—I saved the situation, Ben, I think.
—You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too.That was a brilliant idea, Bob.
Father Cowley blushed to his brilliant purply lobes. He saved thesitua. Tight trou. Brilliant ide.
—I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano inthe coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration andwho was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do youremember? We had to search all Holles street to find them till the chapin Keogh’s gave us the number. Remember?
Ben remembered, his broad visage wondering.
—By God, she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there.
Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.
—Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. Hewouldn’t take any money either. What? Any God’s quantity of co*cked hatsand boleros and trunkhose. What?
—Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes ofall descriptions.
Jingle jaunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled 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.
—What’s 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, puffed savoury puff after
—Irish? I don’t know, faith. Is she, Simon?
Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.
—Buccinator muscle is... What?... Bit rusty... O, she is... My IrishMolly, O.
He puffed a pungent plumy blast.
—From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.
They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the beerpull, bronze bymaraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace,Drumcondra with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.
Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said beforehe ate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods’ roeswhile Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steak thenkidney, bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.
Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes.
By Bachelor’s walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun inheat, mare’s glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding tyres:sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn. Have youthe? 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 quivery loveshivery roofpanes.
—War! War! cried Father Cowley. You’re the warrior.
—So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love ormoney.
He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge.
—Sure, you’d burst the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus saidthrough smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.
In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would.
—Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time, Ben._Amoroso ma non troppo._ Let me there.
Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. Shepassed a remark. It was indeed, first gentleman said, beautifulweather. They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord lieutenantwas going? And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn’t say.But it would be in the paper. O, she need not trouble. No trouble. Shewaved about her outspread _Independent,_ searching, the lordlieutenant, her pinnacles of hair slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too muchtrouble, first gentleman said. O, not in the least. Way he looked that.Lord lieutenant. Gold by bronze heard iron steel.
—............ _my ardent soul
I care not foror the morrow._
In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and War someone is.Ben Dollard’s famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suitfor that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical porkers.Molly did laugh when he went out. Threw herself back across the bed,screaming, kicking. With all his belongings on show. O saints above,I’m drenched! O, the women in the front row! O, I never laughed somany! Well, of course that’s what gives him the base barreltone. Forinstance eunuchs. Wonder who’s playing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley.Musical. Knows whatever note you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap.Stopped.
Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, GeorgeLidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist (alady’s) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To theold dingdong again.
—Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.
George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.
Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. 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 to do.Best value in Dub.
Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one together,mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on thebowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long snore.Night we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus,between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle.Conductor’s legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hidethem.
Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of alovely. Gravy’s rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp thatonce or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are theirharps. I. He. Old. Young.
—Ah, I couldn’t, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.
Strongly.
—Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits.
—_M’appari,_ Simon, Father Cowley said.
Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his longarms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softlyhe sang to a dusty seascape there: _A Last Farewell._ A headland, aship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awaveupon the wind upon the headland, wind around her.
Cowley sang:
_—M’appari tutt’amor:Il mio sguardo l’incontr..._
She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to one departing, 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 the tuningfork and, sitting,touched the obedient keys.
—No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat.
The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.
Up stage strode Father Cowley.
—Here, Simon, I’ll accompany you, he said. Get up.
By Graham Lemon’s pineapple rock, by Elvery’s elephant jingly jogged.
Steak, kidney, liver, mashed, at meat fit for princes sat princes Bloomand Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank, Power and cider.
Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie said: _Sonnambula._ Heheard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, what M’Guckin! Yes. In his way.Choirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if you like.Never forget it. Never.
Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened features strain.Backache he. Bright’s bright eye. Next item on the programme. Payingthe piper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Stave it offawhile. Sings too: _Down among the dead men._ Appropriate. Kidney pie.Sweets to the. Not making much hand of it. Best value in.Characteristic of him. Power. Particular about his drink. Flaw in theglass, fresh Vartry water. f*cking matches from counters to save. Thensquander a sovereign in dribs and drabs. And when he’s wanted not afarthing. Screwed refusing to pay his fare. Curious types.
Never would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived: never. Inthe gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note.
Speech paused on Richie’s lips.
Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn all. Believes hisown lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good memory.
—Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.
—_All is lost now_.
Richie co*cked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet bansheemurmured: all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teethhe’s proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Twonotes in one there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking mymotives he twined and turned them. All most too new call is lost inall. Echo. How sweet the answer. How is that done? All lost now.Mournful he whistled. Fall, surrender, lost.
Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase.Order. Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep she went to him. Innocencein the moon. Brave. Don’t know their danger. Still hold her back. Callname. Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That’swhy. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.
—A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.
Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.
He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his daughter. Wisechild that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?
Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. RollickingRichie once. Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in hiseye. Now begging letters he sends his son with. Crosseyed Walter sir Idid sir. Wouldn’t trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise.
Piano again. Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably.Stopped again.
Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it.
—With it, Simon.
—It, Simon.
—Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeply obliged by your kindsolicitations.
—It, Simon.
—I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shallendeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down.
By the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her bronze and rose, alady’s grace, gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous _eau de Nil_ Minato tankards two her pinnacles of gold.
The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord, 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, they listened feeling that flowendearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed toPat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door of thebar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited,waiting to 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 or whatdoyoucallthemdulcimers touching their still ears with words, still hearts of theireach his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them eachseemed to from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw,lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn’t expectit in the least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.
Love that is singing: love’s old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly theelastic band of his packet. Love’s old sweet _sonnez la_ gold. Bloomwound a skein round four forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, and woundit round his troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.
—_Full of hope and all delighted_...
Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at hisfeet. When will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. Hecan’t sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him.What perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Lastlook at mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? Howdo you? I do well. 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 softer also their brogue. Sillyman! Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out hiswife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If hedoesn’t break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet singtoo. 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 it throbbed. That’s thechat. Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect.
Words? Music? No: it’s what’s behind.
Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.
Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness 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 o’er sluices pouring gushes. Flood,gush, flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now! Language of love.
—... _ray of hope is_...
Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the museunsqueaked a ray of hopk.
_Martha_ it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel’s song. Lovelyname you have. Can’t write. Accept my little pres. Play on herheartstrings pursestrings too. She’s a. I called you naughty boy. Stillthe name: Martha. How strange! Today.
The voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again toRichie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting towait. How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrow seemed to part,how look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom’s heart.
Wish I could see his face, though. Explain better. Why the barber inDrago’s always looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass. Stillhear it better here than in the bar though farther.
—_Each graceful look_...
First night when first I saw her at Mat Dillon’s in Terenure. Yellow,black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her.Fate. Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Downshe sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.
—_Charmed my eye_...
Singing. _Waiting_ she sang. I turned her music. 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 side inshadow 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 rising chords of harmony. Incry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must martha feel. Foronly her he waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where.Somewhere.
—_Co-ome, thou lost one!
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, a swift pure cry, soar silverorb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it outtoo long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, highresplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high,of the etherial bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhereall soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness...
—_To me!_
Siopold!
Consumed.
Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to him, toher, 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, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell,Pat, Mina Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gentwith tank and bronze Miss Douce and gold Miss Mina.
Blazes Boylan’s smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before.Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson,reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before just now.Atrot, in heat, heatseated. _Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la._Slower the mare went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Tooslow for Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.
An afterclang of Cowley’s chords closed, died on the air made richer.
And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank,Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would 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, on bread and water. Then you’dsing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina Kennedyserved. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia, admired,admired. But Bloom sang dumb.
Admiring.
Richie, admiring, descanted on that man’s glorious voice. He rememberedone night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang _’Twas rank andfame_: in Ned Lambert’s ’twas. Good God he never heard in all his lifea note like that he never did _then false one we had better part_ soclear so God he never heard _since love lives not_ a clinking voicelives not ask Lambert he can tell you too.
Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of thenight, Si in Ned Lambert’s, Dedalus house, sang _’Twas rank and fame._
He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom,of the night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus, sing _’Twas rank andfame_ in his, Ned Lambert’s, house.
Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in thelute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all 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. It’s in the silence after youfeel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.
Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked theslender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged. WhileGoulding talked of Barraclough’s voice production, while Tom Kernan,harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to listeningFather Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. Whilebig Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as hesmoked, who smoked.
Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched hisstring. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure themon. Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head.Outtohelloutofthat. Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat’s tail wriggling!Five bob I gave. _Corpus paradisum._ Corncrake croaker: belly like apoisoned pup. Gone. They sing. Forgotten. I too. And one day she with.Leave her: get tired. Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes gogglingat nothing. Her wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair 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.
—Don’t make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.
George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.
First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so. Andsecond tankard told her so. That that was so.
Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: miss Kennedy, 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 the postoffice 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 curling catgut line. It certainly is.Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid music is. Who isthis wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper,envelope: unconcerned. It’s so characteristic.
—Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding said.
—It is, Bloom said.
Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by twodivided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plustwo plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling.Always find out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall. Hedoesn’t see my mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics.And you think you’re listening to the etherial. But suppose you said itlike: Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fallquite flat. It’s on account of the sounds it is.
Instance he’s playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like, tillyou hear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: thenhear chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, overbarrels, through wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune.Question of mood you’re in. Still always nice to hear. Except scales upand down, girls learning. Two together nextdoor neighbours. Ought toinvent dummy pianos for that. _Blumenlied_ I bought for her. The name.Playing it slow, a girl, night I came home, the girl. Door of thestables near Cecilia street. Milly no taste. Queer because we both, Imean.
Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quiteflat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.
It was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a boyin Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles.Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, inthe moonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God,such music, Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.
Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed amoonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.
Down the edge of his _Freeman_ baton ranged Bloom’s, your other eye,scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick.Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking...
Hope he’s not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his _Freeman._Can’t see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dearsir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Hell did Iput? Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline _imposs._ Towrite today.
Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with 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 about here. Penny thegulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne’s. Is eight about. Say half acrown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Do youdespise? Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught?You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today. Yes,yes, will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Otherworld she wrote. My patience are exhaust. To keep it up. You mustbelieve. Believe. The tank. It. Is. True.
Folly am I writing? Husbands don’t. That’s marriage does, their wives.Because I’m 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 don’t see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.
A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton Jamesof number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a younggentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by GeorgeRobert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay, and wearinga straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one GreatBrunswick street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled andjingled. By Dlugacz’ porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted agallantbuttocked mare.
—Answering an ad? keen Richie’s eyes asked Bloom.
—Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.
Bloom mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. Youknow how. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is heplaying now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum tum. How willyou pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me Iwant to. Know. O. Course if I didn’t I wouldn’t ask. La la la ree.Trails off there sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sadtail at end. P. P. S. La la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. Solonely. 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. Dolphin’s Barn Lane Dublin.
Blot over the other so he can’t read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit.Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guineaper col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U.P: up.
Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms.Shakespeare said. Quotations every day in the year. To be or not to be.Wisdom while you wait.
In Gerard’s rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyedauburn. One life isall. One body. Do. But do.
Done anyhow. Postal order, stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk now.Enough. Barney Kiernan’s I promised to meet them. Dislike that job.House of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn’t hear. Deaf beetle he is.
Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn’t. Settling those napkins.Lot of ground he must cover in the day. Paint face behind on him thenhe’d be two. Wish they’d sing more. Keep my mind off.
Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard ofhis hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee.He waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. Hewaits while 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 lightly the spiked and windingseahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.
—Listen! she bade him.
Under Tom Kernan’s ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the husbandtook him by the throat. _Scoundrel,_ said he, _You’ll sing no morelovesongs._ He did, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom.Cowley lay back.
Ah, now he heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard. Wonderful.She held it to her own. And through the sifted light pale gold incontrast glided. To hear.
Tap.
Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their 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, they listened.
Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside.Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have put on coldcreamfirst make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn’t forget.Fever near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shellwith seaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turksthe mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. Acave. No admittance except on business.
The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood it is. Sousein the ear sometimes. Well, it’s a sea. Corpuscle islands.
Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur,hearing: then laid it by, gently.
—What are the wild waves saying? he asked her, smiled.
Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.
Tap.
By Larry O’Rourke’s, by Larry, bold Larry O’, Boylan swayed and Boylanturned.
From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting. No,she was not so lonely archly miss Douce’s head let Mr Lidwell know.Walks in the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With whom? She noblyanswered: with a gentleman friend.
Bob Cowley’s twinkling fingers in the treble played again. The landlordhas the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben. Lightly he played alight bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and smiling,and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one, one,one: two, one, three, four.
Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattlemarket,co*cks, hens don’t crow, snakes hissss. There’s music everywhere.Ruttledge’s door: ee creaking. No, that’s noise. Minuet of _DonGiovanni_ he’s playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castlechambers dancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eatingdockleaves. Nice that is. Look: look, look, look, look, look: you lookat us.
That’s joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is otherjoy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be. Mere fact of music showsyou are. Often thought she was in the dumps till she began to lilt.Then know.
M’Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing cat. Like tearing silk.Tongue when she talks like the clapper of a bellows. They can’t managemen’s intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me. I’m warm, dark,open. Molly in _quis est hom*o_: Mercadante. My ear against the wall tohear. Want a woman who can deliver the goods.
Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblueclocks came light to earth.
O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on that. Itis a kind of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is.Tinkling. Empty vessels make most noise. Because the acoustics, theresonance changes according as the weight of the water is equal to thelaw of falling water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt’s, Hungarian,gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle.Hissss. Now. Maybe now. Before.
One rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul deKock with a loud proud knocker with a co*ck carracarracarra co*ck.co*ckco*ck.
Tap.
—_Qui sdegno,_ Ben, said Father Cowley.
—No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. _The Croppy Boy._ Our native Doric.
—Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true.
—Do, do, they begged in one.
I’ll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay. Tome. How much?
—What key? Six sharps?
—F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.
Bob Cowley’s outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords.
Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must.Got money somewhere. He’s on for a razzle backache spree. Much? Heseehears lipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give himtwopence tip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and familywaiting, waiting Patty come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while theywait.
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, earth’s fatigue made grave approachand painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good menand true. The priest he sought. With him would he speak a word.
Tap.
Ben Dollard’s voice. Base barreltone. Doing his level best to say it.Croak of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Bigships’ chandler’s business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships’lanterns. Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveaghhome. Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him.
The priest’s at home. A false priest’s servant bade him welcome. Stepin. The holy father. With bows a traitor servant. Curlycues of chords.
Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end theirdays in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.
The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered alonely hall, told them how solemn fell his footsteps there, told themthe gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive.
Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he’ll win in _Answers_, poets’picture puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note. Bird sittinghatching in a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. Seeblank tee what domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner.Good voice he has still. No eunuch yet with all his belongings.
Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door deafPat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened.
The chords harped slower.
The voice of penance and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous.Ben’s contrite beard confessed. _in nomine Domini,_ in God’s 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, coffin or 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 bitch’s bast. And once at masstime he had gone toplay. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother’s rest hehad not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.
Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn’thalf know I’m. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.
Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face?They always know. Knock at the door. Last tip to titivate.
co*ckcarracarra.
What do they think when they hear music? Way to catch rattlesnakes.Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia likedthat best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtaintoo. Custom his country perhaps. That’s music too. Not as bad as itsounds. Tootling. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasseshelpless, gashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand opencrocodile music hath jaws. Woodwind like Goodwin’s name.
She looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show.Clove her breath was always in theatre when she bent to ask a question.Told her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papa’s. Hypnotised,listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle staring downinto her with his operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty of music youmust hear twice. Nature woman half a look. God made the country man thetune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!
All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all hisbrothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Lastof his 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 am old.
Big Ben his voice unfolded. Great voice Richie Goulding said, a flushstruggling in his pale, 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. Looked enough.
—_Bless me, father,_ Dollard the croppy cried. _Bless me and let mego._
Tap.
Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week.Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Thosegirls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl’s romance.Letters read out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy’s ownyMumpsypum. Laughter in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely nameyou.
Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priestrustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain. They know it allby heart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap.
Tap. Tap.
Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear.
Blank face. Virgin should say: or fingered only. 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 whitewoman, a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes, all women.Goddess I didn’t see. They want it. Not too much polite. That’s why hegets them. Gold in your pocket, brass in your face. Say something. Makeher hear. With look to look. Songs without words. Molly, thathurdygurdy boy. She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Or because solike the Spanish. Understand animals too that way. Solomon did. Gift ofnature.
Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom. What?
Will? You? I. Want. You. To.
With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplectic bitch’sbastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour’s your time to live,your last.
Tap. Tap.
Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for martyrs that wantto, dying to, die. For all things dying, for all things born. Poor MrsPurefoy. Hope she’s over. Because their wombs.
A liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes,calmly, hearing. See real beauty of the eye when she not speaks. Onyonder river. At each slow satiny heaving bosom’s wave (her heavingembon) red rose rose slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats: her breath:breath that is life. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled ofmaidenhair.
But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castile. The morn. Ha.Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? See her fromhere though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.
On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leaveit to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over thepolished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb andfinger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then slidso smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protrudingthrough their sliding ring.
With a co*ck with a carra.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing.
The chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be.
Get out before the end. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where’s my hat. Passby her. Can leave that _Freeman_. Letter I have. Suppose she were the?No. Walk, walk, walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall MauriceTisntdall Farrell. Waaaaaaalk.
Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O’er ryehigh blue.Ow. Bloom stood up. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Must havesweated: music. That lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade. Cardinside. Yes.
By deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed.
At Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage was his body laid.Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the mournful chanter called todolorous prayer.
By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties,by popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronzeand faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel solonely Bloom.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear in peace.Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppyboy.
Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallwayheard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots alltreading, boots not the boots the boy. General chorus off for a swillto wash it down. Glad I avoided.
—Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried. By God, you’re as good as ever youwere.
—Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad,upon my soul and honour it is.
—Lablache, said Father Cowley.
Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the bar, mightily praisefed andall big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkeringcastagnettes in the air.
Big Benaben Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.
Rrr.
And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose, alllaughing they brought him forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer.
—You’re looking rubicund, George Lidwell said.
Miss Douce composed her rose to wait.
—Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben’s fat back shoulderblade.Fit as a fiddle only he has a lot of adipose tissue 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 to ear of tankard one.
—Mr Dollard, they murmured low.
—Dollard, murmured tankard.
Tank one believed: miss Kenn when she: that doll he was: she doll: thetank.
He murmured that he knew the name. The name was familiar 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 left bloom felt wind wound roundinside.
Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J’sone and eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street.Wish I hadn’t promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on yournerves. Beerpull. Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth.That rules the world.
Far. Far. Far. Far.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for Mady,with sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses wentPoldy on.
Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone tapping, tap by tap.
Cowley, he stuns himself with it: kind of drunkenness. Better give wayonly half way the way of a man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts. Allears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding in time.Dotty. You daren’t budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Always talkingshop. Fiddlefaddle about notes.
All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because younever know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid a year.Queer up there in the co*ckloft, alone, with stops and locks and keys.Seated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himselfor the other fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriekcursing (want to have wadding or something in his no don’t she cried),then all of a soft sudden wee little wee little pipy wind.
Pwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. In Bloom’s little wee.
—Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning with fetched pipe. I was with himthis morning at poor little Paddy Dignam’s...
—Ay, the Lord have mercy on him.
—By the bye there’s a tuningfork in there on the...
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
—The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What? Lidwell asked.
—O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw,forgot it when he was here.
Blind he was she told George Lidwell second I saw. And played soexquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid, minagold.
—Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out!
—’lldo! cried Father Cowley.
Rrrrrr.
I feel I want...
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap
—Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine.
Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely,last sardine of summer. Bloom alone.
—Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Bloom went by Barry’s. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if I had.Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. Counted them. Litigation. Loveone another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power ofattorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward.
But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation:Mickey Rooney’s band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at homeafter pig’s cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsinghis band part. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses’ skins. Weltthem through life, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to bewhat you call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.
Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tapping cane came taptaptapping byDaly’s window where a mermaid hair all streaming (but he couldn’t see)blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn’t), mermaid, coolest whiff ofall.
Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even comband tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in her shift inLombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade made itsown, don’t you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? _Cloche.Sonnez la._ Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle.Locks and keys! Sweep! Four o’clock’s all’s well! Sleep! All is lostnow. Drum? Pompedy. Wait. I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff. Long John.Waken the dead. Pom. Dignam. Poor little _nominedomine._ Pom. It ismusic. I mean of course it’s all pom pom pom very much what they call_da capo._ Still you can hear. As we march, we march along, marchalong. Pom.
I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question ofcustom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same hemust have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap.Muffled up. Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown macin.O, the whor* of the lane!
A frowsy whor* with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in theday along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that formendearing? Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn.Who had the? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she.Psst! Any chance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout ladydoes be with you in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke, that.Appointment we made knowing we’d never, well hardly ever. Too dear toonear to home sweet home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day.Face like dip. Damn her. O, well, she has to live like the rest. Lookin here.
In Lionel Marks’s antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopolddear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged batteredcandlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain: six bob. Mightlearn to play. Cheap. Let her pass. Course everything is dear if youdon’t want it. That’s what good salesman is. Make you buy what he wantsto sell. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Wanted tocharge me for the edge he gave it. She’s passing now. Six bob.
Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.
Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked their clinkingglasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia’s temptinglast rose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, afifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard.
Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.
Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks’s window. RobertEmmet’s last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that 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 George nor tanks norRichie nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.
Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. _When my countrytakes her place among._
Prrprr.
Must be the bur.
Fff! Oo. Rrpr.
_Nations of the earth._ No-one behind. She’s passed. _Then and not tillthen._ Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I’msure it’s the burgund. Yes. One, two. _Let my epitaph be._ Kraaaaaa._Written. I have._
Pprrpffrrppffff.
_Done._
[ 12 ]
I was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the D. M. P. at thecorner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep came alongand he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to let him havethe weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along StonyBatter only Joe Hynes.
—Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that bloodychimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?
—Soot’s luck, says Joe. Who’s the old ballocks you were talking to?
—Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I’m on two minds not to give thatfellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms andladders.
—What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.
—Devil a much, says I. There’s a bloody big foxy thief beyond by thegarrison church at the corner of Chicken lane—old Troy was just givingme a wrinkle about him—lifted any God’s quantity of tea and sugar topay three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off ahop-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 old plumber named Geraghty. I’mhanging on to his taw now for the past fortnight and I can’t get apenny out of him.
—That the lay you’re on now? says Joe.
—Ay, says I. How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and doubtfuldebts. But that’s the most notorious bloody robber you’d meet in aday’s walk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower ofrain. _Tell him,_ says he, _I dare him,_ says he, _and I doubledare himto send you round here again or if he does,_ says he, _I’ll have himsummonsed up before the court, so I will, for trading without alicence._ And he after stuffing himself till he’s fit to burst. Jesus,I had to laugh at the little jewy getting his shirt out. _He drink memy teas. He eat me my sugars. Because he no pay me my moneys?_
For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin’sparade 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 quay ward,gentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five poundsavoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence perpound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushedcrystal, at threepence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtorto the said vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterlingfor value received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to saidvendor in weekly instalments every seven calendar days of threeshillings and no pence sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shallnot be pawned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the saidpurchaser but shall be and remain and be held to be the sole andexclusive property of the said vendor to be disposed of at his goodwill and pleasure until the said amount shall have been duly paid bythe said purchaser to the said vendor in the manner herein set forth asthis day hereby agreed between the said vendor, his heirs, successors,trustees and assigns of the one part and the said purchaser, his heirs,successors, trustees and assigns of the other part.
—Are you a strict t.t.? says Joe.
—Not taking anything between drinks, says I.
—What about paying our respects to our friend? says Joe.
—Who? says I. Sure, he’s out in John of God’s off his head, poor man.
—Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.
—Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.
—Come around to Barney Kiernan’s, says Joe. I want to see the citizen.
—Barney mavourneen’s be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe?
—Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.
—What was that, Joe? says I.
—Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want togive the citizen the hard word about it.
So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of thecourthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when hehas it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn’t get overthat bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without alicence, says he.
In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. Thererises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead asin life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasantland it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sportthe gurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock,the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixedcoarse fish generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom toonumerous to be enumerated. In the mild breezes of the west and of theeast the lofty trees wave in different directions their firstclassfoliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exaltedplanetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and other ornaments of the arborealworld with which that region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovelymaidens sit in close proximity to the roots of the lovely trees singingthe most lovely songs while they play with all kinds of lovely objectsas for example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, draftsof eels, codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playfulinsects. And heroes voyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana toSlievemargy, the peerless princes of unfettered Munster and of Connachtthe just and of smooth sleek Leinster and of Cruachan’s land and ofArmagh the splendid and of the noble district of Boyle, princes, thesons of kings.
And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seenby mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly forthat purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruitsof that land for O’Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftaindescended from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bringfoison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach,pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs,drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale,York and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnetsof mushrooms and custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape andred green yellow brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated applesand chips of strawberries and sieves of gooseberries, pulpy andpelurious, and strawberries fit for princes and raspberries from theircanes.
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 of bellwethers and flushedewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steersand roaring mares and polled calves and longwools and storesheep andCuffe’s prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and thevarious different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angusheifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with primepremiated milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling,cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting,champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine frompasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamyvales of Thom*ond, from the M’Gillicuddy’s reeks the inaccessible andlordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from the gentle declivities of theplace of the race of Kiar, their udders distended with superabundanceof milk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer’s firkinsand targets of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in greathundreds, various in size, the agate with this dun.
So we turned into Barney Kiernan’s and there, sure enough, was thecitizen up in the corner having a great confab with himself and thatbloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the sky woulddrop in the way of drink.
—There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and hisload of papers, working for the cause.
The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him would give you the creeps.Be a corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of thatbloody dog. I’m told for a fact he ate a good part of the breeches offa constabulary man in Santry that came round one time with a blue paperabout a licence.
—Stand and deliver, says he.
—That’s all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here.
—Pass, friends, says he.
Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he:
—What’s 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 his knee and he says:
—Foreign wars is the cause of it.
And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:
—It’s the Russians wish to tyrannise.
—Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. I’ve a thirst on meI wouldn’t sell for half a crown.
—Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.
—Wine of the country, says he.
—What’s yours? says Joe.
—Ditto MacAnaspey, says I.
—Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how’s the old heart, citizen? sayshe.
—Never better, _a chara_, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?
And with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neckand, by Jesus, he near throttled him.
The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower wasthat of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhairedfreelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed longheadeddeepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmedhero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and hisrocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest ofhis body wherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hairin hue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse (_Ulex Europeus_).The widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hueprojected, were of such capaciousness that within their cavernousobscurity the fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes inwhich a tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery were of thedimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful current of warmbreath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of hismouth while in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberationsof his formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, thesummit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave tovibrate and tremble.
He wore a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching tothe knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by agirdle of plaited straw and rushes. Beneath this he wore trews ofdeerskin, roughly stitched with gut. His nether extremities wereencased in high Balbriggan buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feetbeing shod with brogues of salted cowhide laced with the windpipe ofthe same beast. From his girdle hung a row of seastones which jangledat every movement of his portentous frame and on these were graven withrude yet striking art the tribal images of many Irish heroes andheroines of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niall of ninehostages, Brian of Kincora, the ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, ShaneO’Neill, Father John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red HughO’Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan O’Growney, MichaelDwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M’Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley,Thomas Conneff, Peg Woffington, the Village Blacksmith, CaptainMoonlight, Captain Boycott, Dante Alighieri, Christopher Columbus, S.Fursa, S. Brendan, Marshal MacMahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe Tone,the Mother of the Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose ofCastile, the Man for Galway, The Man that Broke the Bank at MonteCarlo, The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who Didn’t, Benjamin Franklin,Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish,Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell,Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter theHermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, BrianConfucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristanand Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the BoldSoldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the ColleenBawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, BenHowth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, BossCroker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva,The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, AckyNagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa, DonPhilip O’Sullivan Beare. A couched spear of acuminated granite restedby him while at his feet reposed a savage animal of the canine tribewhose stertorous gasps announced that he was sunk in uneasy slumber, asupposition confirmed by hoarse growls and spasmodic movements whichhis master repressed from time to time by tranquilising blows of amighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of paleolithic stone.
So anyhow Terry brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob thesight nearly left my eyes when I saw him land out a quid. O, as true asI’m telling you. A goodlooking sovereign.
—And there’s more where that came from, says he.
—Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I.
—Sweat of my brow, says Joe. ’Twas the prudent member gave me thewheeze.
—I saw him before I met you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane andGreek street with his cod’s eye counting up all the guts of the fish.
Who comes through Michan’s land, bedight in sable armour? O’Bloom, theson of Rory: it is he. Impervious to fear is Rory’s son: he of theprudent soul.
—For the old woman of Prince’s street, says the citizen, the subsidisedorgan. The pledgebound party on the floor of the house. And look atthis blasted rag, says he. Look at this, says he. _The IrishIndependent,_ if you please, founded by Parnell to be the workingman’sfriend. Listen to the births and deaths in the _Irish all for IrelandIndependent,_ and I’ll thank you and the marriages.
And he starts reading them out:
—Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne’son Sea: the wife of William T Redmayne of a son. How’s that, eh? Wrightand Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and thelate George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road, Stockwell, Playwood andRidsdale at Saint Jude’s, Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest,dean of Worcester. Eh? Deaths. Bristow, at Whitehall lane, London:Carr, Stoke Newington, of gastritis and heart disease: co*ckburn, at theMoat house, Chepstow...
—I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience.
—co*ckburn. Dimsey, wife of David Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller,Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street,Liverpool, Isabella Helen. How’s that for a national press, eh, mybrown son! How’s that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber?
—Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose. 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! Don’t be talking! I was blue mouldy for the want of that pint.Declare to God I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click.
And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger cameswiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, a comely youth and behind himthere passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing the sacredscrolls of law and with him his lady wife a dame of peerless lineage,fairest of her race.
Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney’ssnug, squeezed up with the laughing. And who was sitting up there inthe corner that I hadn’t seen snoring drunk blind to the world only BobDoran. I didn’t know what was up and Alf kept making signs out of thedoor. And begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breenin his bathslippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxterand the wife hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman, trottinglike a poodle. I thought Alf would split.
—Look at him, says he. Breen. He’s traipsing all round Dublin with apostcard someone sent him with U. p: up on it to take a li...
And he doubled up.
—Take a what? says I.
—Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.
—O hell! says I.
The bloody mongrel began to growl that’d put the fear of God in youseeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.
_—Bi i dho husht,_ says he.
—Who? says Joe.
—Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry Menton’s and then he went roundto Collis and Ward’s and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him roundto the subsheriff’s for a lark. O God, I’ve a pain laughing. U. p: up.The long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloodyold lunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man.
—When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.
—Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan?
—Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us apony. That bloody old fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seenlong John’s eye. U. p ....
And he started laughing.
—Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that Bergan?
—Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.
Terence O’Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup fullof the foamy ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh andBungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as the sons ofdeathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop andmass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sourjuices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or dayfrom their toil, those cunning 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 cup to him thatthirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals.
But he, the young chief of the O’Bergan’s, could ill brook to beoutdone in generous deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture atestoon of costliest bronze. Thereon embossed in excellent smithworkwas seen the image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house ofBrunswick, Victoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace ofGod of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of theBritish dominions beyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empressof India, even she, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, thewellbeloved, for they knew and loved her from the rising of the sun tothe going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.
—What’s that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up anddown outside?
—What’s that? says Joe.
—Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging,I’ll show you something you never saw. Hangmen’s letters. Look at here.
So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of hispocket.
—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 a dust. Bob’s a queer chap whenthe porter’s up in him so says I just to make talk:
—How’s Willy Murray those times, Alf?
—I don’t know, says Alf. I saw him just now in Capel street with PaddyDignam. Only I was running after that...
—You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?
—With Dignam, says Alf.
—Is it Paddy? says Joe.
—Yes, says Alf. Why?
—Don’t you know he’s dead? says Joe.
—Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf.
—Ay, says Joe.
—Sure I’m after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain asa pikestaff.
—Who’s dead? says Bob Doran.
—You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm.
—What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five... What?... And Willy Murraywith him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim’s... What? Dignamdead?
—What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who’s talking about...?
—Dead! says Alf. He’s no more dead than you are.
—Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of 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 call flabbergasted.
In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer bytantras had been directed to the proper quarter a faint but increasingluminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition ofthe etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the dischargeof jivic rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication waseffected through the pituitary body and also by means of theorangefiery and scarlet rays emanating from the sacral region and solarplexus. Questioned by his earthname as to his whereabouts in theheavenworld he stated that he was now on the path of prālāyā or returnbut was still submitted to trial at the hands of certain bloodthirstyentities on the lower astral levels. In reply to a question as to hisfirst sensations in the great divide beyond he stated that previouslyhe had seen as in a glass darkly but that those who had passed over hadsummit possibilities of atmic development opened up to them.Interrogated as to whether life there resembled our experience in theflesh he stated that he had heard from more favoured beings now in thespirit that their abodes were equipped with every modern home comfortsuch as tālāfānā, ālāvātār, hātākāldā, wātāklāsāt and that the highestadepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very purest nature.Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidentlyafforded relief. Asked if he had any message for the living he exhortedall who were still at the wrong side of Māyā to acknowledge the truepath for it was reported in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter wereout for mischief on the eastern angle where the ram has power. It wasthen queried whether there were any special desires on the part of thedefunct and the reply was: _We greet you, friends of earth, who arestill in the body. Mind C. K. doesn’t pile it on._ It was ascertainedthat the reference was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, manager of Messrs H.J. O’Neill’s popular funeral establishment, a personal friend of thedefunct, who had been responsible for the carrying out of the intermentarrangements. Before departing he requested that it should be told tohis dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking forwas at present under the commode in the return room and that the pairshould be sent to Cullen’s to be soled only as the heels were stillgood. He stated that this had greatly perturbed his peace of mind inthe other region and earnestly requested that his desire should be madeknown.
Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it wasintimated that this had given satisfaction.
He is gone from mortal haunts: O’Dignam, sun of 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. He’s on point duty up and down there for the last tenminutes.
And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.
Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.
—Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.
And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowestblackguard in Dublin when he’s under the influence:
—Who said Christ is good?
—I beg your parsnips, says Alf.
—Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little WillyDignam?
—Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He’s over all his troubles.
But Bob Doran shouts out of him.
—He’s a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.
Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn’twant that kind of talk in a respectable licensed premises. And BobDoran starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you’re there.
—The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character.
The tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat.Fitter for him go home to the little sleepwalking bitch he married,Mooney, the bumbailiff’s daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwickestreet, that used to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons toldme that was stopping there at two in the morning without a stitch onher, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.
—The noblest, the truest, says he. And he’s gone, poor little Willy,poor little Paddy Dignam.
And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of thatbeam of heaven.
Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing roundthe door.
—Come in, come on, he won’t eat you, says the citizen.
So Bloom slopes in with his cod’s eye on the dog and he asks Terry wasMartin Cunningham there.
—O, Christ M’Keown, says Joe, reading one of the letters. Listen tothis, will you?
And he starts reading out one.
_7 Hunter Street,Liverpool._
_To the High Sheriff of Dublin,
Dublin._
_Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the abovementioned painfulcase i hanged Joe Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 of Febuary 1900 and ihanged..._
—Show us, Joe, says I.
—_... private Arthur Chace for fowl murder of Jessie Tilsit inPentonville prison and i was assistant when..._
—Jesus, says I.
—_... Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith..._
The citizen made a grab at the letter.
—Hold hard, says Joe, _i have a special nack of putting the noose oncein he can’t 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, says Joe. Here, says he, take themto hell out of my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, says he, what will youhave?
So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn’t andhe couldn’t and excuse him no offence and all to that and then he saidwell he’d just take a cigar. Gob, he’s a prudent member and no mistake.
—Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.
And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a mourning card witha black border round it.
—They’re all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hangtheir own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.
And he was telling us there’s two fellows waiting below to pull hisheels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then theychop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob a skull.
In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Theirdeadly coil they grasp: yea, and therein they lead to Erebus whatsoeverwight hath done a deed of blood for I will on nowise suffer it even sosaith the Lord.
So they started talking about capital punishment and of course Bloomcomes out with the why and the wherefore and all the codology of thebusiness and the old dog smelling him all the time I’m told thosejewies does have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs aboutI don’t know what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on.
—There’s one thing it hasn’t a deterrent effect on, says Alf.
—What’s that? says Joe.
—The poor bugger’s tool that’s being hanged, says Alf.
—That so? says Joe.
—God’s truth, says Alf. I heard that from the head warder that was inKilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. He told me whenthey cut him down after the drop it was standing up in their faces likea poker.
—Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe, as someone said.
—That can be explained by science, says Bloom. It’s only a naturalphenomenon, don’t you see, because on account of the...
And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and scienceand this phenomenon and the other phenomenon.
The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tenderedmedical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of thecervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would,according to the best approved tradition of medical science, becalculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violentganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus,thereby causing the elastic pores of the _corpora cavernosa_ to rapidlydilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of bloodto that part of the human anatomy known as the penis or male organresulting in the phenomenon which has been denominated by the faculty amorbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitive erection _in articulomortis per diminutionem capitis._
So of course the citizen was only waiting for the wink of the word andhe starts gassing out of him about the invincibles and the old guardand the men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joewith him about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transportedfor the cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this,that and the other. Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get anew dog so he ought. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing allround the place and scratching his scabs. And round he goes to BobDoran that was standing Alf a half one sucking up for what he couldget. So of course Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him:
—Give us the paw! Give the paw, doggy! Good old doggy! Give the pawhere! Give us the paw!
Arrah, bloody end to the paw he’d paw and Alf trying to keep him fromtumbling off the bloody stool atop of the bloody old dog and he talkingall kinds of drivel about training by kindness and thoroughbred dog andintelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. Then he starts scraping a fewbits of old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacobs’ tin he told Terry tobring. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hangingout of him a yard long for more. Near ate the tin and all, hungrybloody mongrel.
And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, thebrothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmetand die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara Curran andshe’s far from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedowncigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon! The fat heap hemarried is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley.Time they were stopping up in the _City Arms_ pisser Burke told methere was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew andBloom trying to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playingbézique to come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eatingmeat of a Friday because the old one was always thumping her craw andtaking the lout out for a walk. And one time he led him the rounds ofDublin and, by the holy farmer, he never cried crack till he broughthim home as drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach himthe evils of alcohol and by herrings, if the three women didn’t nearroast him, it’s a queer story, the old one, Bloom’s wife and Mrs O’Dowdthat kept the hotel. Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking themoff chewing the fat. And Bloom with his _but don’t you see?_ and _buton the other hand_. And sure, more be token, the lout I’m told was inPower’s after, the blender’s, round in Cope street going home footlessin a cab five times in the week after drinking his way through all thesamples in the bloody establishment. Phenomenon!
—The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass andglaring at Bloom.
—Ay, ay, says Joe.
—You don’t grasp my point, says Bloom. What I mean is...
—_Sinn Fein!_ says the citizen. _Sinn Fein amhain!_ The friends we loveare by our side and the foes we hate before us.
The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries farand near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around thegloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drumspunctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafeningclaps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up theghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent itssupernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle. A torrential rainpoured down from the floodgates of the angry heavens upon the baredheads of the assembled multitude which numbered at the lowestcomputation five hundred thousand persons. A posse of DublinMetropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in personmaintained order in the vast throng for whom the York street brass andreed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering ontheir blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us fromthe cradle by Speranza’s plaintive muse. Special quick excursion trainsand upholstered charabancs had been provided for the comfort of ourcountry cousins of whom there were large contingents. Considerableamusem*nt was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n andM-ll-g-n who sang _The Night before Larry was stretched_ in their usualmirth-provoking fashion. Our two inimitable drolls did a roaring tradewith their broadsheets among lovers of the comedy element and nobodywho has a corner in his heart for real Irish fun without vulgarity willgrudge them their hardearned pennies. The children of the Male andFemale Foundling Hospital who thronged the windows overlooking thescene were delighted with this unexpected addition to the day’sentertainment and a word of praise is due to the Little Sisters of thePoor for their excellent idea of affording the poor fatherless andmotherless children a genuinely instructive treat. The viceregalhouseparty which included many wellknown ladies was chaperoned by TheirExcellencies to the most favourable positions on the grandstand whilethe picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends of the EmeraldIsle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite. The delegation,present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone(the semiparalysed _doyen_ of the party who had to be assisted to hisseat by the aid of a powerful steam crane), Monsieur PierrepaulPetitépatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethankertscheff, theArchjoker Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess MarhaVirága Kisászony Putrápesthi, Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count AthanatosKaramelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Señor HidalgoCaballero Don Pecadillo y Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de laMalaria, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung Chang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen,Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond PrhklstrKratchinabritchisitch, Borus Hupinkoff, Herr HurhausdirektorpresidentHans Chuechli-Steuerli,Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocentgeneralhistoryspecialprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein. All thedelegates without exception expressed themselves in the strongestpossible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity 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 the eighthor the ninth of March was the correct date of the birth of Ireland’spatron saint. 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 from Booterstown, quicklyrestored order and with lightning promptitude proposed the seventeenthof the month as a solution equally honourable for both contendingparties. The readywitted ninefooter’s suggestion at once appealed toall and was unanimously accepted. Constable MacFadden was heartilycongratulated by all the F. O. T. E. I., several of whom were bleedingprofusely. Commendatore Beninobenone having been extricated fromunderneath the presidential armchair, it was explained by his legaladviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the various articles secreted in histhirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by him during the affray from thepockets of his junior colleagues in the hope of bringing them to theirsenses. The objects (which included several hundred ladies’ andgentlemen’s gold and silver watches) were promptly restored to theirrightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.
Quietly, unassumingly Rumbold stepped on to the scaffold in faultlessmorning dress and wearing his favourite flower, the _GladiolusCruentus_. He announced his presence by that gentle Rumboldian coughwhich so many have tried (unsuccessfully) to imitate—short, painstakingyet withal so characteristic of the man. The arrival of theworldrenowned headsman was greeted by a roar of acclamation from thehuge concourse, the viceregal ladies waving their handkerchiefs intheir excitement while the even more excitable foreign delegatescheered vociferously in a medley of cries, _hoch, banzai, eljen, zivio,chinchin, polla kronia, hiphip, vive, Allah_, amid which the ringing_evviva_ of the delegate of the land of song (a high double F recallingthose piercingly lovely notes with which the eunuch Catalanibeglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers) was easily distinguishable. Itwas exactly seventeen o’clock. The signal for prayer was then promptlygiven by megaphone and in an instant all heads were bared, thecommendatore’s patriarchal sombrero, which has been in the possessionof his family since the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by hismedical adviser in attendance, Dr Pippi. The learned prelate whoadministered the last comforts of holy religion to the hero martyr whenabout to pay the death penalty knelt in a most christian spirit in apool of rainwater, his cassock above his hoary head, and offered up tothe throne of grace fervent prayers of supplication. Hard by the blockstood the grim figure of the executioner, his visage being concealed ina tengallon pot with two circular perforated apertures through whichhis eyes glowered furiously. As he awaited the fatal signal he testedthe edge of his horrible weapon by honing it upon his brawny forearm ordecapitated in rapid succession a flock of sheep which had beenprovided by the admirers of his fell but necessary office. On ahandsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the quarteringknife, the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances (speciallysupplied by the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round andSons, Sheffield), a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of theduodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfullyextracted and two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the mostprecious blood of the most precious victim. The housesteward of theamalgamated cats’ and dogs’ home was in attendance to convey thesevessels when replenished to that beneficent institution. Quite anexcellent repast consisting of rashers and eggs, fried steak andonions, done to a nicety, delicious hot breakfast rolls andinvigorating tea had been considerately provided by the authorities forthe consumption of the central figure of the tragedy who was in capitalspirits when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in theproceedings from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare inthese our times, rose nobly to the occasion and expressed the dyingwish (immediately acceded to) that the meal should be divided inaliquot parts among the members of the sick and indigent roomkeepers’association as a token of his regard and esteem. The _nec_ and _nonplus ultra_ of emotion were reached when the blushing bride elect bursther way through the serried ranks of the bystanders and flung herselfupon the muscular bosom of him who was about to be launched intoeternity for her sake. The hero folded her willowy form in a lovingembrace murmuring fondly _Sheila, my own_. Encouraged by this use ofher christian name she kissed passionately all the various suitableareas of his person which the decencies of prison garb permitted herardour to reach. She swore to him as they mingled the salt streams oftheir tears that she would ever cherish his memory, that she wouldnever forget her hero boy who went to his death with a song on his lipsas if he were but going to a hurling match in Clonturk park. Shebrought back to his recollection the happy days of blissful childhoodtogether on the banks of Anna Liffey when they had indulged in theinnocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the dreadful present,they both laughed heartily, all the spectators, including the venerablepastor, joining in the general merriment. That monster audience simplyrocked with delight. But anon they were overcome with grief and claspedtheir hands for the last time. A fresh torrent of tears burst fromtheir lachrymal ducts and the vast concourse of people, touched to theinmost core, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least affected beingthe aged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of the peace andgenial giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use oftheir handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was not a dry eyein that record assemblage. A most romantic incident occurred when ahandsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fairsex, stepped forward and, presenting his visiting card, bankbook andgenealogical tree, solicited the hand of the hapless young lady,requesting her to name the day, and was accepted on the spot. Everylady in the audience was presented with a tasteful souvenir of theoccasion in the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a timely andgenerous act which evoked a fresh outburst of emotion: and when thegallant young Oxonian (the bearer, by the way, of one of the mosttimehonoured names in Albion’s history) placed on the finger of hisblushing _fiancée_ an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set inthe form of a fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. Nay,even the stern provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwellffrenchmullan Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who hadblown a considerable number of sepoys from the cannonmouth withoutflinching, could not now restrain his natural emotion. With his mailedgauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was overheard, by thoseprivileged burghers who happened to be in his immediate _entourage,_ tomurmur to himself in a faltering undertone:
—God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Blimey itmakes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does, when I sees her causeI thinks of my old mashtub what’s waiting for me down Limehouse way.
So then the citizen begins talking about the Irish language and thecorporation meeting and all to that and the shoneens that can’t speaktheir own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for aquid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that hecadged off of Joe and talking about the Gaelic league and theantitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. Antitreating isabout the size of it. Gob, he’d let you pour all manner of drink downhis throat till the Lord would call him before you’d ever see the frothof his pint. And one night I went in with a fellow into one of theirmusical evenings, song and dance about she could get up on a truss ofhay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow with a Ballyhoolyblue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish and a lot of colleenbawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals andoranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolaghentertainment, don’t be talking. Ireland sober is Ireland free. Andthen an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougersshuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or twosky 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 dog seeing the tin was emptystarts mousing around by Joe and me. I’d train him by kindness, so Iwould, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and againwhere it wouldn’t blind him.
—Afraid he’ll bite you? says the citizen, jeering.
—No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.
So he calls the old dog over.
—What’s on you, Garry? says he.
Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and theold towser growling, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera.Such growling you never heard as they let off between them. Someonethat has nothing better to do ought to write a letter _pro bonopublico_ to the papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like ofthat. Growling and grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouthis in it and the hydrophobia dropping out of his jaws.
All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among thelower animals (and their name is legion) should make a point of notmissing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by thefamous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the _sobriquet_of Garryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friendsand acquaintances Owen Garry. The exhibition, which is the result ofyears of training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietarysystem, comprises, among other achievements, the recitation of verse.Our greatest living phonetic expert (wild horses shall not drag it fromus!) has left no stone unturned in his efforts to delucidate andcompare the verse recited and has found it bears a _striking_resemblance (the italics are ours) to the ranns of ancient Celticbards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful lovesongs withwhich the writer who conceals his identity under the graceful pseudonymof the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving world butrather (as a contributor D. O. C. points out in an interestingcommunication published by an evening contemporary) of the harsher andmore personal note which is found in the satirical effusions of thefamous Raftery and of Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a moremodern lyrist at present very much in the public eye. We subjoin aspecimen which has been rendered into English by an eminent scholarwhose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though webelieve that our readers will find the topical allusion rather morethan an indication. The metrical system of the canine original, whichrecalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welshenglyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers willagree that the spirit has been well caught. Perhaps it should be addedthat the effect is greatly increased if Owen’s verse be spoken somewhatslowly and indistinctly in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour.
The curse of my curses Seven days every day And seven dry Thursdays On you, Barney Kiernan, Has no sup of water To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry’s lights.
So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you couldhear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he haveanother.
—I will, says he, _a chara_, to show there’s no ill feeling.
Gob, he’s not as green as he’s cabbagelooking. Arsing around from onepub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap’s dogand getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. 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 sure you won’t have anything inthe way of liquid refreshment? says he.
—Thank you, no, says Bloom. As a matter of fact I just wanted to meetMartin Cunningham, don’t you see, about this insurance of poorDignam’s. Martin asked me to go to the house. You see, he, Dignam, Imean, didn’t serve any notice of the assignment on the company at thetime and nominally under the act the mortgagee can’t recover on thepolicy.
—Holy Wars, says Joe, laughing, that’s a good one if old Shylock islanded. So the wife comes out top dog, what?
—Well, that’s a point, says Bloom, for the wife’s admirers.
—Whose admirers? says Joe.
—The wife’s advisers, I mean, says Bloom.
Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the actlike the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and for the benefitof the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand thatDignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widowcontested the mortgagee’s right till he near had the head of me addledwith his mortgagor under the act. He was bloody safe he wasn’t run inhimself under the act that time as a rogue and vagabond only he had afriend in court. Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royalHungarian privileged lottery. True as you’re there. O, commend me to anisraelite! Royal and privileged Hungarian robbery.
So Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to tell Mrs Dignam hewas sorry for her trouble and he was very sorry about the funeral andto tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there wasnever a truer, a finer than poor little Willy that’s dead to tell her.Choking with bloody foolery. And shaking Bloom’s hand doing the tragicto tell her that. Shake hands, brother. You’re a rogue and I’m another.
—Let me, said he, so far presume upon our acquaintance which, howeverslight it may appear if judged by the standard of mere time, isfounded, as I hope and believe, on a sentiment of mutual esteem as torequest of you this favour. But, should I have overstepped the limitsof reserve let the sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for myboldness.
—No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full the motives whichactuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office you entrust to meconsoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of sorrow,this proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitternessof the cup.
—Then suffer me to take your hand, said he. The goodness of your heart,I feel sure, will dictate to you better than my inadequate words theexpressions which are most suitable to convey an emotion whosepoignancy, were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even ofspeech.
And off with him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at fiveo’clock. Night he was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew thebobby, 14A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street afterclosing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard,drinking porter out of teacups. And calling himself a Frenchy for theshawls, Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and heserving mass in Adam and Eve’s when he was young with his eyes shut,who wrote the new testament, and the old testament, and hugging andsmugging. And the two shawls killed with the laughing, picking hispockets, the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all over the bedand the two shawls screeching laughing at one another. _How is yourtestament? Have you got an old testament?_ Only Paddy was passingthere, I tell you what. Then see him of a Sunday with his littleconcubine of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the aisle of thechapel with her patent boots on her, no less, and her violets, nice aspie, doing the little lady. Jack Mooney’s sister. And the oldprostitute of a mother procuring rooms to street couples. Gob, Jackmade him toe the line. Told him if he didn’t patch up the pot, Jesus,he’d kick the sh*te 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 the tumbler already. Want a smallfortune to keep him in drinks.
—Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? says Joe.
—Friend of yours, says Alf.
—Nannan? says Joe. The mimber?
—I won’t mention any names, says Alf.
—I thought so, says Joe. I saw him up at that meeting now with WilliamField, M. P., the cattle traders.
—Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling ofall countries and the idol of his own.
So Joe starts telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease andthe cattle traders and taking action in the matter and the citizensending them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with hissheepdip for the scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and theguaranteed remedy for timber tongue. Because he was up one time in aknacker’s yard. Walking about with his book and pencil here’s my headand my heels are coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the bootfor giving lip to a grazier. Mister Knowall. Teach your grandmother howto milk ducks. Pisser Burke was telling me in the hotel the wife usedto be in rivers of tears some times with Mrs O’Dowd crying her eyes outwith her eight inches of fat all over her. Couldn’t loosen her fartingstrings but old cod’s eye was waltzing around her showing her how to doit. What’s your programme today? Ay. Humane methods. Because the pooranimals suffer and experts say and the best known remedy that doesn’tcause pain to the animal and on the sore spot administer gently. Gob,he’d have a soft hand under a hen.
Ga Ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen. She lays eggs forus. When she lays her egg she is so glad. Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Thencomes good uncle Leo. He puts his hand under black Liz and takes herfresh egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook.
—Anyhow, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over tonight to Londonto ask about it on the floor of the house of commons.
—Are you sure, says Bloom, the councillor is going? I wanted to seehim, as it happens.
—Well, he’s going off by the mailboat, says Joe, tonight.
—That’s too bad, says Bloom. I wanted particularly. Perhaps only MrField is going. I couldn’t phone. No. You’re sure?
—Nannan’s going too, says Joe. The league told him to ask a questiontomorrow about the commissioner of police forbidding Irish games in thepark. What do you think of that, citizen? _The Sluagh na h-Eireann_.
Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arising out of the question of myhonourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the righthonourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders thatthese animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence isforthcoming as to their pathological condition?
Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourable members are already inpossession of the evidence produced before a committee of the wholehouse. I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. The answer to thehonourable member’s question is in the affirmative.
Mr Orelli O’Reilly (Montenotte. Nat.): Have similar orders been issuedfor the slaughter of human animals who dare to play Irish games in thePhoenix park?
Mr Allfours: The answer is in the negative.
Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable gentleman’s famousMitchelstown telegram inspired the policy of gentlemen on the Treasurybench? (O! O!)
Mr Allfours: I must have notice of that question.
Mr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Don’t hesitate to shoot.
(Ironical opposition cheers.)
The speaker: Order! Order!
(The house rises. Cheers.)
—There’s the man, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival. Therehe is sitting there. The man that got away James Stephens. The championof all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot. What was your bestthrow, citizen?
—_Na bacleis_, says the citizen, letting on to be modest. There was atime I was as good as the next fellow anyhow.
—Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody sight better.
—Is that really a fact? says Alf.
—Yes, says Bloom. That’s well known. Did you not know that?
So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like oflawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soiland building up a nation once again and all to that. And of courseBloom had to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower’s heartviolent exercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up astraw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: _Look at, Bloom.Do you see that straw? That’s a straw_. Declare to my aunt he’d talkabout it for an hour so he would and talk steady.
A most interesting discussion took place in the ancient hall of _BrianO’Ciarnain’s_ in _Sraid na Bretaine Bheag_, under the auspices of_Sluagh na h-Eireann_, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports and theimportance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece andancient Rome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the race. Thevenerable president of the noble order was in the chair and theattendance was of large dimensions. After an instructive discourse bythe chairman, a magnificent oration eloquently and forcibly expressed,a most interesting and instructive discussion of the usual highstandard of excellence ensued as to the desirability of therevivability of the ancient games and sports of our ancient Pancelticforefathers. The wellknown and highly respected worker in the cause ofour old tongue, Mr Joseph M’Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal forthe resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practisedmorning and evening by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the besttraditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to us from ancientages. L. Bloom, who met with a mixed reception of applause and hisses,having espoused the negative the vocalist chairman brought thediscussion to a close, in response to repeated requests and heartyplaudits from all parts of a bumper house, by a remarkably noteworthyrendering of the immortal Thomas Osborne Davis’ evergreen verses(happily too familiar to need recalling here) _A nation once again_ inthe execution of which the veteran patriot champion may be said withoutfear of contradiction to have fairly excelled himself. The IrishCaruso-Garibaldi was in superlative form and his stentorian notes wereheard to the greatest advantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as onlyour citizen can sing it. His superb highclass vocalism, which by itssuperquality greatly enhanced his already international reputation, wasvociferously applauded by the large audience among which were to benoticed many prominent members of the clergy as well as representativesof the press and the bar and the other learned professions. Theproceedings then terminated.
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 very rev. William Doherty, D. D.; the rev. Peter fa*gan, O.M.; the rev. T. Brangan, O. S. A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C. C.; the rev.M. A. Hackett, C. C.; the rev. W. Hurley, C. C.; the rt rev. MgrM’Manus, 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 very rev. Timothycanon Gorman, P. P.; the rev. J. Flanagan, C. C. The laity included P.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 quid over it, says Alf.
—Who? Blazes? says Joe.
And says Bloom:
—What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and trainingthe eye.
—Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Myler was on the beer to run upthe odds and he swatting all the time.
—We know him, says the citizen. The traitor’s son. We know what putEnglish gold in his pocket.
—True for you, says Joe.
And Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis and the circulation of theblood, asking Alf:
—Now, don’t 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 mother of a beating. Seethe little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. 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 when Myler and Percy werescheduled to don the gloves for the purse of fifty sovereigns.Handicapped as he was by lack of poundage, Dublin’s pet lamb made upfor it by superlative skill in ringcraft. The final bout of fireworkswas a gruelling for both champions. The welterweight sergeantmajor hadtapped some lively claret in the previous mixup during which Keogh hadbeen receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman putting insome neat work on the pet’s nose, and Myler came on looking groggy. Thesoldier got to business, leading off with a powerful left jab to whichthe Irish gladiator retaliated by shooting out a stiff one flush to thepoint of Bennett’s jaw. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted himwith a left hook, the body punch being a fine one. The men came tohandigrips. Myler quickly became busy and got his man under, the boutending with the bulkier man on the ropes, Myler punishing him. TheEnglishman, whose right eye was nearly closed, took his corner where hewas liberally drenched with water and when the bell went came on gameyand brimful of pluck, confident of knocking out the fistic Eblanite injigtime. It was a fight to a finish and the best man for it. The twofought like tigers and excitement ran fever high. The referee twicecautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the pet was tricky and hisfootwork a treat to watch. After a brisk exchange of courtesies duringwhich a smart upper cut of the military man brought blood freely fromhis opponent’s mouth the lamb suddenly waded in all over his man andlanded a terrific left to Battling Bennett’s stomach, flooring himflat. It was a knockout clean and clever. Amid tense expectation thePortobello bruiser was being counted out when Bennett’s second OlePfotts Wettstein threw in the towel and the Santry boy was declaredvictor to the frenzied cheers of the public who broke through theringropes and fairly mobbed him with delight.
—He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. I hear he’srunning a concert tour now up in the north.
—He is, says Joe. Isn’t he?
—Who? says Bloom. Ah, yes. That’s quite true. Yes, a kind of summertour, you see. Just a holiday.
—Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn’t she? says Joe.
—My wife? says Bloom. She’s singing, yes. I think it will be a successtoo. He’s an excellent man to organise. Excellent.
Hoho begob says I to myself says I. That explains the milk in thecocoanut and absence of hair on the animal’s chest. Blazes doing thetootle on the flute. Concert tour. Dirty Dan the dodger’s son offIsland bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government tofight the Boers. Old Whatwhat. I called about the poor and water rate,Mr Boylan. You what? The water rate, Mr Boylan. You whatwhat? That’sthe bucko that’ll organise her, take my tip. ’Twixt me and youCaddareesh.
Pride of Calpe’s rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy. Theregrew she to peerless beauty where loquat and almond scent the air. Thegardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of olives knew and bowed.The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms.
And lo, there entered one of the clan of the O’Molloy’s, a comely heroof white face yet withal somewhat ruddy, his majesty’s counsel learnedin the law, and with him the prince and heir of the noble line ofLambert.
—Hello, Ned.
—Hello, Alf.
—Hello, Jack.
—Hello, Joe.
—God save you, says the citizen.
—Save you kindly, says J. J. What’ll 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. He’ll square that, Ned, says he.
—Hope so, says Ned.
Now what were those two at? J. J. getting him off the grand jury listand the other give him a leg over the stile. With his name in Stubbs’s.Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in theireye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnisheeorders. Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street whereno-one would know him in the private office when I was there withPisser releasing his boots out of the pop. What’s your name, sir?Dunne, says he. Ay, and done says I. Gob, he’ll come home by weepingcross one of those days, I’m thinking.
—Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? says Alf. U. p: up.
—Yes, says J. J. Looking for a private detective.
—Ay, says Ned. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court onlyCorny Kelleher got round him telling him to get the handwritingexamined first.
—Ten thousand pounds, says Alf, laughing. God, I’d give anything tohear him before a judge and jury.
—Was it you did it, Alf? says Joe. The truth, the whole truth andnothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.
—Me? says Alf. Don’t cast your nasturtiums on my character.
—Whatever statement you make, says Joe, will be 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. Do you know that he’s balmy?Look at his head. Do you know that some mornings he has to get his haton with a shoehorn.
—Yes, says J. J., but the truth of a libel is 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 poor woman, I mean his wife.
—Pity about her, says the citizen. Or any other woman marries a halfand half.
—How half and half? says Bloom. Do you mean he...
—Half and half I mean, says the citizen. A fellow that’s neither fishnor flesh.
—Nor good red herring, says Joe.
—That what’s I mean, says the citizen. A pishogue, if you know whatthat is.
Begob I saw there was trouble coming. And Bloom explaining he meant onaccount of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the oldstuttering fool. Cruelty to animals so it is to let that bloodypovertystricken Breen out on grass with his beard out tripping him,bringing down the rain. And she with her nose co*ckahoop after shemarried him because a cousin of his old fellow’s was pewopener to thepope. Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney’smoustaches, the signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papalZouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street.And who was he, tell us? A nobody, two pair back and passages, at sevenshillings a week, and he covered with all kinds of breastplates biddingdefiance to the world.
—And moreover, says J. J., a postcard is publication. It was held to besufficient evidence of malice in the testcase Sadgrove v. Hole. In myopinion an action might lie.
Six and eightpence, please. Who wants your opinion? Let us drink ourpints in peace. Gob, we won’t be let even do that much itself.
—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 with his books under his oxterand the wife beside him and Corny Kelleher with his wall eye looking inas they went past, talking to him like a father, trying to sell him asecondhand coffin.
—How did that Canada swindle case go off? says Joe.
—Remanded, says J. J.
One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of JamesWought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the paperssaying he’d give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. What? Do you seeany 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, andhis own kidney too. J. J. was telling us there was an ancient HebrewZaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on him,swearing by the holy Moses he was stuck for two quid.
—Who tried the case? says Joe.
—Recorder, says Ned.
—Poor old sir Frederick, says Alf, you can cod him up to the two eyes.
—Heart as big as a lion, says Ned. Tell him a tale of woe about arrearsof rent and a sick wife and a squad of kids and, faith, he’ll dissolvein tears on the bench.
—Ay, says Alf. Reuben J was bloody lucky he didn’t clap him in the dockthe other day for suing poor little Gumley that’s minding stones, forthe corporation there near Butt bridge.
And he starts taking off the old recorder letting on to cry:
—A most scandalous thing! This poor hardworking man! How many children?Ten, did you say?
—Yes, your worship. And my wife has the typhoid.
—And the wife with typhoid fever! Scandalous! Leave the courtimmediately, sir. No, sir, I’ll make no order for payment. How dareyou, sir, come up before me and ask me to make an order! A poorhardworking industrious man! I dismiss the case.
And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month of the oxeyed goddess andin the third week after the feastday of the Holy and Undivided Trinity,the daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in her firstquarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them to thehalls of law. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gavehis rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in theprobate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the firstchargeant upon the property in the matter of the will propounded andfinal testamentary disposition _in re_ the real and personal estate ofthe late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased, versusLivingstone, an infant, of unsound mind, and another. And to the solemncourt of Green street there came sir Frederick the Falconer. And he sathim there about the hour of five o’clock to administer the law of thebrehons at the commission for all that and those parts to be holden inand for the county of the city of Dublin. And there sat with him thehigh sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, ofthe tribe of Patrick and of the tribe of Hugh and of the tribe of Owenand of the tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe ofFergus and of the tribe of Finn and of the tribe of Dermot and of thetribe of Cormac and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of Caolteand of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men andtrue. And he conjured them by Him who died on rood that they shouldwell and truly try and true deliverance make in the issue joinedbetween their sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at the bar andtrue verdict give according to the evidence so help them God and kissthe book. And they rose in their seats, those twelve of Iar, and theyswore by the name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do Hisrightwiseness. And straightway the minions of the law led forth fromtheir donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehendedin consequence of information received. And they shackled him hand andfoot and would take of him ne bail ne mainprise but preferred a chargeagainst him for he was 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 he starts talking with Joe,telling him he needn’t trouble about that little matter till the firstbut if he would just say a word to Mr Crawford. And so Joe swore highand holy by this and by that he’d do the devil and all.
—Because, you see, says Bloom, for an advertisem*nt you must haverepetition. That’s 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, I’m sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom. It’s just thatKeyes, you see.
—Consider that done, says Joe.
—Very kind of you, says Bloom.
—The strangers, says the citizen. Our own fault. We let them come in.We brought them in. The adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxonrobbers here.
—Decree _nisi,_ says J. J.
And Bloom letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, aspider’s web in the corner behind the barrel, and the citizen scowlingafter him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to biteand when.
—A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that’s what’s the cause of allour misfortunes.
—And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling over the _Police Gazette_with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint.
—Give us a squint at her, says I.
And what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrowsoff of Corny Kelleher. Secrets for enlarging your private parts.Misconduct of society belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy Chicagocontractor, finds pretty but faithless wife in lap of officer Taylor.Belle in her bloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feelingfor her tickles and Norman W. Tupper bouncing in with his peashooterjust in time to be late after she doing the trick of the loop withofficer Taylor.
—O jakers, Jenny, says Joe, how short your shirt is!
—There’s hair, Joe, says I. Get a queer old tailend of corned beef offof that one, what?
So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a face onhim as long as a late breakfast.
—Well, says the citizen, what’s the latest from the scene of action?What did those tinkers in the city hall at their caucus meeting decideabout the Irish language?
O’Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to thepuissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit ofthat which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most obedientcity, second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there,after due prayers to the gods who dwell in ether supernal, had takensolemn counsel whereby they might, if so be it might be, bring oncemore into honour among mortal men the winged speech of the seadividedGael.
—It’s on the march, says the citizen. To hell with the bloody brutalSassenachs and their _patois._
So J. J. puts in a word, doing the toff about one story was good tillyou heard another and blinking facts and the Nelson policy, puttingyour blind eye to the telescope and drawing up a bill of attainder toimpeach a nation, and Bloom trying to back him up moderation andbotheration and their colonies and their civilisation.
—Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. To hell with them!The curse of a goodfornothing God light sideways on the bloodythicklugged sons of whor*s’ gets! No music and no art and no literatureworthy of the name. Any civilisation they have they stole from us.Tonguetied sons of bastards’ ghosts.
—The European family, says J. J....
—They’re not European, says the citizen. I was in Europe with KevinEgan of Paris. You wouldn’t see a trace of them or their languageanywhere in Europe except in a _cabinet d’aisance._
And says John Wyse:
—Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo:
—_Conspuez les Anglais! Perfide Albion!_
He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands themedher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal slogan _LamhDearg Abu_, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mightyvalorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabastersilent as the deathless gods.
—What’s up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look 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. A rank outsider. And the restnowhere.
—And Bass’s mare? says Terry.
—Still running, says he. We’re all in a cart. 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 Walden’s.
—Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse. _Throwaway,_says he. Takes the biscuit, and talking about bunions. Frailty, thyname is _Sceptre._
So he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if there wasanything he could lift on the nod, the old cur after him backing hisluck with his mangy snout up. Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard.
—Not there, my child, says he.
—Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She’d have won the money only for theother dog.
And J. J. and the citizen arguing about law and history with Bloomsticking in an odd word.
—Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others’ eyes but theycan’t see the beam in their own.
—_Raimeis_, says the citizen. There’s no-one as blind as the fellowthat won’t see, if you know what that means. Where are our missingtwenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four, our losttribes? And our potteries and textiles, the finest in the whole world!And our wool that was sold in Rome in the time of Juvenal and our flaxand our damask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick lace, ourtanneries and our white flint glass down there by Ballybough and ourHuguenot poplin that we have since Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silkand our Foxford tweeds and ivory raised point from the Carmeliteconvent in New Ross, nothing like it in the whole wide world. Where arethe Greek merchants that came through the pillars of Hercules, theGibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and Tyrianpurple to sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? Read Tacitus andPtolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis. Wine, peltries, Connemara marble,silver from Tipperary, second to none, our farfamed horses even today,the Irish hobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering to pay customsduties for the right to fish in our waters. What do the yellowjohns ofAnglia owe us for our ruined trade and our ruined hearths? And the bedsof the Barrow and Shannon they won’t deepen with millions of acres ofmarsh and bog to make us all die of consumption?
—As treeless as Portugal we’ll be soon, says John Wyse, or Heligolandwith its one tree if something is not done to reafforest the land.Larches, firs, all the trees of the conifer family are going fast. Iwas reading a report of lord Castletown’s...
—Save them, says the citizen, the giant ash of Galway and the chieftainelm of Kildare with a fortyfoot bole and an acre of foliage. Save thetrees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills ofEire, O.
—Europe has its eyes on you, says Lenehan.
The fashionable international world attended _en masse_ this afternoonat the wedding of the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chiefranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of PineValley. Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash,Mrs Holly Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, MrsClyde Twelvetrees, Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, MissVirginia Creeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss BlancheMaple, Mrs Maud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla Elderflower,Miss Bee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa San, Miss RachelCedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity Aspenall,Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs Gloriana Palme, MrsLiana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake ofOakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence. The bride who wasgiven away by her father, the M’Conifer of the Glands, lookedexquisitely charming in a creation carried out in green mercerisedsilk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke ofbroad emerald and finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued fringe,the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acornbronze. The maids of honour, Miss Larch Conifer and Miss SpruceConifer, sisters of the bride, wore very becoming costumes in the sametone, a dainty _motif_ of plume rose being worked into the pleats in apinstripe and repeated capriciously in the jadegreen toques in the formof heron feathers of paletinted coral. Senhor Enrique Flor presided atthe organ with his wellknown ability and, in addition to the prescribednumbers of the nuptial mass, played a new and striking arrangement of_Woodman, spare that tree_ at the conclusion of the service. On leavingthe church of Saint Fiacre _in Horto_ after the papal blessing thehappy pair were subjected to a playful crossfire of hazelnuts,beechmast, bayleaves, catkins of willow, ivytod, hollyberries,mistletoe sprigs and quicken shoots. Mr and Mrs Wyse Conifer Neaulanwill spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest.
—And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen. We had our trade withSpain and the French and with the Flemings before those mongrels werepupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedark waterway.
—And will again, says Joe.
—And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says thecitizen, clapping his thigh. Our harbours that are empty will be fullagain, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdomof Kerry, Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with afleet of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O’Reillys and theO’Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty withthe emperor Charles the Fifth himself. And will again, says he, whenthe first Irish battleship is seen breasting the waves with our ownflag to the fore, none of your Henry Tudor’s harps, no, the oldest flagafloat, the flag of the province of Desmond and Thom*ond, three crownson a blue field, 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 much as his bloodylife is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembledmultitude in Shanagolden where he daren’t show his nose with the MollyMaguires looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbing theholding of an evicted tenant.
—Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. What will you have?
—An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.
—Half one, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up. Terry! Are youasleep?
—Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir.
Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits insteadof attending to the general public. Picture of a butting match, tryingto crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with hishead down like a bull at a gate. And another one: _Black Beast Burnedin Omaha, Ga_. A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firingat a Sambo strung up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire underhim. Gob, they ought to drown him in the sea after and electrocute andcrucify him to make sure of their job.
—But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes atbay?
—I’ll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Hell upon earth it is.Read the revelations that’s going on in the papers about flogging onthe training ships at Portsmouth. A fellow writes that calls himself_Disgusted One_.
So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew oftars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in co*cked hats and theparson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young ladbrought out, howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the buttendof a gun.
—A rump and dozen, says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir JohnBeresford called it but the modern God’s Englishman calls it caning onthe breech.
And says John Wyse:
—’Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance.
Then he was telling us the master at arms comes along with a long caneand he draws out and he flogs the bloody backside off of the poor ladtill he yells meila murder.
—That’s your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that bosses theearth. The fellows that never will be slaves, with the only hereditarychamber on the face of God’s earth and their land in the hands of adozen gamehogs and cottonball barons. That’s the great empire theyboast about of 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 was conceived of unholy boast,born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, wasscarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third dayhe arose again from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamendtill further orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and bepaid.
—But, says Bloom, isn’t discipline the same everywhere. I mean wouldn’tit be the same here if you put force against force?
Didn’t I tell you? As true as I’m drinking this porter if he was at hislast gasp he’d try to downface you that dying was living.
—We’ll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our greaterIreland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house and home in theblack 47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laidlow by the batteringram and the _Times_ rubbed its hands and told thewhitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland asredskins in America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But theSassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full ofcrops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay,they drove out the peasants in hordes. Twenty thousand of them died inthe coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free rememberthe land of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, nocravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan.
—Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was...
—We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. Since thepoor old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed atKillala.
—Ay, says John Wyse. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged usagainst the Williamites and they betrayed us. Remember Limerick and thebroken treatystone. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, thewild geese. Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield and O’Donnell, duke of Tetuanin Spain, and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to MariaTeresa. But what did we ever get for it?
—The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do you know whatit is? They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Aren’t theytrying to make an _Entente cordiale_ now at Tay Pay’s dinnerparty withperfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were.
—_Conspuez les Français_, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.
—And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven’t wehad enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from Georgethe elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that’sdead?
Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the oldone with the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal palace everynight of God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachmancarting her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him bythe whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about _Ehren on theRhine_ and come where the boose is cheaper.
—Well, says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.
—Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. There’s a bloody sight more poxthan pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin!
—And what do you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests andbishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His SatanicMajesty’s racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses hisjockeys rode. The earl of Dublin, no less.
—They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says littleAlf.
And says J. J.:
—Considerations of space influenced their lordships’ decision.
—Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.
—Yes, sir, says he. I will.
—You? says Joe.
—Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your shadow never grow less.
—Repeat that dose, says Joe.
Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited withhis dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rollingabout.
—Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it.Perpetuating national hatred among nations.
—But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.
—Yes, says Bloom.
—What is it? says John Wyse.
—A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the sameplace.
—By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’mliving in the same place for the past five years.
So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying tomuck out of it:
—Or also living in different places.
—That covers my case, says Joe.
—What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen.
—Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.
The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and,gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.
—After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his handkerchief toswab himself dry.
—Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take that in your right hand andrepeat after me the following words.
The muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish faceclothattributed to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh,authors of the Book of Ballymote, was then carefully produced andcalled forth prolonged admiration. No need to dwell on the legendarybeauty of the cornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can distinctlydiscern each of the four evangelists in turn presenting to each of thefour masters his evangelical symbol, a bogoak sceptre, a North Americanpuma (a far nobler king of beasts than the British article, be it saidin passing), a Kerry calf and a golden eagle from Carrantuohill. Thescenes depicted on the emunctory field, showing our ancient duns andraths and cromlechs and grianauns and seats of learning and maledictivestones, are as wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate aswhen the Sligo illuminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasylong long ago in the time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovelylakes of Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inaghand the Twelve Pins, Ireland’s Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, CroaghPatrick, the brewery of Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company(Limited), Lough Neagh’s banks, the vale of Ovoca, Isolde’s tower, theMapas obelisk, Sir Patrick Dun’s hospital, Cape Clear, the glen ofAherlow, Lynch’s castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown Union Workhouse atLoughlinstown, Tullamore jail, Castleconnel rapids,Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice, Jury’s Hotel, S.Patrick’s Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college refectory,Curley’s hole, the three birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington,the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse,Fingal’s Cave—all these moving scenes are still there for us todayrendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passedover them and by the rich incrustations of time.
—Show us over the drink, says I. Which is which?
—That’s mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the 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 butt of 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.
—I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.
—Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.
That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Oldlardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he’d adorn asweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him. Andthen he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, aslimp as a wet rag.
—But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s notlife for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows thatit’s the very opposite of that that is really life.
—What? says Alf.
—Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, sayshe to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin isthere. If he comes just say I’ll be back in a second. Just a moment.
Who’s hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning.
—A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.
—Well, says John Wyse. Isn’t that what we’re told. Love your neighbour.
—That chap? says the citizen. Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love,moya! He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.
Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14Aloves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle.M. B. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow.Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle withthe ear trumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The manin the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the Kingloves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor.You love a certain person. And this person loves that other personbecause everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.
—Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power,citizen.
—Hurrah, there, says Joe.
—The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen.
And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.
—We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket.What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that 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 that skitin the _United Irishman_ today about that Zulu chief that’s visitingEngland?
—What’s that? says Joe.
So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he startsreading out:
—A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presentedyesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick inWaiting, Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty theheartfelt thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them inhis dominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion ofwhich the dusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech, freelytranslated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias PraisegodBarebones, tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised thecordial relations existing between Abeakuta and the British empire,stating that he treasured as one of his dearest possessions anilluminated bible, the volume of the word of God and the secret ofEngland’s greatness, graciously presented to him by the white chiefwoman, the great squaw Victoria, with a personal dedication from theaugust hand of the Royal Donor. The Alaki then drank a lovingcup offirstshot usquebaugh to the toast _Black and White_ from the skull ofhis immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed FortyWarts, after which he visited the chief factory of Cottonopolis andsigned his mark in the visitors’ book, subsequently executing acharming old Abeakutic wardance, in the course of which he swallowedseveral knives and forks, amid hilarious applause from the girl hands.
—Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn’t doubt her. Wonder did he put thatbible to the same use as I would.
—Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful landthe broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.
—Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse.
—No, says the citizen. It’s not signed Shanganagh. It’s onlyinitialled: P.
—And a very good initial too, says Joe.
—That’s how it’s worked, says the citizen. Trade follows the flag.
—Well, says J. J., if they’re any worse than those Belgians in theCongo Free State they must be bad. Did you read that report by a manwhat’s this his name is?
—Casem*nt, says the citizen. He’s an Irishman.
—Yes, that’s the man, says J. J. Raping the women and girls andflogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber theycan out of them.
—I know where he’s 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 he’s gone to gather in the shekels.
—Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed ahorse in anger in his life?
—That’s where he’s gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons going to backthat horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the tip.Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He’s theonly man in Dublin has it. A dark horse.
—He’s a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe.
—Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out.
—There you are, says Terry.
Goodbye Ireland I’m going to Gort. So I just went round the back of theyard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings to five) while I wasletting off my _(Throwaway_ twenty to) letting off my load gob says Ito myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and one inSlattery’s off) in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillingsis five quid) and when they were in the (dark horse) pisser Burke wastelling me card party and letting on the child was sick (gob, must havedone about a gallon) flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube _she’sbetter_ or _she’s_ (ow!) all a plan so he could vamoose with the poolif he won or (Jesus, full up I was) trading without a licence (ow!)Ireland my nation says he (hoik! phthook!) never be up to those bloody(there’s the last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) cuckoos.
So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying itwas Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paperall kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes offof the government and appointing consuls all over the world to walkabout selling Irish industries. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Gob, thatputs the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show.Give us a bloody chance. God save Ireland from the likes of that bloodymouseabout. Mr Bloom with his argol bargol. And his old fellow beforehim perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the robbing bagman, thatpoisoned himself with the prussic acid 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, he’s like Lanty MacHale’s goat that’d go a piece of theroad with every one.
—Well, it’s a fact, says John Wyse. And there’s the man now that’lltell you all about it, Martin Cunningham.
Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Powerwith him and a fellow named Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of thecollector general’s, an orangeman Blackburn does have on theregistration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around thecountry at the king’s expense.
Our travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from theirpalfreys.
—Ho, varlet! cried he, who by his mien seemed the leader of the party.Saucy knave! To us!
So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice.
Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard.
—Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow.
—Bestir thyself, sirrah! cried he who had knocked. Look to our steeds.And for ourselves give us of your best for ifaith we need it.
—Lackaday, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a barelarder. I know not what to offer your lordships.
—How now, fellow? cried the second of the party, a man of pleasantcountenance, So servest thou the king’s messengers, master Taptun?
An instantaneous change overspread the landlord’s visage.
—Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly. An you be the king’smessengers (God shield His Majesty!) you shall not want for aught. Theking’s friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go afasting in myhouse I warrant me.
—Then about! cried the traveller who had not spoken, 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 squab pigeon pasty, some collops ofvenison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog’s bacon, a boar’shead with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and aflagon of old Rhenish?
—Gadzooks! cried the last speaker. That likes 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. Defrauding widows and orphans.
—Isn’t that a fact, says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizenabout Bloom and the Sinn Fein?
—That’s so, says Martin. Or so they allege.
—Who made those allegations? says Alf.
—I, says Joe. I’m the alligator.
—And after all, says John Wyse, why can’t a jew love his country likethe next fellow?
—Why not? says J. J., when he’s quite sure which country it is.
—Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what thehell is he? says Ned. Or who is he? No offence, Crofton.
—Who is Junius? says J. J.
—We don’t want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.
—He’s a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it washe drew up all the plans according to the Hungarian system. We knowthat in the castle.
—Isn’t he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? says Jack Power.
—Not at all, says Martin. Only namesakes. His name was Virag, thefather’s name that poisoned himself. He changed it by deedpoll, thefather did.
—That’s the new Messiah for Ireland! says the citizen. Island of saintsand sages!
—Well, they’re still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. For thatmatter so are we.
—Yes, says J. J., and every male that’s born they think it may be theirMessiah. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe,till he knows if he’s a father or a mother.
—Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan.
—O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of histhat died was born. I met him one day in the south city markets buyinga tin of Neave’s food six weeks before the wife was delivered.
—_En ventre sa mère_, 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, there’s many a true word spoken in jest. One of those mixedmiddlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once amonth with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what I’mtelling you? It’d be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the likeof that and throw him in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so itwould. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint ofstuff like a man. Give us your blessing. Not as much as would blindyour eye.
—Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. But where is he? We can’t wait.
—A wolf in sheep’s clothing, says the citizen. That’s what he is. Viragfrom Hungary! Ahasuerus I call him. Cursed by God.
—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 at Ballykinlar and convert us,says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate ourshores.
—Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God bless all here is myprayer.
—Amen, says the citizen.
—And I’m sure He will, says Joe.
And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer withacolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons andsubdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priorsand guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto,Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians andVallombrosans, and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines,Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the children of PeterNolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Elijah prophetled by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced and other: andfriars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers,minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons ofDominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of Vincent: and the monksof S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of thechristian brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice.And after came all saints and martyrs, virgins and confessors: S. Cyrand S. Isidore Arator and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope andS. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylitesand S. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S.Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincentde Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred andS. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernardand S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous andS. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. hom*onymous and S. Paronymousand S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O’Toole 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 andS. Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives ofBrittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons ofholy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. JohnBerchmans and the saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and S.Bride and S. Kieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuamand S. Finbarr and S. Pappin of Ballymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificusand Brother Louis Bellicosus and the saints Rose of Lima and of Viterboand S. Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigidand S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis andthe Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S.Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. And all camewith nimbi and aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swordsand olive crowns, in robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols oftheir efficacies, inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters, axes,trees, bridges, babes in a bathtub, 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 wayby Nelson’s Pillar, Henry street, Mary street, Capel street, LittleBritain street chanting the introit in _Epiphania Domini_ whichbeginneth _Surge, illuminare_ and thereafter most sweetly the gradual_Omnes_ which saith _de Saba venient_ they did divers wonders such ascasting out devils, raising the dead to life, multiplying fishes,healing the halt and the blind, discovering various articles which hadbeen mislaid, interpreting and fulfilling the scriptures, blessing andprophesying. And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came thereverend Father O’Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. And when thegood fathers had reached the appointed place, the house of BernardKiernan and Co, limited, 8, 9 and 10 little Britain street, wholesalegrocers, wine and brandy shippers, licensed for the sale of beer, wineand spirits for consumption on the premises, the celebrant blessed thehouse and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaultsand the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices andthe engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled thelintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless thathouse as he had blessed the house of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob andmake the angels of His light to inhabit therein. And entering heblessed the viands and the beverages and the company of all the blessedanswered his prayers.
—_Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini._
—_Qui fecit cœlum et terram._
—_Dominus vobiscum._
—_Et cum spiritu tuo._
And he laid his hands upon that he blessed and gave thanks and heprayed and they all with him prayed:
—_Deus, cuius verbo sanctificantur omnia, benedictionem tuam effundesuper creaturas istas: et praesta ut quisquis eis secundum legem etvoluntatem Tuam cum gratiarum actione usus fuerit per invocationemsanctissimi nominis Tui corporis sanitatem et animæ tutelam Te auctorepercipiat per Christum Dominum nostrum._
—And so say all of us, says Jack.
—Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or Crawford.
—Right, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. And butter for fish.
I was just looking around to see who the happy thought would strikewhen be damned but in he comes again letting on to be in a hell of ahurry.
—I was just round at the courthouse, says he, looking for you. I hopeI’m not...
—No, says Martin, we’re ready.
Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and silver.Mean bloody scut. Stand us a drink itself. Devil a sweet fear! There’sa jew for you! All for number one. Cute as a sh*thouse rat. Hundred tofive.
—Don’t tell anyone, says the citizen.
—Beg your pardon, says he.
—Come on boys, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. Come along now.
—Don’t tell anyone, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him. It’s 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 them letting on to beall at sea and up with them on the bloody jaunting car.
—Off with you, says Martin to the jarvey.
The milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and, rising in the golden poopthe helmsman spread the bellying sail upon the wind and stood offforward with all sail set, the spinnaker to larboard. A many comelynymphs drew nigh to starboard and to larboard and, clinging to thesides of the noble bark, they linked their shining forms as doth thecunning wheelwright when he fashions about the heart of his wheel theequidistant rays whereof each one is sister to another and he bindsthem all with an outer ring and giveth speed to the feet of men whenasthey ride to a hosting or contend for the smile of ladies fair. Even sodid they come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters.And they laughed, sporting in a circle of their foam: and the barkclave the waves.
But begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint when I saw thecitizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing and blowing with thedropsy, and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book andcandle in Irish, spitting and spatting out of him and Joe and littleAlf round him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.
—Let me alone, says he.
And begob he got as far as the door and they holding him and he bawlsout of him:
—Three cheers for Israel!
Arrah, sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ’ sakeand don’t be making a public exhibition of yourself. Jesus, there’salways some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murder aboutbloody nothing. Gob, it’d turn the porter sour in your guts, so itwould.
And all the ragamuffins and women of the nation round the door andMartin telling the jarvey to drive ahead and the citizen bawling andAlf and Joe at him to whisht and he on his high horse about the jewsand the loafers calling for a speech and Jack Power trying to get himto sit down on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with apatch over his eye starts singing _If the man in the moon was a jew,jew, jew_ and a women shouts out of her:
—Eh, mister! Your fly is open, mister!
And says he:
—Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. Andthe Saviour was a jew and his father was a jew. Your God.
—He had no father, says Martin. That’ll do now. Drive ahead.
—Whose God? says the citizen.
—Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a jew. Christ was ajew like me.
Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.
—By Jesus, says he, I’ll brain that bloody jewman for using the holyname. By Jesus, I’ll crucify him so I will. Give us that biscuitbox here.
—Stop! Stop! says Joe.
A large and appreciative gathering of friends and acquaintances fromthe metropolis and greater Dublin assembled in their thousands to bidfarewell to Nagyaságos uram Lipóti Virag, late of Messrs AlexanderThom’s, printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure forthe distant clime of Százharminczbrojúgulyás-Dugulás (Meadow ofMurmuring Waters). The ceremony which went off with great _éclat_ wascharacterised by the most affecting cordiality. An illuminated scrollof ancient Irish vellum, the work of Irish artists, was presented tothe distinguished phenomenologist on behalf of a large section of thecommunity and was accompanied by the gift of a silver casket,tastefully executed in the style of ancient Celtic ornament, a workwhich reflects every credit on the makers, Messrs Jacob _agus_ Jacob.The departing guest was the recipient of a hearty ovation, many ofthose who were present being visibly moved when the select orchestra ofIrish pipes struck up the wellknown strains of _Come Back to Erin_,followed immediately by _Rakóczsy’s March_. Tarbarrels and bonfireswere lighted along the coastline of the four seas on the summits of theHill of Howth, Three Rock Mountain, Sugarloaf, Bray Head, the mountainsof Mourne, the Galtees, the Ox and Donegal and Sperrin peaks, theNagles and the Bograghs, the Connemara hills, the reeks ofM’Gillicuddy, Slieve Aughty, Slieve Bernagh and Slieve Bloom. Amidcheers that rent the welkin, responded to by answering cheers from abig muster of henchmen on the distant Cambrian and Caledonian hills,the mastodontic pleasureship slowly moved away saluted by a finalfloral tribute from the representatives of the fair sex who werepresent in large numbers while, as it proceeded down the river,escorted by a flotilla of barges, the flags of the Ballast office andCustom House were dipped in salute as were also those of the electricalpower station at the Pigeonhouse and the Poolbeg Light._Visszontlátásra, kedvés barátom! Visszontlátásra!_ Gone but notforgotten.
Gob, the devil wouldn’t stop him till he got hold of the bloody tinanyhow and out with him and little Alf hanging on to his elbow and heshouting like a stuck pig, as good as any bloody play in the Queen’sroyal theatre:
—Where is he till I murder him?
And Ned and J. J. paralysed with the laughing.
—Bloody wars, says I, I’ll be in for the last gospel.
But as luck would have it the jarvey got the nag’s head round the otherway and off with him.
—Hold on, citizen, says Joe. Stop!
Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly. Mercy of God thesun was in his eyes or he’d have left him for dead. Gob, he near sentit into the county Longford. The bloody nag took fright and the oldmongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the populace shoutingand laughing and the old tinbox clattering along the street.
The catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect. Theobservatory of Dunsink registered in all eleven shocks, all of thefifth grade of Mercalli’s scale, and there is no record extant of asimilar seismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of 1534,the year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. The epicentre appears tohave been that part of the metropolis which constitutes the Inn’s Quayward and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres,two roods and one square pole or perch. All the lordly residences inthe vicinity of the palace of justice were demolished and that nobleedifice itself, in which at the time of the catastrophe important legaldebates were in progress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which itis to be feared all the occupants have been buried alive. From thereports of eyewitnesses it transpires that the seismic waves wereaccompanied by a violent atmospheric perturbation of cycloniccharacter. An article of headgear since ascertained to belong to themuch respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and asilk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coatof arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman ofquarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, have beendiscovered by search parties in remote parts of the islandrespectively, the former on the third basaltic ridge of the giant’scauseway, the latter embedded to the extent of one foot three inches inthe sandy beach of Holeopen bay near the old head of Kinsale. Othereyewitnesses depose that they observed an incandescent object ofenormous proportions hurtling through the atmosphere at a terrifyingvelocity in a trajectory directed southwest by west. Messages ofcondolence and sympathy are being hourly received from all parts of thedifferent continents and the sovereign pontiff has been graciouslypleased to decree that a special _missa pro defunctis_ shall becelebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of each and every cathedralchurch of all the episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual authorityof the Holy See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful departed whohave been so unexpectedly called away from our midst. The work ofsalvage, removal of _débris,_ human remains etc has been entrusted toMessrs Michael Meade and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T.and C. Martin, 77, 78, 79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men andofficers of the Duke of Cornwall’s light infantry under the generalsupervision of H. R. H., rear admiral, the right honourable sirHercules 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 born puff. Gob, if he got thatlottery ticket on the side of his poll he’d remember the gold cup, hewould so, but begob the citizen would have been lagged for assault andbattery and Joe for aiding and abetting. The jarvey saved his life byfurious driving as sure as God made Moses. What? O, Jesus, he did. Andhe let a 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 car rounding the corner and oldsheepsface on it gesticulating and the bloody mongrel after it with hislugs back for all he was bloody well worth to tear him limb from limb.Hundred to five! Jesus, he took the value of it out of him, I promiseyou.
When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheldthe chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. And they beheld Him inthe chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, havingraiment as of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe theydurst not look upon Him. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling:_Elijah! Elijah!_ And He answered with a main cry: _Abba! Adonai!_ Andthey beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angelsascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degreesover Donohoe’s in Little Green street like a shot off a shovel.
