I
was
just
passing the
time
of
day
with
old
Troy
of
the D. M. P.
at
the
corner
of
Arbour
hill
there
and
be
damned but
a
bloody
sweep
came
along
and
he
near
drove
his
gear
into
my eye. I turned
around
to
let
him
have
the
weight
of
my tongue
when
who
should I
see
dodging
along
Stony
Batter
only
Joe Hynes. —Lo, Joe, says I.
How
are
you
blowing?
Did
you
see
that
bloody
chimneysweep
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
that
fellow
in
charge
for
obstructing the thoroughfare
with
his
brooms
and
ladders. —What
are
you
doing round
those
parts? says Joe. —Devil
a
much, says I. There's
a
bloody
big
foxy
thief
beyond
by
the garrison church
at
the
corner
of
Chicken
lane—old Troy
was
just
giving
me
a
wrinkle
about
him—lifted
any
God's
quantity
of
tea
and
sugar
to
pay
three
bob
a
week
said
he
had
a
farm
in
the
county
Down
off
a
hop-of-my-thumb
by
the
name
of
Moses Herzog
over
there
near
Heytesbury street. —Circumcised? says Joe. —Ay, says I.
A
bit
off
the top. An
old
plumber
named Geraghty. I'm hanging
on
to
his
taw
now
for
the past
fortnight
and
I can't
get
a
penny
out
of
him. —That the
lay
you're
on
now? says Joe.
For
nonperishable
goods
bought
of
Moses Herzog,
of
13 Saint Kevin's
parade
in
the
city
of
Dublin,
Wood
quay
ward, merchant, hereinafter called 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
pounds
avoirdupois
of
first
choice
tea
at
three
shillings
and
no pence
per
pound
avoirdupois
and
three
stone
avoirdupois
of
sugar, crushed crystal,
at
threepence
per
pound
avoirdupois, the said
purchaser
debtor
to
the said
vendor
of
one
pound
five
shillings
and
sixpence
sterling
for
value
received
which
amount
shall
be
paid
by
said
purchaser
to
said
vendor
in
weekly instalments
every
seven
calendar
days
of
three
shillings
and
no pence sterling:
and
the said nonperishable
goods
shall
not
be
pawned
or
pledged
or
sold
or
otherwise
alienated
by
the said
purchaser
but
shall
be
and
remain
and
be
held
to
be
the
sole
and
exclusive
property
of
the said
vendor
to
be
disposed
of
at
his
good
will
and
pleasure
until
the said amount
shall
have
been duly paid
by
the said
purchaser
to
the said
vendor
in
the
manner
herein
set
forth
as
this
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
to
give
the
citizen
the
hard
word
about
it.
So
we
went
around
by
the Linenhall barracks
and
the
back
of
the courthouse talking
of
one
thing
or
another.
Decent
fellow
Joe
when
he
has
it
but
sure
like
that
he
never
has it. Jesus, I couldn't
get
over
that
bloody
foxy
Geraghty, the daylight robber.
For
trading without
a
licence, says he.
In
Inisfail the
fair
there lies
a
land, the
land
of
holy
Michan. There rises
a
watchtower beheld
of
men afar. There
sleep
the
mighty
dead
as
in
life
they
slept, warriors
and
princes
of
high renown.
A
pleasant
land
it
is
in
sooth
of
murmuring waters, fishful streams
where
sport
the gurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed
coarse
fish
generally
and
other
denizens
of
the
aqueous
kingdom
too
numerous
to
be
enumerated.
In
the
mild
breezes
of
the west
and
of
the east the lofty trees
wave
in
different
directions
their
firstclass foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic
eucalyptus
and
other
ornaments
of
the
arboreal
world
with
which
that
region
is
thoroughly
well
supplied.
Lovely
maidens
sit
in
close
proximity
to
the roots
of
the
lovely
trees singing the
most
lovely
songs
while
they
play
with
all kinds
of
lovely
objects
as
for
example
golden
ingots, silvery fishes, crans
of
herrings, drafts
of
eels, codlings, creels
of
fingerlings, purple seagems
and
playful insects.
And
heroes
voyage
from
afar
to
woo
them,
from
Eblana
to
Slievemargy, the peerless princes
of
unfettered Munster
and
of
Connacht the
just
and
of
smooth
sleek Leinster
and
of
Cruahan's
land
and
of
Armagh the
splendid
and
of
the
noble
district
of
Boyle, princes, the sons
of
kings.
And
there rises
a
shining
palace
whose
crystal
glittering
roof
is
seen
by
mariners
who
traverse
the
extensive
sea
in
barks built expressly
for
that
purpose,
and
thither
come
all herds
and
fatlings
and
firstfruits
of
that
land
for
O'Connell Fitzsimon takes
toll
of
them,
a
chieftain
descended
from
chieftains.
Thither
the extremely
large
wains
bring
foison
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
punnets
of
mushrooms
and
custard
marrows
and
fat
vetches
and
bere
and
rape
and
red
green
yellow
brown
russet
sweet
big
bitter
ripe
pomellated apples
and
chips
of
strawberries
and
sieves
of
gooseberries, pulpy
and
pelurious,
and
strawberries fit
for
princes
and
raspberries
from
their
canes. I
dare
him, says he,
and
I doubledare him.
Come
out
here, Geraghty,
you
notorious
bloody
hill
and
dale
robber!
And
by
that
way
wend
the herds
innumerable
of
bellwethers
and
flushed ewes
and
shearling rams
and
lambs
and
stubble
geese
and
medium
steers
and
roaring mares
and
polled calves
and
longwoods
and
storesheep
and
Cuffe's prime springers
and
culls
and
sowpigs
and
baconhogs
and
the
various
different
varieties
of
highly
distinguished
swine
and
Angus heifers
and
polly bulllocks
of
immaculate
pedigree
together
with
prime premiated 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
from
pasturelands
of
Lusk
and
Rush
and
Carrickmines
and
from
the streamy vales
of
Thomond,
from
the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the
inaccessible
and
lordly
Shannon the unfathomable,
and
from
the
gentle
declivities
of
the
place
of
the
race
of
Kiar,
their
udders distended
with
superabundance
of
milk
and
butts
of
butter
and
rennets
of
cheese
and
farmer's firkins
and
targets
of
lamb
and
crannocks
of
corn
and
oblong
eggs
in
great
hundreds,
various
in
size, the
agate
with
this
dun.
So
we
turned
into
Barney Kiernan's
and
there,
sure
enough,
was
the
citizen
up
in
the
corner
having
a
great
confab
with
himself
and
that
bloody
mangy mongrel, Garryowen,
and
he
waiting
for
what
the
sky
would
drop
in
the
way
of
drink. —There
he
is, says I,
in
his
gloryhole,
with
his
cruiskeen
lawn
and
his
load
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
that
bloody
dog. I'm told
for
a
fact
he
ate
a
good
part
of
the
breeches
off
a
constabulary
man
in
Santry
that
came round
one
time
with
a
blue paper
about
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
to
the occasion. —I
think
the markets
are
on
a
rise, says he, sliding
his
hand
down
his
fork.
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
me
I 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? says he.
And
with
that
he
took the
bloody
old
towser
by
the
scruff
of
the
neck
and,
by
Jesus,
he
near
throttled him.
He
wore
a
long
unsleeved
garment
of
recently flayed oxhide reaching
to
the knees
in
a
loose
kilt
and
this
was
bound
about
his
middle
by
a
girdle
of
plaited
straw
and
rushes. Beneath
this
he
wore trews
of
deerskin, roughly stitched
with
gut.
His
nether
extremities
were
encased
in
high Balbriggan buskins dyed
in
lichen
purple, the feet being
shod
with
brogues
of
salted cowhide laced
with
the windpipe
of
the
same
beast.
From
his
girdle
hung
a
row
of
seastones
which
jangled
at
every
movement
of
his
portentous
frame
and
on
these
were
graven
with
rude
yet
striking
art
the
tribal
images
of
many
Irish heroes
and
heroines
of
antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn
of
hundred
battles, Niall
of
nine
hostages, Brian
of
Kincora, the ardri Malachi,
Art
MacMurragh, Shane O'Neill, Father John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield,
Red
Hugh O'Donnell,
Red
Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan O'Growney, Michael Dwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry
Joy
M'Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas Conneff,
Peg
Woffington, the
Village
Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, 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
of
Castile, the
Man
for
Galway, The
Man
that
Broke
the
Bank
at
Monte
Carlo, 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 the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan
and
Isolde, the first Prince
of
Wales, Thomas Cook
and
Son, the
Bold
Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade,
Ben
Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam
and
Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus,
Jack
the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha,
Lady
Godiva, The
Lily
of
Killarney, Balor
of
the
Evil
Eye, the
Queen
of
Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa,
Don
Philip O'Sullivan Beare.
A
couched
spear
of
acuminated
granite
rested
by
him
while
at
his
feet reposed
a
savage animal
of
the
canine
tribe
whose
stertorous
gasps announced
that
he
was
sunk
in
uneasy slumber,
a
supposition
confirmed
by
hoarse
growls
and
spasmodic
movements
which
his
master
repressed
from
time
to
time
by
tranquilising blows
of
a
mighty
cudgel rudely fashioned
out
of
paleolithic
stone.
So
anyhow
Terry
brought the
three
pints Joe
was
standing
and
begob the sight nearly
left
my eyes
when
I
saw
him
land
out
a
quid
O,
as
true
as
I'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
the wheeze. —I
saw
him
before I met you, says I, sloping
around
by
Pill
lane
and
Greek
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, the
son
of
Rory:
it
is
he.
Impervious
to
fear
is
Rory's son:
he
of
the
prudent
soul.
And
he
starts
reading
them
out: —Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter; Redmayne
of
Iffley, Saint Anne's
on
Sea: the
wife
of
William T Redmayne
of
a
son. How's that, eh?
Wright
and
Flint, Vincent
and
Gillett
to
Rotha Marion
daughter
of
Rosa
and
the
late
George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road, Stockwell, Playwood
and
Ridsdale
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: Cockburn,
at
the
Moat
house, Chepstow... —I
know
that
fellow, says Joe,
from
bitter
experience. —Cockburn. 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, my brown son! How's
that
for
Martin
Murphy, the Bantry jobber? —Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose.
Thanks
be
to
God
they
had the 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
came swiftly in, radiant
as
the
eye
of
heaven,
a
comely
youth
and
behind
him
there passed an
elder
of
noble
gait
and
countenance, bearing the
sacred
scrolls
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's snug, squeezed
up
with
the laughing.
And
who
was
sitting
up
there
in
the
corner
that
I hadn't seen snoring
drunk
blind
to
the
world
only
Bob
Doran. I didn't
know
what
was
up
and
Alf kept making signs
out
of
the door.
And
begob
what
was
it
only
that
bloody
old
pantaloon Denis Breen
in
his
bathslippers
with
two
bloody
big
books tucked under
his
oxter
and
the
wife
hotfoot
after
him, unfortunate wretched woman, trotting
like
a
poodle. I
thought
Alf would split. —Look
at
him, says he. Breen. He's traipsing all round Dublin
with
a
postcard 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
you
seeing
something
was
up
but the
citizen
gave
him
a
kick
in
the ribs. —Who? says Joe. —Breen, says Alf.
He
was
in
John Henry Menton's
and
then
he
went round
to
Collis
and
Ward's
and
then
Tom Rochford met
him
and
sent
him
round
to
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
bloody
old
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
a
pony.
That
bloody
old
fool! Ten
thousand
pounds.
You
should
have
seen
long
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
full
of
the
foamy
ebon
ale
which
the
noble
twin
brothers Bungiveagh
and
Bungardilaun brew
ever
in
their
divine
alevats, cunning
as
the sons
of
deathless Leda.
For
they
garner the
succulent
berries
of
the
hop
and
mass
and
sift
and
bruise
and
brew
them
and
they
mix
therewith
sour
juices
and
bring
the
must
to
the
sacred
fire
and
cease
not
night
or
day
from
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
that
thirsted, the soul
of
chivalry,
in
beauty
akin
to
the immortals. But he, the
young
chief
of
the O'Bergan's,
could
ill
brook
to
be
outdone
in
generous
deeds but gave
therefor
with
gracious
gesture
a
testoon
of
costliest bronze.
Thereon
embossed
in
excellent
smithwork
was
seen the
image
of
a
queen
of
regal
port,
scion
of
the
house
of
Brunswick, Victoria her name, Her
Most
Excellent
Majesty,
by
grace
of
God
of
the United
Kingdom
of
Great
Britain
and
Ireland
and
of
the British dominions
beyond
the sea, queen,
defender
of
the faith,
Empress
of
India,
even
she,
who
bore rule,
a
victress
over
many
peoples, the wellbeloved,
for
they
knew
and
loved her
from
the rising
of
the
sun
to
the going
down
thereof, the pale, the dark, the
ruddy
and
the ethiop. —What's
that
bloody
freemason
doing, says the citizen, prowling
up
and
down
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
his
pocket. —Are
you
codding? says I. —Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.
So
Joe took
up
the letters. —Who
are
you
laughing at? says
Bob
Doran.
So
I
saw
there
was
going
to
be
a
bit
of
a
dust Bob's
a
queer chap
when
the 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
Paddy Dignam.
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
as
a
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 Murray
with
him, the
two
of
them
there
near
whatdoyoucallhim's... What? Dignam dead? —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
morning
anyhow. —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. Assurances
were
given
that
the
matter
would
be
attended
to
and
it
was
intimated
that
this
had
given
satisfaction.
He
is
gone
from
mortal
haunts: O'Dignam,
sun
of
our
morning.
Fleet
was
his
foot
on
the bracken: Patrick
of
the beamy brow. Wail, Banba,
with
your 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
ten minutes. 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, lowest blackguard
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
Willy Dignam? —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't
want
that
kind
of
talk
in
a
respectable licensed premises.
And
Bob
Doran 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
Hardwicke street,
that
used
to
be
stravaging
about
the landings
Bantam
Lyons told
me
that
was
stopping there
at
two
in
the
morning
without
a
stitch
on
her, 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
that
beam
of
heaven.
Old
Garryowen started growling
again
at
Bloom
that
was
skeezing round the 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
was
Martin
Cunningham there. —O, Christ M'Keown, says Joe,
reading
one
of
the letters.
Listen
to
this,
will
you?
And
he
starts
reading
out
one. —Show us, Joe, says I. —Jesus, says I. The
citizen
made
a
grab
at
the letter. —And
a
barbarous
bloody
barbarian
he
is
too, says the citizen. —And the dirty
scrawl
of
the wretch, says Joe. Here, says he,
take
them
to
hell
out
of
my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, says he,
what
will
you
have?
So
they
started arguing
about
the point,
Bloom
saying
he
wouldn't
and
he
couldn't
and
excuse
him
no offence
and
all
to
that
and
then
he
said
well
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
with
a
black
border round it. —They're all barbers, says he,
from
the
black
country
that
would
hang
their
own
fathers
for
five
quid
down
and
travelling expenses.
And
he
was
telling
us
there's
two
fellows waiting
below
to
pull
his
heels
down
when
he
gets the
drop
and
choke
him
properly
and
then
they
chop
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.
Their
deadly
coil
they
grasp: yea,
and
therein
they
lead
to
Erebus whatsoever
wight
hath done
a
deed
of
blood
for
I
will
on
nowise
suffer
it
even
so
saith the Lord.
So
they
started talking
about
capital
punishment
and
of
course
Bloom
comes
out
with
the
why
and
the
wherefore
and
all the codology
of
the
business
and
the
old
dog
smelling
him
all the
time
I'm told
those
jewies does
have
a
sort
of
a
queer
odour
coming
off
them
for
dogs
about
I 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
in
Kilmainham
when
they
hanged Joe Brady, the invincible.
He
told
me
when
they
cut
him
down
after
the
drop
it
was
standing
up
in
their
faces
like
a
poker. —Ruling
passion
strong
in
death, says Joe,
as
someone said. —That
can
be
explained
by
science, says Bloom. It's
only
a
natural
phenomenon, don't
you
see,
because
on
account
of
the...
And
then
he
starts
with
his
jawbreakers
about
phenomenon
and
science
and
this
phenomenon
and
the
other
phenomenon.
So
of
course
the
citizen
was
only
waiting
for
the wink
of
the
word
and
he
starts gassing
out
of
him
about
the invincibles
and
the
old
guard
and
the men
of
sixtyseven
and
who
fears
to
speak
of
ninetyeight
and
Joe
with
him
about
all the fellows
that
were
hanged, drawn
and
transported
for
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
a
new
dog
so
he
ought. Mangy
ravenous
brute sniffing
and
sneezing all round the
place
and
scratching
his
scabs.
And
round
he
goes
to
Bob
Doran
that
was
standing Alf
a
half
one
sucking
up
for
what
he
could
get.
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
paw
here!
Give
us
the paw! Arrah,
bloody
end
to
the
paw
he'd
paw
and
Alf trying
to
keep
him
from
tumbling
off
the
bloody
stool
atop
of
the
bloody
old
dog
and
he
talking all kinds
of
drivel
about
training
by
kindness
and
thoroughbred
dog
and
intelligent
dog:
give
you
the
bloody
pip.
Then
he
starts scraping
a
few
bits
of
old
biscuit
out
of
the bottom
of
a
Jacobs'
tin
he
told
Terry
to
bring. Gob,
he
golloped
it
down
like
old
boots
and
his
tongue hanging
out
of
him
a
yard
long
for
more.
Near
ate the
tin
and
all, hungry
bloody
mongrel. —The
memory
of
the dead, says the
citizen
taking
up
his
pintglass
and
glaring
at
Bloom. —Ay, ay, says Joe. —You don't
grasp
my point, says Bloom.
What
I
mean
is... —God blimey
if
she
aint
a
clinker,
that
there bleeding tart. Blimey
it
makes
me
kind
of
bleeding cry, straight,
it
does,
when
I sees her
cause
I thinks
of
my
old
mashtub what's waiting
for
me
down
Limehouse way.
So
then
the
citizen
begins talking
about
the Irish
language
and
the
corporation
meeting
and
all
to
that
and
the shoneens
that
can't
speak
their
own
language
and
Joe chipping
in
because
he
stuck someone
for
a
quid
and
Bloom
putting
in
his
old
goo
with
his
twopenny
stump
that
he
cadged
off
of
Joe
and
talking
about
the Gaelic league
and
the antitreating league
and
drink, the
curse
of
Ireland. Antitreating
is
about
the size
of
it. Gob, he'd
let
you
pour
all
manner
of
drink
down
his
throat
till
the Lord would
call
him
before you'd
ever
see
the
froth
of
his
pint.
And
one
night
I went
in
with
a
fellow
into
one
of
their
musical evenings,
song
and
dance
about
she
could
get
up
on
a
truss
of
hay
she
could
my Maureen
Lay
and
there
was
a
fellow
with
a
Ballyhooly blue
ribbon
badge
spiffing
out
of
him
in
Irish
and
a
lot
of
colleen bawns going
about
with
temperance
beverages
and
selling medals
and
oranges
and
lemonade
and
a
few
old
dry
buns, gob, flahoolagh entertainment, don't
be
talking. Ireland sober
is
Ireland free.
And
then
an
old
fellow
starts blowing
into
his
bagpipes
and
all the gougers shuffling
their
feet
to
the tune the
old
cow
died of.
And
one
or
two
sky
pilots having an
eye
around
that
there
was
no goings
on
with
the females, hitting
below
the belt.
So
howandever,
as
I
was
saying, the
old
dog
seeing
the
tin
was
empty starts mousing
around
by
Joe
and
me. I'd
train
him
by
kindness,
so
I would,
if
he
was
my dog.
Give
him
a
rousing
fine
kick
now
and
again
where
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.
So
he
told
Terry
to
bring
some
water
for
the
dog
and, gob,
you
could
hear
him
lapping
it
up
a
mile
off.
And
Joe asked
him
would
he
have
another. Gob, he's not
as
green
as
he's cabbagelooking. Arsing
around
from
one
pub
to
another, leaving
it
to
your
own
honour,
with
old
Giltrap's
dog
and
getting fed
up
by
the ratepayers
and
corporators. Entertainment
for
man
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
in
the
way
of
liquid refreshment? says he. —Thank you, no, says Bloom.
As
a
matter
of
fact
I
just
wanted
to
meet
Martin
Cunningham, don't
you
see,
about
this
insurance
of
poor
Dignam's.
Martin
asked
me
to
go
to
the house.
You
see, he, Dignam, I mean, didn't serve
any
notice
of
the
assignment
on
the
company
at
the
time
and
nominally under the
act
the mortgagee can't
recover
on
the policy. —Holy Wars, says Joe, laughing, that's
a
good
one
if
old
Shylock
is
landed.
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
act
like
the lord
chancellor
giving
it
out
on
the
bench
and
for
the benefit
of
the
wife
and
that
a
trust
is
created but
on
the
other
hand
that
Dignam owed Bridgeman the
money
and
if
now
the
wife
or
the
widow
contested
the mortgagee's
right
till
he
near
had the
head
of
me
addled
with
his
mortgagor
under the act.
He
was
bloody
safe
he
wasn't
run
in
himself
under the
act
that
time
as
a
rogue
and
vagabond
only
he
had
a
friend
in
court. Selling
bazaar
tickets
or
what
do
you
call
it
royal Hungarian privileged lottery. True
as
you're there. O,
commend
me
to
an israelite! Royal
and
privileged Hungarian robbery.
So
Bob
Doran comes lurching
around
asking
Bloom
to
tell
Mrs Dignam
he
was
sorry
for
her
trouble
and
he
was
very
sorry
about
the
funeral
and
to
tell
her
that
he
said
and
everyone
who
knew
him
said
that
there
was
never
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
tragic
to
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, however slight
it
may
appear
if
judged
by
the standard
of
mere
time,
is
founded,
as
I
hope
and
believe,
on
a
sentiment
of
mutual
esteem
as
to
request
of
you
this
favour. But, should I
have
overstepped the limits
of
reserve
let
the
sincerity
of
my feelings
be
the
excuse
for
my boldness. —No, rejoined the other, I
appreciate
to
the
full
the motives
which
actuate
your
conduct
and
I
shall
discharge the
office
you
entrust
to
me
consoled
by
the
reflection
that, though the
errand
be
one
of
sorrow,
this
proof
of
your
confidence
sweetens
in
some
measure
the
bitterness
of
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 the expressions
which
are
most
suitable
to
convey
an
emotion
whose
poignancy,
were
I
to
give
vent
to
my feelings, would
deprive
me
even
of
speech.
So
Terry
brought the
three
pints. —Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen. —Fortune, Joe, says I.
Good
health, citizen. Gob,
he
had
his
mouth
half
way
down
the
tumbler
already.
Want
a
small
fortune
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
William Field, M. P., the
cattle
traders. —Hairy Iopas, says the citizen,
that
exploded volcano, the darling
of
all countries
and
the
idol
of
his
own.
So
Joe starts telling the
citizen
about
the
foot
and
mouth
disease
and
the
cattle
traders
and
taking
action
in
the
matter
and
the
citizen
sending
them
all
to
the rightabout
and
Bloom
coming
out
with
his
sheepdip
for
the
scab
and
a
hoose
drench
for
coughing calves
and
the guaranteed
remedy
for
timber
tongue.
Because
he
was
up
one
time
in
a
knacker's yard. Walking
about
with
his
book
and
pencil here's my
head
and
my heels
are
coming
till
Joe Cuffe gave
him
the order
of
the
boot
for
giving
lip
to
a
grazier. Mister Knowall.
Teach
your
grandmother
how
to
milk
ducks. Pisser Burke
was
telling
me
in
the
hotel
the
wife
used
to
be
in
rivers
of
tears
some
times
with
Mrs O'Dowd crying her eyes
out
with
her
eight
inches
of
fat
all
over
her. Couldn't loosen her farting strings but
old
cod's
eye
was
waltzing
around
her showing her
how
to
do
it. What's your programme today? Ay. Humane methods.
Because
the
poor
animals
suffer
and
experts
say
and
the
best
known
remedy
that
doesn't
cause
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
for
us.
When
she
lays her
egg
she
is
so
glad. Gara. Klook Klook Klook.
Then
comes
good
uncle
Leo.
He
puts
his
hand
under
black
Liz
and
takes her
fresh
egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. —Anyhow, says Joe,
Field
and
Nannetti
are
going
over
tonight
to
London
to
ask
about
it
on
the
floor
of
the
house
of
commons. —Are
you
sure, says Bloom, the councillor
is
going? I wanted
to
see
him,
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
Mr
Field
is
going. I couldn't phone. No. You're sure? Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arising
out
of
the
question
of
my
honourable
friend, the
member
for
Shillelagh,
may
I
ask
the
right
honourable
gentleman
whether
the
government
has issued orders
that
these
animals
shall
be
slaughtered though no medical evidence
is
forthcoming
as
to
their
pathological
condition? Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.):
Honourable
members
are
already
in
possession
of
the evidence produced before
a
committee
of
the
whole
house. I feel I cannot usefully
add
anything
to
that. The
answer
to
the
honourable
member's
question
is
in
the affirmative. Mr Orelli O'Reilly (Montenotte. Nat.):
Have
similar
orders been issued
for
the
slaughter
of
human
animals
who
dare
to
play
Irish games
in
the
Phoenix
park? Mr Allfours: The
answer
is
in
the negative. Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the
right
honourable
gentleman's
famous
Mitchelstown
telegram
inspired the
policy
of
gentlemen
on
the
Treasury
bench? (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. There
he
is
sitting there. The
man
that
got
away
James Stephens. The champion
of
all Ireland
at
putting the sixteen
pound
shot.
What
was
your
best
throw, citizen? —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?
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 Fagan, 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. Mgr M'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.
Timothy
canon
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
that
Keogh-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
training the eye. —Ay, Blazes, says Alf.
He
let
out
that
Myler
was
on
the
beer
to
run
up
the odds
and
he
swatting all the time. —We
know
him, says the citizen. The traitor's son.
We
know
what
put
English
gold
in
his
pocket. —-True
for
you, says Joe.
And
Bloom
cuts
in
again
about
lawn
tennis
and
the
circulation
of
the blood, asking Alf: —Now, don't
you
think, Bergan? —Myler dusted the
floor
with
him, says Alf. Heenan
and
Sayers
was
only
a
bloody
fool
to
it. Handed
him
the father
and
mother
of
a
beating.
See
the
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,
made
him
puke
what
he
never
ate.
It
was
a
historic
and
a
hefty
battle
when
Myler
and
Percy
were
scheduled
to
don
the gloves
for
the purse
of
fifty
sovereigns. Handicapped
as
he
was
by
lack
of
poundage, Dublin's pet
lamb
made
up
for
it
by
superlative
skill
in
ringcraft. The
final
bout
of
fireworks
was
a
gruelling
for
both champions. The
welterweight
sergeantmajor had tapped
some
lively
claret
in
the
previous
mixup
during
which
Keogh had been receivergeneral
of
rights
and
lefts, the artilleryman putting
in
some
neat
work
on
the pet's nose,
and
Myler came
on
looking groggy. The soldier got
to
business, leading
off
with
a
powerful
left
jab
to
which
the Irish
gladiator
retaliated
by
shooting
out
a
stiff
one
flush
to
the
point
of
Bennett's jaw. The
redcoat
ducked but the Dubliner lifted
him
with
a
left
hook, the
body
punch being
a
fine
one. The men came
to
handigrips. Myler
quickly
became
busy
and
got
his
man
under, the
bout
ending
with
the bulkier
man
on
the ropes, Myler punishing him. The Englishman,
whose
right
eye
was
nearly closed, took
his
corner
where
he
was
liberally drenched
with
water
and
when
the bell went came
on
gamey
and
brimful
of
pluck,
confident
of
knocking
out
the
fistic
Eblanite
in
jigtime.
It
was
a
fight
to
a
finish
and
the
best
man
for
it. The
two
fought
like
tigers
and
excitement ran
fever
high. The referee
twice
cautioned Pucking Percy
for
holding but the pet
was
tricky
and
his
footwork
a
treat
to
watch.
After
a
brisk
exchange
of
courtesies
during
which
a
smart
upper
cut
of
the military
man
brought blood
freely
from
his
opponent's
mouth
the
lamb
suddenly waded
in
all
over
his
man
and
landed
a
terrific
left
to
Battling Bennett's stomach, flooring
him
flat.
It
was
a
knockout clean
and
clever.
Amid
tense
expectation
the Portobello bruiser
was
being counted
out
when
Bennett's
second
Ole Pfotts Wettstein threw
in
the
towel
and
the Santry
boy
was
declared
victor
to
the frenzied cheers
of
the public
who
broke
through the ringropes
and
fairly
mobbed
him
with
delight. —He knows
which
side
his
bread
is
buttered, says Alf. I
hear
he's running
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
summer
tour,
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
success
too. He's an
excellent
man
to
organise. Excellent. Hoho begob says I
to
myself
says I.
That
explains the
milk
in
the cocoanut
and
absence
of
hair
on
the animal's chest. Blazes doing the tootle
on
the flute.
Concert
tour. Dirty Dan the dodger's
son
off
Island
bridge
that
sold the
same
horses
twice
over
to
the
government
to
fight
the Boers.
Old
Whatwhat. I called
about
the
poor
and
water
rate, Mr Boylan.
You
what? The
water
rate, Mr Boylan.
You
whatwhat? That's the bucko that'll organise her,
take
my tip. 'Twixt
me
and
you
Caddareesh.
Pride
of
Calpe's
rocky
mount, the ravenhaired
daughter
of
Tweedy. There grew
she
to
peerless
beauty
where
loquat
and
almond
scent the air. The gardens
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
hero
of
white
face
yet
withal
somewhat
ruddy,
his
majesty's
counsel
learned
in
the law,
and
with
him
the prince
and
heir
of
the
noble
line
of
Lambert. —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
list
and
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
their
eye, adrinking fizz
and
he
half smothered
in
writs
and
garnishee orders. Pawning
his
gold
watch
in
Cummins
of
Francis
street
where
no-one would
know
him
in
the
private
office
when
I
was
there
with
Pisser 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
weeping
cross
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
only
Corny
Kelleher got round
him
telling
him
to
get
the
handwriting
examined first. —Ten
thousand
pounds, says Alf, laughing. God, I'd
give
anything
to
hear
him
before
a
judge
and
jury. —Was
it
you
did
it, Alf? says Joe. The truth, the
whole
truth
and
nothing
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
evidence against you. —Yes, says J. J., but the
truth
of
a
libel
is
no defence
to
an
indictment
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
half
and
half. —How half
and
half? says Bloom.
Do
you
mean
he... —Half
and
half I mean, says the citizen.
A
fellow
that's
neither
fish
nor
flesh. —Nor
good
red
herring, says Joe. —That what's I mean, says the citizen.
A
pishogue,
if
you
know
what
that
is. Begob I
saw
there
was
trouble
coming.
And
Bloom
explaining
he
meant
on
account
of
it
being
cruel
for
the
wife
having
to
go
round
after
the
old
stuttering fool.
Cruelty
to
animals
so
it
is
to
let
that
bloody
povertystricken Breen
out
on
grass
with
his
beard
out
tripping him, bringing
down
the rain.
And
she
with
her
nose
cockahoop
after
she
married
him
because
a
cousin
of
his
old
fellow's
was
pewopener
to
the pope.
Picture
of
him
on
the
wall
with
his
Smashall Sweeney's moustaches, the signior Brini
from
Summerhill, the eyetallyano,
papal
Zouave
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
seven
shillings
a
week,
and
he
covered
with
all kinds
of
breastplates bidding
defiance
to
the world. —And moreover, says J. J.,
a
postcard
is
publication.
It
was
held
to
be
sufficient
evidence
of
malice
in
the testcase Sadgrove v. Hole.
In
my
opinion
an
action
might
lie.
Six
and
eightpence, please.
Who
wants your opinion?
Let
us
drink
our
pints
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
oxter
and
the
wife
beside
him
and
Corny
Kelleher
with
his
wall
eye
looking
in
as
they
went past, talking
to
him
like
a
father, trying
to
sell
him
a
secondhand 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
James Wought alias Saphiro alias Spark
and
Spiro,
put
an ad
in
the papers
saying
he'd
give
a
passage
to
Canada
for
twenty
bob. What?
Do
you
see
any
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,
and
his
own
kidney
too. J. J.
was
telling
us
there
was
an
ancient
Hebrew Zaretsky
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
arrears
of
rent
and
a
sick
wife
and
a
squad
of
kids and, faith, he'll
dissolve
in
tears
on
the bench. —Ay, says Alf. Reuben J
was
bloody
lucky
he
didn't clap
him
in
the
dock
the
other
day
for
suing
poor
little
Gumley that's minding stones,
for
the
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 court immediately, sir. No, sir, I'll
make
no order
for
payment.
How
dare
you, sir,
come
up
before
me
and
ask
me
to
make
an order!
A
poor
hardworking
industrious
man! I
dismiss
the case. —Those
are
nice
things, says the citizen, coming
over
here
to
Ireland filling 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 first but
if
he
would
just
say
a
word
to
Mr Crawford.
And
so
Joe swore high
and
holy
by
this
and
by
that
he'd
do
the
devil
and
all. —Because,
you
see, says Bloom,
for
an
advertisement
you
must
have
repetition. That's the
whole
secret. —Rely
on
me, says Joe. —Swindling the peasants, says the citizen,
and
the
poor
of
Ireland.
We
want
no
more
strangers
in
our
house. —O, I'm
sure
that
will
be
all right, Hynes, says Bloom. It's
just
that
Keyes,
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 Saxon robbers here.
And
Bloom
letting
on
to
be
awfully
deeply
interested
in
nothing,
a
spider's
web
in
the
corner
behind
the barrel,
and
the
citizen
scowling
after
him
and
the
old
dog
at
his
feet looking
up
to
know
who
to
bite
and
when. —A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that's what's the
cause
of
all
our
misfortunes. —Give
us
a
squint
at
her, says I.
And
what
was
it
only
one
of
the smutty yankee pictures
Terry
borrows
off
of
Corny
Kelleher. Secrets
for
enlarging your
private
parts. Misconduct
of
society
belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy Chicago contractor, finds pretty but faithless
wife
in
lap
of
officer
Taylor.
Belle
in
her
bloomers
misconducting herself,
and
her fancyman feeling
for
her tickles
and
Norman W. Tupper bouncing
in
with
his
peashooter
just
in
time
to
be
late
after
she
doing the
trick
of
the loop
with
officer
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
off
of
that
one, what?
So
anyhow
in
came John Wyse Nolan
and
Lenehan
with
him
with
a
face
on
him
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
decide
about
the Irish language? O'Nolan,
clad
in
shining armour,
low
bending
made
obeisance
to
the
puissant
and
high
and
mighty
chief
of
all Erin
and
did
him
to
wit
of
that
which
had befallen,
how
that
the
grave
elders
of
the
most
obedient
city,
second
of
the realm, had met
them
in
the tholsel,
and
there,
after
due
prayers
to
the gods
who
dwell
in
ether
supernal, had taken
solemn
counsel
whereby
they
might,
if
so
be
it
might
be,
bring
once
more
into
honour
among
mortal
men the winged
speech
of
the seadivided Gael.
So
J. J. puts
in
a
word, doing the toff
about
one
story
was
good
till
you
heard
another
and
blinking facts
and
the Nelson policy, putting your blind
eye
to
the telescope
and
drawing
up
a
bill
of
attainder
to
impeach
a
nation,
and
Bloom
trying
to
back
him
up
moderation
and
botheration
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
bloody
thicklugged sons
of
whores' gets! No
music
and
no
art
and
no
literature
worthy
of
the name.
Any
civilisation
they
have
they
stole
from
us. Tonguetied sons
of
bastards' ghosts. —The European family, says J. J....
And
says John Wyse: —Full
many
a
flower
is
born
to
blush unseen.
And
says Lenehan
that
knows
a
bit
of
the lingo: —What's
up
with
you, says I
to
Lenehan.
You
look
like
a
fellow
that
had lost
a
bob
and
found
a
tanner. —Gold cup, says he. —Who won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry. —And Bass's mare? says Terry.
So
he
went
over
to
the
biscuit
tin
Bob
Doran
left
to
see
if
there
was
anything
he
could
lift
on
the nod, the
old
cur
after
him
backing
his
luck
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
the
other
dog.
And
J. J.
and
the
citizen
arguing
about
law
and
history
with
Bloom
sticking
in
an
odd
word. —Some people, says Bloom,
can
see
the
mote
in
others' eyes but
they
can't
see
the
beam
in
their
own. —As treeless
as
Portugal we'll
be
soon, says John Wyse,
or
Heligoland
with
its
one
tree
if
something
is
not done
to
reafforest the land. Larches, firs, all the trees
of
the
conifer
family
are
going fast. I
was
reading
a
report
of
lord Castletown's... —Save them, says the citizen, the
giant
ash
of
Galway
and
the
chieftain
elm
of
Kildare
with
a
fortyfoot
bole
and
an
acre
of
foliage. Save the trees
of
Ireland
for
the
future
men
of
Ireland
on
the
fair
hills
of
Eire, O. —Europe has its eyes
on
you, says Lenehan. —And
our
eyes
are
on
Europe, says the citizen.
We
had
our
trade
with
Spain
and
the French
and
with
the Flemings before
those
mongrels
were
pupped, 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 the citizen, clapping
his
thigh,
our
harbours
that
are
empty
will
be
full
again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry
in
the
kingdom
of
Kerry, Killybegs, the
third
largest harbour
in
the
wide
world
with
a
fleet
of
masts
of
the Galway Lynches
and
the Cavan O'Reillys
and
the O'Kennedys
of
Dublin
when
the
earl
of
Desmond
could
make
a
treaty
with
the
emperor
Charles the
Fifth
himself.
And
will
again, says he,
when
the first Irish battleship
is
seen breasting the waves
with
our
own
flag
to
the fore,
none
of
your Henry Tudor's harps, no, the oldest
flag
afloat, the
flag
of
the
province
of
Desmond
and
Thomond,
three
crowns
on
a
blue field, the
three
sons
of
Milesius.
And
he
took the
last
swig
out
of
the pint. Moya. All wind
and
piss
like
a
tanyard cat. Cows
in
Connacht
have
long
horns.
As
much
as
his
bloody
life
is
worth
to
go
down
and
address
his
tall
talk
to
the assembled
multitude
in
Shanagolden
where
he
daren't
show
his
nose
with
the
Molly
Maguires looking
for
him
to
let
daylight through
him
for
grabbing the holding
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
you
asleep? —Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky
and
bottle
of
Allsop. Right, sir. —But
what
about
the fighting navy, says Ned,
that
keeps
our
foes
at
bay?
So
he
starts telling
us
about
corporal
punishment
and
about
the
crew
of
tars
and
officers
and
rearadmirals drawn
up
in
cocked hats
and
the
parson
with
his
protestant bible
to
witness
punishment
and
a
young
lad
brought out, howling
for
his
ma,
and
they
tie
him
down
on
the buttend
of
a
gun. —A
rump
and
dozen, says the citizen,
was
what
that
old
ruffian
sir John Beresford called
it
but the
modern
God's Englishman calls
it
caning
on
the 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
cane
and
he
draws
out
and
he
flogs the
bloody
backside
off
of
the
poor
lad
till
he
yells meila murder. —That's your
glorious
British navy, says the citizen,
that
bosses the earth. The fellows
that
never
will
be
slaves,
with
the
only
hereditary
chamber
on
the face
of
God's
earth
and
their
land
in
the hands
of
a
dozen
gamehogs
and
cottonball barons. That's the
great
empire
they
boast
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. The unfortunate 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,
was
scarified, flayed
and
curried, yelled
like
bloody
hell, the
third
day
he
arose
again
from
the bed, steered
into
haven, sitteth
on
his
beamend
till
further
orders whence
he
shall
come
to
drudge
for
a
living
and
be
paid. —But, says Bloom, isn't
discipline
the
same
everywhere. I
mean
wouldn't
it
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
his
last
gasp he'd
try
to
downface
you
that
dying
was
living. —Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my
point
was... —We
are
a
long
time
waiting
for
that
day, citizen, says Ned.
Since
the
poor
old
woman
told
us
that
the French
were
on
the
sea
and
landed
at
Killala. —Ay, says John Wyse.
We
fought
for
the royal Stuarts
that
reneged
us
against the Williamites
and
they
betrayed us.
Remember
Limerick
and
the
broken
treatystone.
We
gave
our
best
blood
to
France
and
Spain, the wild geese. Fontenoy, eh?
And
Sarsfield
and
O'Donnell,
duke
of
Tetuan
in
Spain,
and
Ulysses Browne
of
Camus
that
was
fieldmarshal
to
Maria Teresa. But
what
did
we
ever
get
for
it? —And
as
for
the Prooshians
and
the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven't
we
had
enough
of
those
sausageeating bastards
on
the
throne
from
George the
elector
down
to
the German
lad
and
the
flatulent
old
bitch
that's dead? —Well, says J. J.
We
have
Edward the peacemaker now. —Tell
that
to
a
fool, says the citizen. There's
a
bloody
sight
more
pox
than
pax
about
that
boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin! —And
what
do
you
think, says Joe,
of
the
holy
boys, the priests
and
bishops
of
Ireland doing
up
his
room
in
Maynooth
in
His
Satanic Majesty's racing colours
and
sticking
up
pictures
of
all the horses
his
jockeys rode. The
earl
of
Dublin, no less. —They
ought
to
have
stuck
up
all the women
he
rode himself, says
little
Alf.
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
with
his
dunducketymudcoloured
mug
on
him
and
his
old
plumeyes rolling about. —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
same
place. —By God, then, says Ned, laughing,
if
that's
so
I'm
a
nation
for
I'm
living
in
the
same
place
for
the past
five
years.
So
of
course
everyone had the laugh
at
Bloom
and
says he, trying
to
muck
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
to
swab
himself
dry. —Here
you
are, citizen, says Joe.
Take
that
in
your
right
hand
and
repeat
after
me
the
following
words. The muchtreasured
and
intricately embroidered
ancient
Irish facecloth attributed
to
Solomon
of
Droma
and
Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh, authors
of
the
Book
of
Ballymote,
was
then
carefully
produced
and
called
forth
prolonged admiration. No
need
to
dwell
on
the
legendary
beauty
of
the cornerpieces, the
acme
of
art,
wherein
one
can
distinctly
discern
each
of
the four evangelists
in
turn
presenting
to
each
of
the four masters
his
evangelical symbol,
a
bogoak sceptre,
a
North American
puma
(a
far
nobler
king
of
beasts
than
the British article,
be
it
said
in
passing),
a
Kerry
calf
and
a
golden
eagle
from
Carrantuohill. The scenes depicted
on
the emunctory field, showing
our
ancient
duns
and
raths
and
cromlechs
and
grianauns
and
seats
of
learning
and
maledictive stones,
are
as
wonderfully beautiful
and
the pigments
as
delicate
as
when
the Sligo illuminators gave
free
rein
to
their
artistic
fantasy
long
long
ago
in
the
time
of
the Barmecides. Glendalough, the
lovely
lakes
of
Killarney, the ruins
of
Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey,
Glen
Inagh
and
the
Twelve
Pins, Ireland's Eye, the
Green
Hills
of
Tallaght, Croagh Patrick, the
brewery
of
Messrs Arthur Guinness,
Son
and
Company
(Limited),
Lough
Neagh's banks, the
vale
of
Ovoca, Isolde's tower, the Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick Dun's hospital,
Cape
Clear, the
glen
of
Aherlow, Lynch's castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown Union
Workhouse
at
Loughlinstown, 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
today
rendered
more
beautiful
still
by
the waters
of
sorrow
which
have
passed
over
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
belongs
to
us
by
right.
At
this
very
moment, says he, putting
up
his
fist, sold
by
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.
Old
lardyface standing
up
to
the
business
end
of
a
gun. Gob, he'd
adorn
a
sweepingbrush,
so
he
would,
if
he
only
had
a
nurse's
apron
on
him.
And
then
he
collapses all
of
a
sudden, twisting
around
all the opposite,
as
limp
as
a
wet
rag. —But it's no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That's not
life
for
men
and
women,
insult
and
hatred.
And
everybody knows
that
it'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, says
he
to
John Wyse.
Just
round
to
the court
a
moment
to
see
if
Martin
is
there.
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
14A loves 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
with
the
ear
trumpet loves
old
Mrs Verschoyle
with
the turnedin eye. The
man
in
the brown macintosh loves
a
lady
who
is
dead.
His
Majesty
the
King
loves Her
Majesty
the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves
officer
Taylor.
You
love
a
certain
person.
And
this
person
loves
that
other
person
because
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. —What's that? says Joe.
So
the
citizen
takes
up
one
of
his
paraphernalia
papers
and
he
starts
reading
out: —Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn't
doubt
her.
Wonder
did
he
put
that
bible
to
the
same
use
as
I would. —Same
only
more
so, says Lenehan.
And
thereafter
in
that
fruitful
land
the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly. —Is
that
by
Griffith? says John Wyse. —No, says the citizen. It's not signed Shanganagh. It's
only
initialled: 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
the Congo
Free
State
they
must
be
bad.
Did
you
read
that
report
by
a
man
what's
this
his
name
is? —Casement, says the citizen. He's an Irishman. —Yes, that's the man, says J. J. Raping the women
and
girls
and
flogging the natives
on
the
belly
to
squeeze all the
red
rubber
they
can
out
of
them. —I
know
where
he's gone, says Lenehan, cracking
his
fingers. —Who? says I. —Is
it
that
whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen,
that
never
backed
a
horse
in
anger
in
his
life? —That's
where
he's gone, says Lenehan. I met
Bantam
Lyons going
to
back
that
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 the
only
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.
So
anyhow
when
I got
back
they
were
at
it
dingdong, John Wyse
saying
it
was
Bloom
gave the ideas
for
Sinn Fein
to
Griffith
to
put
in
his
paper all kinds
of
jerrymandering, packed juries
and
swindling the taxes
off
of
the
government
and
appointing consuls all
over
the
world
to
walk
about
selling Irish industries. Robbing Peter
to
pay
Paul. Gob,
that
puts 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
bloody
mouseabout. Mr
Bloom
with
his
argol bargol.
And
his
old
fellow
before
him
perpetrating frauds,
old
Methusalem Bloom, the robbing bagman,
that
poisoned
himself
with
the prussic acid
after
he
swamping the
country
with
his
baubles
and
his
penny
diamonds. Loans
by
post
on
easy
terms.
Any
amount
of
money
advanced
on
note
of
hand. Distance no object. No security. Gob, he's
like
Lanty MacHale's
goat
that'd
go
a
piece
of
the
road
with
every
one. —Well, it's
a
fact, says John Wyse.
And
there's the
man
now
that'll
tell
you
all
about
it,
Martin
Cunningham.
Sure
enough
the castle
car
drove
up
with
Martin
on
it
and
Jack
Power
with
him
and
a
fellow
named Crofter
or
Crofton,
pensioner
out
of
the
collector
general's, an orangeman Blackburn does
have
on
the
registration
and
he
drawing
his
pay
or
Crawford gallivanting
around
the
country
at
the king's expense.
Our
travellers reached the
rustic
hostelry
and
alighted
from
their
palfreys. —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
bare
larder. I
know
not
what
to
offer
your lordships. —How now, fellow? cried the
second
of
the party,
a
man
of
pleasant
countenance,
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's messengers (God
shield
His
Majesty!)
you
shall
not
want
for
aught. The king's friends (God
bless
His
Majesty!)
shall
not
go
afasting
in
my
house
I
warrant
me. —Then about! cried the traveller
who
had not spoken,
a
lusty trencherman
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
of
venison,
a
saddle
of
veal,
widgeon
with
crisp hog's bacon,
a
boar's
head
with
pistachios,
a
bason
of
jolly
custard,
a
medlar
tansy
and
a
flagon
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
bare
larder, 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
citizen
about
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
like
the
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
the
hell
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
was
he
drew
up
all the plans according
to
the Hungarian system.
We
know
that
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, the father's
name
that
poisoned himself.
He
changed
it
by
deedpoll, the father did. —That's the
new
Messiah
for
Ireland! says the citizen.
Island
of
saints
and
sages! —Well, they're
still
waiting
for
their
redeemer, says Martin.
For
that
matter
so
are
we. —Yes, says J. J.,
and
every
male
that's born
they
think
it
may
be
their
Messiah.
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
his
that
died
was
born. I met
him
one
day
in
the
south
city
markets buying
a
tin
of
Neave's
food
six
weeks before the
wife
was
delivered. —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
mixed middlings
he
is. Lying
up
in
the
hotel
Pisser
was
telling
me
once
a
month
with
headache
like
a
totty
with
her courses.
Do
you
know
what
I'm telling you? It'd
be
an
act
of
God
to
take
a
hold
of
a
fellow
the
like
of
that
and
throw
him
in
the
bloody
sea.
Justifiable
homicide,
so
it
would.
Then
sloping
off
with
his
five
quid
without putting
up
a
pint
of
stuff
like
a
man.
Give
us
your blessing. Not
as
much
as
would blind your 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. Virag
from
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
our
shores. —Well, says Martin, rapping
for
his
glass.
God
bless
all here
is
my prayer. —Amen, says the citizen. —And I'm
sure
He
will, says Joe.
And
he
laid
his
hands
upon
that
he
blessed
and
gave
thanks
and
he
prayed
and
they
all
with
him
prayed: —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 strike
when
be
damned but
in
he
comes
again
letting
on
to
be
in
a
hell
of
a
hurry. —I
was
just
round
at
the courthouse, says he, looking
for
you. I
hope
I'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's
a
jew
for
you! All
for
number
one.
Cute
as
a
shithouse rat.
Hundred
to
five. —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
a
secret.
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
or
whatever
you
call
him
and
him
in
the
middle
of
them
letting
on
to
be
all
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
poop the helmsman
spread
the bellying
sail
upon
the wind
and
stood
off
forward
with
all
sail
set, the spinnaker
to
larboard.
A
many
comely
nymphs drew
nigh
to
starboard
and
to
larboard
and, clinging
to
the sides
of
the
noble
bark,
they
linked
their
shining forms
as
doth the cunning wheelwright
when
he
fashions
about
the
heart
of
his
wheel the
equidistant
rays
whereof
each
one
is
sister
to
another
and
he
binds
them
all
with
an
outer
ring
and
giveth
speed
to
the feet
of
men whenas
they
ride
to
a
hosting
or
contend
for
the
smile
of
ladies fair.
Even
so
did
they
come
and
set
them,
those
willing
nymphs, the undying sisters.
And
they
laughed, sporting
in
a
circle
of
their
foam:
and
the
bark
clave the waves. But begob I
was
just
lowering the heel
of
the
pint
when
I
saw
the
citizen
getting
up
to
waddle
to
the door, puffing
and
blowing
with
the dropsy,
and
he
cursing the
curse
of
Cromwell
on
him, bell,
book
and
candle
in
Irish, spitting
and
spatting
out
of
him
and
Joe
and
little
Alf 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
bawls
out
of
him: —Three cheers
for
Israel! Arrah,
sit
down
on
the parliamentary
side
of
your
arse
for
Christ' sake
and
don't
be
making
a
public
exhibition
of
yourself. Jesus, there's
always
some
bloody
clown
or
other
kicking
up
a
bloody
murder
about
bloody
nothing. Gob, it'd
turn
the porter
sour
in
your guts,
so
it
would. —Eh, mister! Your
fly
is
open, mister!
And
says he: —Mendelssohn
was
a
jew
and
Karl Marx
and
Mercadante
and
Spinoza.
And
the
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
a
jew
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
holy
name.
By
Jesus, I'll
crucify
him
so
I will.
Give
us
that
biscuitbox here. —Stop! Stop! says Joe. Gob, the
devil
wouldn't stop
him
till
he
got
hold
of
the
bloody
tin
anyhow
and
out
with
him
and
little
Alf hanging
on
to
his
elbow
and
he
shouting
like
a
stuck pig,
as
good
as
any
bloody
play
in
the Queen's royal 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
other
way
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
the
sun
was
in
his
eyes
or
he'd
have
left
him
for
dead. Gob,
he
near
sent
it
into
the
county
Longford. The
bloody
nag
took
fright
and
the
old
mongrel
after
the
car
like
bloody
hell
and
all the
populace
shouting
and
laughing
and
the
old
tinbox clattering
along
the street.
You
never
saw
the
like
of
it
in
all your born puff. Gob,
if
he
got
that
lottery
ticket
on
the
side
of
his
poll he'd
remember
the
gold
cup,
he
would so, but begob the
citizen
would
have
been lagged
for
assault
and
battery
and
Joe
for
aiding
and
abetting. The jarvey saved
his
life
by
furious
driving
as
sure
as
God
made
Moses. What? O, Jesus,
he
did.
And
he
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
old
sheepsface
on
it
gesticulating
and
the
bloody
mongrel
after
it
with
his
lugs
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
promise
you.