IN
THE
HEART
OF
THE HIBERNIAN
METROPOLIS
Before Nelson's
pillar
trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started
for
Blackrock, Kingstown
and
Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar
and
Terenure, Palmerston Park
and
upper
Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Ringsend
and
Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. The
hoarse
Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled
them
off: —Rathgar
and
Terenure! —Come on, Sandymount Green!
Right
and
left
parallel clanging ringing
a
doubledecker
and
a
singledeck moved
from
their
railheads, swerved
to
the
down
line, glided parallel. —Start, Palmerston Park! THE WEARER
OF
THE
CROWN
Under the
porch
of
the
general
post
office
shoeblacks called
and
polished. Parked
in
North Prince's
street
His
Majesty's
vermilion
mailcars, bearing
on
their
sides the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks
of
letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured
and
paid,
for
local, provincial, British
and
overseas delivery. GENTLEMEN
OF
THE
PRESS
Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding
out
of
Prince's stores
and
bumped
them
up
on
the
brewery
float.
On
the
brewery
float
bumped dullthudding barrels rolled
by
grossbooted draymen
out
of
Prince's stores. —There
it
is,
Red
Murray said. Alexander Keyes. The
door
of
Ruttledge's
office
creaked again. Davy Stephens,
minute
in
a
large
capecoat,
a
small felt
hat
crowning
his
ringlets, passed
out
with
a
roll
of
papers under
his
cape,
a
king's courier.
Red
Murray's
long
shears
sliced
out
the
advertisement
from
the newspaper
in
four clean strokes.
Scissors
and
paste. —I'll
go
through the printingworks, Mr
Bloom
said, taking the
cut
square. —Of course,
if
he
wants
a
par,
Red
Murray said earnestly,
a
pen
behind
his
ear,
we
can
do
him
one. —Right, Mr
Bloom
said
with
a
nod. I'll
rub
that
in. We. WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE,
OF
OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT
Red
Murray touched Mr Bloom's
arm
with
the
shears
and
whispered: —Brayden. —Don't
you
think
his
face
is
like
Our
Saviour?
Red
Murray whispered. The
door
of
Ruttledge's
office
whispered: ee: cree.
They
always
build
one
door
opposite
another
for
the wind to.
Way
in.
Way
out.
Our
Saviour: beardframed
oval
face: talking
in
the dusk. Mary, Martha. Steered
by
an
umbrella
sword
to
the footlights: Mario the tenor. —Or
like
Mario, Mr
Bloom
said. —Yes,
Red
Murray agreed. But Mario
was
said
to
be
the
picture
of
Our
Saviour. THE
CROZIER
AND
THE PEN —His
grace
phoned
down
twice
this
morning,
Red
Murray said gravely.
They
watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.
A
telegram
boy
stepped
in
nimbly, threw an
envelope
on
the
counter
and
stepped
off
posthaste
with
a
word: Mr
Bloom
said slowly: —Well,
he
is
one
of
our
saviours also.
A
meek
smile
accompanied
him
as
he
lifted the counterflap,
as
he
passed
in
through
a
sidedoor
and
along
the
warm
dark stairs
and
passage,
along
the
now
reverberating boards. But
will
he
save the circulation? Thumping. Thumping.
He
pushed
in
the glass swingdoor
and
entered, stepping
over
strewn packing paper. Through
a
lane
of
clanking drums
he
made
his
way
towards
Nannetti's
reading
closet.
WITH
UNFEIGNED
REGRET
IT
IS
WE
ANNOUNCE
THE
DISSOLUTION
OF
A
MOST
RESPECTED DUBLIN
BURGESS
Hynes here too:
account
of
the
funeral
probably. Thumping. Thump.
This
morning
the remains
of
the
late
Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash
a
man
to
atoms
if
they
got
him
caught.
Rule
the
world
today.
His
machineries
are
pegging
away
too.
Like
these, got
out
of
hand: fermenting. Working away, tearing away.
And
that
old
grey
rat
tearing
to
get
in.
HOW
A
GREAT
DAILY
ORGAN
IS
TURNED
OUT
Mr
Bloom
halted
behind
the foreman's
spare
body, admiring
a
glossy crown.
Strange
he
never
saw
his
real
country. Ireland my country.
Member
for
College
green.
He
boomed
that
workaday
worker
tack
for
all
it
was
worth. It's the ads
and
side
features
sell
a
weekly, not the stale
news
in
the
official
gazette.
Queen
Anne
is
dead. Published
by
authority
in
the
year
one
thousand
and.
Demesne
situate
in
the townland
of
Rosenallis,
barony
of
Tinnahinch.
To
all
whom
it
may
concern schedule
pursuant
to
statute
showing
return
of
number
of
mules
and
jennets exported
from
Ballina.
Nature
notes. Cartoons. Phil Blake's weekly Pat
and
Bull
story.
Uncle
Toby's
page
for
tiny tots.
Country
bumpkin's queries.
Dear
Mr Editor,
what
is
a
good
cure
for
flatulence? I'd
like
that
part.
Learn
a
lot
teaching
others. The
personal
note. M. A. P. Mainly all pictures. Shapely bathers
on
golden
strand. World's biggest balloon.
Double
marriage
of
sisters celebrated.
Two
bridegrooms laughing heartily
at
each
other. Cuprani too, printer.
More
Irish
than
the Irish. The machines clanked
in
threefour time. Thump, thump, thump.
Now
if
he
got paralysed there
and
no-one knew
how
to
stop
them
they'd clank
on
and
on
the same,
print
it
over
and
over
and
up
and
back. Monkeydoodle the
whole
thing.
Want
a
cool head. —Well,
get
it
into
the
evening
edition, councillor, Hynes said.
Soon
be
calling
him
my lord mayor.
Long
John
is
backing him,
they
say. The foreman, without answering, scribbled
press
on
a
corner
of
the
sheet
and
made
a
sign
to
a
typesetter.
He
handed the
sheet
silently
over
the dirty glass screen. —Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off. Mr
Bloom
stood
in
his
way. —If
you
want
to
draw
the
cashier
is
just
going
to
lunch,
he
said, pointing
backward
with
his
thumb. —Did you? Hynes asked. —Mm, Mr
Bloom
said.
Look
sharp
and
you'll
catch
him. —Thanks,
old
man, Hynes said. I'll
tap
him
too.
Three
bob
I lent
him
in
Meagher's.
Three
weeks.
Third
hint.
WE
SEE
THE CANVASSER
AT
WORK
Mr
Bloom
laid
his
cutting
on
Mr Nannetti's desk. —Excuse me, councillor,
he
said.
This
ad,
you
see. Keyes,
you
remember? Mr Nannetti considered the cutting
awhile
and
nodded. —He wants
it
in
for
July, Mr
Bloom
said. The
foreman
moved
his
pencil
towards
it. —But wait, Mr
Bloom
said.
He
wants
it
changed. Keyes,
you
see.
He
wants
two
keys
at
the top.
Hell
of
a
racket
they
make.
He
doesn't
hear
it. Nannan. Iron nerves. Maybe
he
understands
what
I. The
foreman
turned round
to
hear
patiently and, lifting an elbow, began
to
scratch
slowly
in
the armpit
of
his
alpaca
jacket. —Like that, Mr
Bloom
said, crossing
his
forefingers
at
the top.
Let
him
take
that
in
first. Mr Bloom, glancing sideways
up
from
the
cross
he
had made,
saw
the foreman's
sallow
face,
think
he
has
a
touch
of
jaundice,
and
beyond
the
obedient
reels
feeding
in
huge
webs
of
paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles
of
it
unreeled.
What
becomes
of
it
after? O, wrap
up
meat, parcels:
various
uses,
thousand
and
one
things. Slipping
his
words deftly
into
the pauses
of
the clanking
he
drew swiftly
on
the scarred woodwork.
HOUSE
OF
KEY(E)S —Like that, see.
Two
crossed keys here.
A
circle.
Then
here the name. Alexander Keyes, tea, wine
and
spirit merchant.
So
on.
Better
not
teach
him
his
own
business. —You
know
yourself, councillor,
just
what
he
wants.
Then
round the
top
in
leaded: the
house
of
keys.
You
see?
Do
you
think
that's
a
good
idea? The
foreman
moved
his
scratching
hand
to
his
lower
ribs
and
scratched there quietly. —The idea, Mr
Bloom
said,
is
the
house
of
keys.
You
know, councillor, the Manx parliament.
Innuendo
of
home
rule. Tourists,
you
know,
from
the
isle
of
Man. Catches the eye,
you
see.
Can
you
do
that? —We
can
do
that, the
foreman
said.
Have
you
the design? —I
can
get
it, Mr
Bloom
said.
It
was
in
a
Kilkenny paper.
He
has
a
house
there too. I'll
just
run
out
and
ask
him. Well,
you
can
do
that
and
just
a
little
par
calling attention.
You
know
the usual. Highclass licensed premises. Longfelt want.
So
on. The
foreman
thought
for
an instant. —We
can
do
that,
he
said.
Let
him
give
us
a
three
months' renewal.
A
typesetter brought
him
a
limp galleypage.
He
began
to
check
it
silently. Mr
Bloom
stood by, hearing the
loud
throbs
of
cranks, watching the
silent
typesetters
at
their
cases. ORTHOGRAPHICAL
Want
to
be
sure
of
his
spelling.
Proof
fever.
Martin
Cunningham forgot
to
give
us
his
spellingbee
conundrum
this
morning.
It
is
amusing
to
view the unpar
one
ar alleled embarra
two
ars
is
it?
double
ess ment
of
a
harassed pedlar
while
gauging
au
the
symmetry
with
a
y
of
a
peeled
pear
under
a
cemetery
wall. Silly, isn't it?
Cemetery
put
in
of
course
on
account
of
the symmetry. I should
have
said
when
he
clapped
on
his
topper.
Thank
you. I
ought
to
have
said
something
about
an
old
hat
or
something. No. I
could
have
said. Looks
as
good
as
new
now.
See
his
phiz then. Sllt. The nethermost deck
of
the first
machine
jogged forward its flyboard
with
sllt the first
batch
of
quirefolded papers. Sllt.
Almost
human
the
way
it
sllt
to
call
attention. Doing its
level
best
to
speak.
That
door
too
sllt creaking, asking
to
be
shut. Everything speaks
in
its
own
way. Sllt. NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL
CONTRIBUTOR
The
foreman
handed
back
the galleypage suddenly, saying:
He
looked
about
him
round
his
loud
unanswering machines. —Monks, sir?
a
voice asked
from
the castingbox. —Ay. Where's Monks? —Monks! Mr
Bloom
took
up
his
cutting.
Time
to
get
out. —Then I'll
get
the design, Mr Nannetti,
he
said,
and
you'll
give
it
a
good
place
I know. —Monks! —Yes, sir.
Three
months' renewal.
Want
to
get
some
wind
off
my
chest
first.
Try
it
anyhow.
Rub
in
August:
good
idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists
over
for
the show.
A
DAYFATHER
He
walked
on
through the caseroom passing an
old
man, bowed, spectacled, aproned.
Old
Monks, the dayfather. Queer
lot
of
stuff
he
must
have
put
through
his
hands
in
his
time:
obituary
notices, pubs' ads, speeches,
divorce
suits, found drowned. Nearing the
end
of
his
tether now. Sober
serious
man
with
a
bit
in
the savingsbank I'd say.
Wife
a
good
cook
and
washer.
Daughter
working the
machine
in
the parlour.
Plain
Jane, no
damn
nonsense.
AND
IT
WAS
THE
FEAST
OF
THE PASSOVER Mr
Bloom
passed
on
out
of
the clanking noises through the
gallery
on
to
the landing.
Now
am
I going
to
tram
it
out
all the
way
and
then
catch
him
out
perhaps.
Better
phone
him
up
first. Number? Yes.
Same
as
Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight
double
four.
ONLY
ONCE
MORE
THAT
SOAP
He
went
down
the
house
staircase.
Who
the
deuce
scrawled all
over
those
walls
with
matches? Looks
as
if
they
did
it
for
a
bet. Heavy greasy
smell
there
always
is
in
those
works. Lukewarm
glue
in
Thom's
next
door
when
I
was
there.
He
took
out
his
handkerchief
to
dab
his
nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the
soap
I
put
there.
Lose
it
out
of
that
pocket. Putting
back
his
handkerchief
he
took
out
the
soap
and
stowed
it
away, buttoned,
into
the
hip
pocket
of
his
trousers.
What
perfume
does your
wife
use? I
could
go
home
still: tram:
something
I forgot.
Just
to
see: before: dressing. No. Here. No.
He
entered softly. ERIN,
GREEN
GEM
OF
THE
SILVER
SEA
—The
ghost
walks,
professor
MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully
to
the dusty windowpane. Mr Dedalus, staring
from
the empty fireplace
at
Ned Lambert's quizzing face, asked
of
it
sourly: —Agonising Christ, wouldn't
it
give
you
a
heartburn
on
your arse? Ned Lambert, seated
on
the table, read on: —Changing
his
drink, Mr Dedalus said. Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper
on
his
knees, repeating: —And Xenophon looked
upon
Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking
again
on
the fireplace
and
to
the window,
and
Marathon
looked
on
the sea. —That
will
do,
professor
MacHugh cried
from
the window. I don't
want
to
hear
any
more
of
the stuff.
He
ate
off
the
crescent
of
water
biscuit
he
had been nibbling and, hungered,
made
ready
to
nibble the
biscuit
in
his
other
hand. High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert
is
taking
a
day
off
I see.
Rather
upsets
a
man's day,
a
funeral
does.
He
has
influence
they
say.
Old
Chatterton, the vicechancellor,
is
his
granduncle
or
his
greatgranduncle. Close
on
ninety
they
say. Subleader
for
his
death
written
this
long
time
perhaps.
Living
to
spite them.
Might
go
first himself. Johnny,
make
room
for
your uncle. The
right
honourable
Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Daresay
he
writes
him
an
odd
shaky cheque
or
two
on
gale
days. Windfall
when
he
kicks out. Alleluia. —Just
another
spasm, Ned Lambert said. —What
is
it? Mr
Bloom
asked. —Whose land? Mr
Bloom
said simply. —Most
pertinent
question, the
professor
said
between
his
chews.
With
an
accent
on
the whose. —Dan Dawson's
land
Mr Dedalus said. —Is
it
his
speech
last
night? Mr
Bloom
asked. Ned Lambert nodded. —But
listen
to
this,
he
said. The
doorknob
hit
Mr
Bloom
in
the small
of
the
back
as
the
door
was
pushed in. —Excuse me, J. J. O'Molloy said, entering. Mr
Bloom
moved nimbly aside. —I
beg
yours,
he
said. —Good day, Jack. —Come in.
Come
in. —Good day. —How
are
you, Dedalus? —Well.
And
yourself? J. J. O'Molloy shook
his
head.
SAD
Cleverest
fellow
at
the
junior
bar
he
used
to
be. Decline,
poor
chap.
That
hectic
flush spells
finis
for
a
man.
Touch
and
go
with
him. What's
in
the wind, I wonder.
Money
worry. —You're looking extra. —Is the
editor
to
be
seen? J. J. O'Molloy asked, looking
towards
the
inner
door. —Very
much
so,
professor
MacHugh said.
To
be
seen
and
heard. He's
in
his
sanctum
with
Lenehan. J. J. O'Molloy strolled
to
the sloping
desk
and
began
to
turn
back
the
pink
pages
of
the file. —Bombast! the
professor
broke
in
testily.
Enough
of
the inflated windbag! —Bathe
his
lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed
and
eternal
God! Yes?
Is
he
taking
anything
for
it?
HIS
NATIVE
DORIC —The moon,
professor
MacHugh said.
He
forgot Hamlet. —O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving
vent
to
a
hopeless groan.
Shite
and
onions! That'll do, Ned.
Life
is
too
short.
He
took
off
his
silk
hat
and, blowing
out
impatiently
his
bushy moustache, welshcombed
his
hair
with
raking fingers. Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling
with
delight. An
instant
after
a
hoarse
bark
of
laughter
burst
over
professor
MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face. —Doughy Daw!
he
cried.
WHAT
WETHERUP SAID All
very
fine
to
jeer
at
it
now
in
cold
print
but
it
goes
down
like
hot
cake
that
stuff.
He
was
in
the bakery line too, wasn't he?
Why
they
call
him
Doughy Daw. Feathered
his
nest
well
anyhow.
Daughter
engaged
to
that
chap
in
the
inland
revenue
office
with
the motor.
Hooked
that
nicely. Entertainments.
Open
house.
Big
blowout. Wetherup
always
said that.
Get
a
grip
of
them
by
the stomach. The
inner
door
was
opened violently
and
a
scarlet
beaked face, crested
by
a
comb
of
feathery hair, thrust
itself
in. The
bold
blue eyes stared
about
them
and
the
harsh
voice asked: —What
is
it? —And here comes the sham squire himself!
professor
MacHugh said grandly. —Getonouthat,
you
bloody
old
pedagogue! the
editor
said
in
recognition. —Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting
on
his
hat. I
must
get
a
drink
after
that. —Drink! the
editor
cried. No drinks served before mass. —Quite
right
too, Mr Dedalus said, going out.
Come
on, Ned. Ned Lambert sidled
down
from
the table. The editor's blue eyes roved
towards
Mr Bloom's face, shadowed
by
a
smile. —Will
you
join
us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.
MEMORABLE
BATTLES RECALLED —North Cork militia! the
editor
cried, striding
to
the mantelpiece.
We
won
every
time! North Cork
and
Spanish officers! —Where
was
that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked
with
a
reflective glance
at
his
toecaps. —In Ohio! the
editor
shouted. —So
it
was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed. Passing
out
he
whispered
to
J. J. O'Molloy: —Incipient jigs.
Sad
case. —Ohio! the
editor
crowed
in
high
treble
from
his
uplifted
scarlet
face. My Ohio! —A perfect cretic! the
professor
said. Long,
short
and
long. O,
HARP
EOLIAN!
He
took
a
reel
of
dental
floss
from
his
waistcoat
pocket
and, breaking
off
a
piece, twanged
it
smartly
between
two
and
two
of
his
resonant
unwashed
teeth. —Bingbang, bangbang. Mr Bloom,
seeing
the
coast
clear,
made
for
the
inner
door. —Just
a
moment, Mr Crawford,
he
said. I
just
want
to
phone
about
an ad.
He
went in. —What
about
that
leader
this
evening?
professor
MacHugh asked, coming
to
the
editor
and
laying
a
firm
hand
on
his
shoulder. —That'll
be
all right, Myles Crawford said
more
calmly.
Never
you
fret. Hello, Jack. That's all right. —Good day, Myles, J. J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages
he
held slip limply
back
on
the file.
Is
that
Canada swindle
case
on
today? The telephone whirred inside. —Twentyeight... No, twenty...
Double
four... Yes.
SPOT
THE WINNER Lenehan came
out
of
the
inner
office
with
SPORT'S tissues. —Who wants
a
dead
cert
for
the
Gold
cup?
he
asked. Sceptre
with
O. Madden up.
He
tossed the tissues
on
to
the table. Screams
of
newsboys
barefoot
in
the
hall
rushed
near
and
the
door
was
flung open. —Hush, Lenehan said. I
hear
feetstoops.
Professor
MacHugh strode
across
the
room
and
seized the cringing
urchin
by
the collar
as
the others scampered
out
of
the
hall
and
down
the steps. The tissues rustled
up
in
the draught, floated softly
in
the air blue scrawls
and
under the table came
to
earth. —It wasn't me, sir.
It
was
the
big
fellow
shoved me, sir. —Throw
him
out
and
shut
the door, the
editor
said. There's
a
hurricane
blowing. Lenehan began
to
paw
the tissues
up
from
the floor, grunting
as
he
stooped twice. —Waiting
for
the racing special, sir, the newsboy said.
It
was
Pat Farrell shoved me, sir.
He
pointed
to
two
faces peering
in
round the doorframe. —Him, sir. —Out
of
this
with
you,
professor
MacHugh said gruffly.
He
hustled the
boy
out
and
banged the
door
to. J. J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking: —Continued
on
page
six,
column
four.
A
COLLISION
ENSUES The bell whirred
again
as
he
rang
off.
He
came
in
quickly
and
bumped against Lenehan
who
was
struggling
up
with
the
second
tissue. —My fault, Mr
Bloom
said, suffering
his
grip.
Are
you
hurt? I'm
in
a
hurry. —Knee, Lenehan said.
He
made
a
comic
face
and
whined, rubbing
his
knee: —Sorry, Mr
Bloom
said.
He
went
to
the
door
and, holding
it
ajar, paused. J. J. O'Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. The
noise
of
two
shrill voices,
a
mouthorgan, echoed
in
the
bare
hallway
from
the newsboys squatted
on
the doorsteps:
EXIT
BLOOM
—I'm
just
running round
to
Bachelor's walk, Mr
Bloom
said,
about
this
ad
of
Keyes's.
Want
to
fix
it
up.
They
tell
me
he's round there
in
Dillon's.
He
looked indecisively
for
a
moment
at
their
faces. The
editor
who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped
his
head
on
his
hand, suddenly stretched
forth
an
arm
amply. —Begone!
he
said. The
world
is
before you. —Back
in
no time, Mr
Bloom
said, hurrying out. J. J. O'Molloy took the tissues
from
Lenehan's
hand
and
read them, blowing
them
apart
gently, without comment. —He'll
get
that
advertisement, the
professor
said, staring through
his
blackrimmed spectacles
over
the crossblind.
Look
at
the
young
scamps
after
him. —Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running
to
the window.
A
STREET
CORTEGE
Both smiled
over
the crossblind
at
the
file
of
capering newsboys
in
Mr Bloom's wake, the
last
zigzagging
white
on
the breeze
a
mocking kite,
a
tail
of
white
bowknots. —Look
at
the
young
guttersnipe
behind
him
hue
and
cry, Lenehan said,
and
you'll kick. O, my
rib
risible! Taking
off
his
flat
spaugs
and
the walk. Small nines.
Steal
upon
larks.
He
began
to
mazurka
in
swift caricature
across
the
floor
on
sliding feet past the fireplace
to
J. J. O'Molloy
who
placed the tissues
in
his
receiving hands. —What's that? Myles Crawford said
with
a
start.
Where
are
the
other
two
gone? —Who? the
professor
said, turning. They're gone round
to
the
Oval
for
a
drink. Paddy Hooper
is
there
with
Jack
Hall. Came
over
last
night. —Come
on
then, Myles Crawford said. Where's my hat?
He
walked jerkily
into
the
office
behind, parting the
vent
of
his
jacket, jingling
his
keys
in
his
back
pocket.
They
jingled
then
in
the air
and
against the
wood
as
he
locked
his
desk
drawer. —He's pretty
well
on,
professor
MacHugh said
in
a
low
voice. —Seems
to
be, J. J. O'Molloy said, taking
out
a
cigarettecase
in
murmuring meditation, but
it
is
not
always
as
it
seems.
Who
has the
most
matches? THE
CALUMET
OF
PEACE
He
offered
a
cigarette
to
the
professor
and
took
one
himself. Lenehan promptly struck
a
match
for
them
and
lit
their
cigarettes
in
turn. J. J. O'Molloy opened
his
case
again
and
offered it. The
editor
came
from
the
inner
office,
a
straw
hat
awry
on
his
brow.
He
declaimed
in
song, pointing sternly
at
professor
MacHugh: The
professor
grinned, locking
his
long
lips. —Eh?
You
bloody
old
Roman
empire? Myles Crawford said.
He
took
a
cigarette
from
the
open
case. Lenehan,
lighting
it
for
him
with
quick
grace, said: —Silence
for
my brandnew riddle! Myles Crawford blew
his
first
puff
violently
towards
the ceiling. —That's it,
he
said.
We
are
the fat.
You
and
I
are
the
fat
in
the fire.
We
haven't got the
chance
of
a
snowball
in
hell. THE
GRANDEUR
THAT
WAS
ROME —Wait
a
moment,
professor
MacHugh said,
raising
two
quiet
claws.
We
mustn't
be
led
away
by
words,
by
sounds
of
words.
We
think
of
Rome, imperial, imperious, imperative.
He
extended elocutionary arms
from
frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing: —Which
they
accordingly
did
do, Lenehan said.
Our
old
ancient
ancestors,
as
we
read
in
the first
chapter
of
Guinness's,
were
partial
to
the running stream. —They
were
nature's gentlemen, J. J. O'Molloy murmured. But
we
have
also
Roman
law. —And Pontius Pilate
is
its prophet,
professor
MacHugh responded. —Do
you
know
that
story
about
chief
baron
Palles? J. J. O'Molloy asked.
It
was
at
the royal
university
dinner. Everything
was
going swimmingly ... —First my riddle, Lenehan said.
Are
you
ready? Mr O'Madden Burke,
tall
in
copious
grey
of
Donegal tweed, came
in
from
the hallway. Stephen Dedalus,
behind
him, uncovered
as
he
entered. —I
escort
a
suppliant, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously.
Youth
led
by
Experience visits Notoriety. —How
do
you
do? the
editor
said, holding
out
a
hand.
Come
in. Your
governor
is
just
gone.??? Lenehan said
to
all: —Silence!
What
opera
resembles
a
railwayline? Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. Stephen handed
over
the typed sheets, pointing
to
the title
and
signature. —Who? the
editor
asked.
Bit
torn off. —Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said. —That
old
pelters, the
editor
said.
Who
tore it?
Was
he
short
taken? —Good day, Stephen, the
professor
said, coming
to
peer
over
their
shoulders.
Foot
and
mouth?
Are
you
turned...? Bullockbefriending bard. SHINDY
IN
WELLKNOWN
RESTAURANT
—Good day, sir, Stephen answered blushing. The
letter
is
not mine. Mr Garrett Deasy asked
me
to... —O, I
know
him, Myles Crawford said,
and
I knew
his
wife
too. The bloodiest
old
tartar
God
ever
made.
By
Jesus,
she
had the
foot
and
mouth
disease
and
no mistake! The
night
she
threw the
soup
in
the waiter's face
in
the Star
and
Garter. Oho!
A
woman
brought
sin
into
the world.
For
Helen, the runaway
wife
of
Menelaus, ten years the Greeks. O'Rourke, prince
of
Breffni. —Is
he
a
widower? Stephen asked. —Ay,
a
grass
one, Myles Crawford said,
his
eye
running
down
the typescript. Emperor's horses. Habsburg. An Irishman saved
his
life
on
the ramparts
of
Vienna. Don't
you
forget! Maximilian Karl O'Donnell, graf von Tirconnell
in
Ireland. Sent
his
heir
over
to
make
the
king
an Austrian fieldmarshal now. Going
to
be
trouble
there
one
day. Wild geese. O yes,
every
time. Don't
you
forget
that! —The moot
point
is
did
he
forget
it, J. J. O'Molloy said quietly, turning
a
horseshoe
paperweight. Saving princes
is
a
thank
you
job.
Professor
MacHugh turned
on
him. —And
if
not?
he
said. —I'll
tell
you
how
it
was, Myles Crawford began.
A
Hungarian
it
was
one
day... LOST CAUSES
NOBLE
MARQUESS MENTIONED
KYRIE
ELEISON!
A
smile
of
light
brightened
his
darkrimmed eyes, lengthened
his
long
lips.
He
strode
away
from
them
towards
the window. —They went
forth
to
battle, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but
they
always
fell.
He
whispered
then
near
Stephen's ear: LENEHAN'S
LIMERICK
In
mourning
for
Sallust, Mulligan says.
Whose
mother
is
beastly dead. Myles Crawford crammed the sheets
into
a
sidepocket. —That'll
be
all right,
he
said. I'll read the
rest
after. That'll
be
all right. Lenehan extended
his
hands
in
protest. —But my riddle!
he
said.
What
opera
is
like
a
railwayline? —Opera? Mr O'Madden Burke's
sphinx
face reriddled. Lenehan announced gladly:
He
poked Mr O'Madden Burke
mildly
in
the spleen. Mr O'Madden Burke
fell
back
with
grace
on
his
umbrella, feigning
a
gasp. —Help!
he
sighed. I feel
a
strong
weakness. Lenehan, rising
to
tiptoe, fanned
his
face rapidly
with
the rustling tissues. The professor, returning
by
way
of
the files, swept
his
hand
across
Stephen's
and
Mr O'Madden Burke's
loose
ties. —Paris, past
and
present,
he
said.
You
look
like
communards. —Like fellows
who
had
blown
up
the Bastile, J. J. O'Molloy said
in
quiet
mockery.
Or
was
it
you
shot
the lord
lieutenant
of
Finland
between
you?
You
look
as
though
you
had done the deed.
General
Bobrikoff.
OMNIUM
GATHERUM —We
were
only
thinking
about
it, Stephen said. —All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics... —The turf, Lenehan
put
in. —Literature, the press. —If
Bloom
were
here, the
professor
said. The
gentle
art
of
advertisement. —And Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke added. The
vocal
muse. Dublin's prime favourite. Lenehan gave
a
loud
cough. —Ahem!
he
said
very
softly. O,
for
a
fresh
of
breath
air! I caught
a
cold
in
the park. The gate
was
open.
YOU
CAN
DO
IT! The
editor
laid
a
nervous
hand
on
Stephen's shoulder.
See
it
in
your face.
See
it
in
your eye.
Lazy
idle
little
schemer. —Foot
and
mouth
disease! the
editor
cried
in
scornful invective.
Great
nationalist
meeting
in
Borris-in-Ossory. All balls! Bulldosing the public!
Give
them
something
with
a
bite
in
it.
Put
us
all
into
it,
damn
its soul. Father,
Son
and
Holy
Ghost
and
Jakes M'Carthy. —We
can
all supply
mental
pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Stephen raised
his
eyes
to
the
bold
unheeding stare. —He wants
you
for
the pressgang, J. J. O'Molloy said. THE
GREAT
GALLAHER —You
can
do
it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching
his
hand
in
emphasis.
Wait
a
minute. We'll paralyse Europe
as
Ignatius Gallaher used
to
say
when
he
was
on
the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking
in
the Clarence. Gallaher,
that
was
a
pressman
for
you.
That
was
a
pen.
You
know
how
he
made
his
mark? I'll
tell
you.
That
was
the smartest
piece
of
journalism
ever
known.
That
was
in
eightyone,
sixth
of
May,
time
of
the invincibles,
murder
in
the
Phoenix
park, before
you
were
born, I suppose. I'll
show
you.
He
pushed past
them
to
the files.
Professor
MacHugh nodded. —Skin-the-Goat, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Fitzharris.
He
has
that
cabman's shelter,
they
say,
down
there
at
Butt
bridge. Holohan told me.
You
know
Holohan? —Hop
and
carry one,
is
it? Myles Crawford said. —And
poor
Gumley
is
down
there too,
so
he
told me, minding stones
for
the corporation.
A
night
watchman. Stephen turned
in
surprise. —Gumley?
he
said.
You
don't
say
so?
A
friend
of
my father's,
is
it?
He
flung
back
pages
of
the files
and
stuck
his
finger
on
a
point. —Take
page
four,
advertisement
for
Bransome's coffee,
let
us
say.
Have
you
got that? Right. The telephone whirred.
A
DISTANT
VOICE —I'll
answer
it, the
professor
said, going. —B
is
parkgate. Good.
His
finger
leaped
and
struck
point
after
point, vibrating. —T
is
viceregal lodge. C
is
where
murder
took place. K
is
Knockmaroon gate. The
loose
flesh
of
his
neck
shook
like
a
cock's wattles. An illstarched dicky jutted
up
and
with
a
rude
gesture
he
thrust
it
back
into
his
waistcoat. —F
to
P
is
the route Skin-the-Goat
drove
the
car
for
an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown,
Windy
Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. F.A.B.P. Got that? X
is
Davy's publichouse
in
upper
Leeson street. The
professor
came
to
the
inner
door. —Bloom
is
at
the telephone,
he
said. —Tell
him
go
to
hell, the
editor
said promptly. X
is
Davy's publichouse, see? CLEVER,
VERY
—Clever, Lenehan said. Very. —Gave
it
to
them
on
a
hot
plate, Myles Crawford said, the
whole
bloody
history.
Nightmare
from
which
you
will
never
awake. —I
saw
it, the
editor
said proudly. I
was
present. Dick Adams, the besthearted
bloody
Corkman the Lord
ever
put
the
breath
of
life
in,
and
myself. Lenehan bowed
to
a
shape
of
air, announcing: —Madam, I'm Adam.
And
Able
was
I
ere
I
saw
Elba. —The father
of
scare
journalism, Lenehan confirmed,
and
the
brother-in-law
of
Chris Callinan. —Hello?...
Are
you
there?... Yes, he's here still.
Come
across
yourself. —Where
do
you
find
a
pressman
like
that
now, eh? the
editor
cried.
He
flung the pages down. —Clamn dever, Lenehan said
to
Mr O'Madden Burke. —Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
Professor
MacHugh came
from
the
inner
office. —Talking
about
the invincibles,
he
said,
did
you
see
that
some
hawkers
were
up
before the recorder? —O yes, J. J. O'Molloy said eagerly.
Lady
Dudley
was
walking
home
through the park
to
see
all the trees
that
were
blown
down
by
that
cyclone
last
year
and
thought
she'd
buy
a
view
of
Dublin.
And
it
turned
out
to
be
a
commemoration
postcard
of
Joe Brady
or
Number
One
or
Skin-the-Goat.
Right
outside the viceregal lodge, imagine! —They're
only
in
the hook
and
eye
department, Myles Crawford said. Psha!
Press
and
the bar!
Where
have
you
a
man
now
at
the
bar
like
those
fellows,
like
Whiteside,
like
Isaac Butt,
like
silvertongued O'Hagan. Eh? Ah,
bloody
nonsense. Psha!
Only
in
the
halfpenny
place.
His
mouth
continued
to
twitch unspeaking
in
nervous
curls
of
disdain. Would
anyone
wish
that
mouth
for
her kiss?
How
do
you
know?
Why
did
you
write
it
then? RHYMES
AND
REASONS Mouth, south.
Is
the
mouth
south
someway?
Or
the
south
a
mouth?
Must
be
some. South, pout, out, shout, drouth. Rhymes:
two
men dressed the same, looking the same,
two
by
two. —Speak
up
for
yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
SUFFICIENT
FOR
THE DAY... J. J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took
up
the gage. —Grattan
and
Flood wrote
for
this
very
paper, the
editor
cried
in
his
face. Irish volunteers.
Where
are
you
now? Established 1763. Dr Lucas.
Who
have
you
now
like
John Philpot Curran? Psha! —Well, J. J. O'Molloy said, Bushe K.C.,
for
example. —Bushe? the
editor
said. Well, yes: Bushe, yes.
He
has
a
strain
of
it
in
his
blood. Kendal Bushe
or
I
mean
Seymour Bushe. —He would
have
been
on
the
bench
long
ago, the
professor
said,
only
for
... But no matter. J. J. O'Molloy turned
to
Stephen
and
said quietly
and
slowly:
By
the
way
how
did
he
find
that
out?
He
died
in
his
sleep.
Or
the
other
story,
beast
with
two
backs? —What
was
that? the
professor
asked. ITALIA, MAGISTRA ARTIUM —Ha. —A
few
wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence! Pause. J. J. O'Molloy took
out
his
cigarettecase.
False
lull.
Something
quite
ordinary.
Messenger
took
out
his
matchbox thoughtfully
and
lit
his
cigar. I
have
often
thought
since
on
looking
back
over
that
strange
time
that
it
was
that
small act,
trivial
in
itself,
that
striking
of
that
match,
that
determined the
whole
aftercourse
of
both
our
lives.
A
POLISHED
PERIOD
J. J. O'Molloy resumed, moulding
his
words:
His
slim
hand
with
a
wave
graced
echo
and
fall. —Fine! Myles Crawford said
at
once. —The
divine
afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke said. —You
like
it? J. J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Stephen,
his
blood wooed
by
grace
of
language
and
gesture, blushed.
He
took
a
cigarette
from
the case. J. J. O'Molloy offered
his
case
to
Myles Crawford. Lenehan
lit
their
cigarettes
as
before
and
took
his
trophy, saying: —Muchibus thankibus.
A
MAN
OF
HIGH
MORALE
—Professor Magennis
was
speaking
to
me
about
you, J. J. O'Molloy said
to
Stephen.
What
do
you
think
really
of
that
hermetic
crowd, the
opal
hush
poets: A. E. the mastermystic?
That
Blavatsky
woman
started it.
She
was
a
nice
old
bag
of
tricks. A. E. has been telling
some
yankee interviewer
that
you
came
to
him
in
the small hours
of
the
morning
to
ask
him
about
planes
of
consciousness. Magennis thinks
you
must
have
been pulling A. E.'s leg.
He
is
a
man
of
the
very
highest morale, Magennis. Speaking
about
me.
What
did
he
say?
What
did
he
say?
What
did
he
say
about
me? Don't ask. —No, thanks,
professor
MacHugh said, waving the cigarettecase aside.
Wait
a
moment.
Let
me
say
one
thing. The finest display
of
oratory
I
ever
heard
was
a
speech
made
by
John F Taylor
at
the
college
historical
society. Mr
Justice
Fitzgibbon, the
present
lord
justice
of
appeal, had spoken
and
the paper under
debate
was
an
essay
(new
for
those
days), advocating the revival
of
the Irish tongue.
He
turned
towards
Myles Crawford
and
said: —You
know
Gerald Fitzgibbon.
Then
you
can
imagine
the style
of
his
discourse. —He
is
sitting
with
Tim Healy, J. J. O'Molloy said, rumour has it,
on
the
Trinity
college
estates commission. —He
is
sitting
with
a
sweet
thing, Myles Crawford said,
in
a
child's frock.
Go
on. Well? —It
was
the speech,
mark
you, the
professor
said,
of
a
finished orator,
full
of
courteous
haughtiness
and
pouring
in
chastened
diction
I
will
not
say
the vials
of
his
wrath
but pouring the
proud
man's
contumely
upon
the
new
movement.
It
was
then
a
new
movement.
We
were
weak,
therefore
worthless.
He
closed
his
long
thin
lips an
instant
but,
eager
to
be
on, raised an outspanned
hand
to
his
spectacles and,
with
trembling thumb
and
ringfinger touching
lightly
the
black
rims, steadied
them
to
a
new
focus. IMPROMPTU
In
ferial
tone
he
addressed J. J. O'Molloy: —Taylor had
come
there,
you
must
know,
from
a
sickbed.
That
he
had prepared
his
speech
I
do
not
believe
for
there
was
not
even
one
shorthandwriter
in
the hall.
His
dark
lean
face had
a
growth
of
shaggy
beard
round it.
He
wore
a
loose
white
silk
neckcloth
and
altogether
he
looked (though
he
was
not)
a
dying man.
His
gaze turned
at
once
but
slowly
from
J. J. O'Molloy's
towards
Stephen's face
and
then
bent
at
once
to
the ground, seeking.
His
unglazed
linen
collar appeared
behind
his
bent head, soiled
by
his
withering hair.
Still
seeking,
he
said: —When Fitzgibbon's
speech
had ended John F Taylor
rose
to
reply. Briefly,
as
well
as
I
can
bring
them
to
mind,
his
words
were
these.
He
raised
his
head
firmly.
His
eyes bethought
themselves
once
more.
Witless
shellfish
swam
in
the gross lenses
to
and
fro, seeking outlet.
He
began:
FROM
THE FATHERS
It
was
revealed
to
me
that
those
things
are
good
which
yet
are
corrupted
which
neither
if
they
were
supremely
good
nor
unless
they
were
good
could
be
corrupted. Ah,
curse
you! That's saint Augustine. Nile. Child, man, effigy.
By
the Nilebank the babemaries kneel,
cradle
of
bulrushes:
a
man
supple
in
combat: stonehorned, stonebearded,
heart
of
stone.
A
dumb
belch
of
hunger
cleft
his
speech.
He
lifted
his
voice
above
it
boldly:
He
ceased
and
looked
at
them, enjoying
a
silence. OMINOUS—FOR HIM! J. J. O'Molloy said not without regret: —And
yet
he
died without having entered the
land
of
promise. —A sudden—at—the—moment—though—from—lingering—illness—often— previously—expectorated—demise, Lenehan added.
And
with
a
great
future
behind
him. The troop
of
bare
feet
was
heard rushing
along
the
hallway
and
pattering
up
the staircase. —That
is
oratory, the
professor
said uncontradicted. Gone
with
the wind. Hosts
at
Mullaghmast
and
Tara
of
the kings. Miles
of
ears
of
porches. The tribune's words, howled
and
scattered
to
the four winds.
A
people
sheltered within
his
voice.
Dead
noise. Akasic records
of
all
that
ever
anywhere wherever was.
Love
and
laud
him:
me
no more. I
have
money. —Gentlemen, Stephen said.
As
the
next
motion
on
the
agenda
paper
may
I
suggest
that
the
house
do
now
adjourn? —You
take
my
breath
away.
It
is
not
perchance
a
French compliment? Mr O'Madden Burke asked. 'Tis the hour, methinks,
when
the winejug, metaphorically speaking,
is
most
grateful
in
Ye
ancient
hostelry. —That
it
be
and
hereby
is
resolutely resolved. All
that
are
in
favour
say
ay, Lenehan announced. The
contrary
no. I
declare
it
carried.
To
which
particular
boosing shed?... My casting vote is: Mooney's!
He
led the way, admonishing: —We
will
sternly
refuse
to
partake
of
strong
waters,
will
we
not? Yes,
we
will
not.
By
no
manner
of
means. Mr O'Madden Burke,
following
close, said
with
an ally's lunge
of
his
umbrella: —Lay on, Macduff! —Chip
of
the
old
block! the
editor
cried, clapping Stephen
on
the shoulder.
Let
us
go.
Where
are
those
blasted keys?
He
fumbled
in
his
pocket
pulling
out
the crushed typesheets. —Foot
and
mouth. I know. That'll
be
all right. That'll
go
in.
Where
are
they? That's all right.
He
thrust the sheets
back
and
went
into
the
inner
office.
LET
US
HOPE
J. J. O'Molloy,
about
to
follow
him
in, said quietly
to
Stephen: —I
hope
you
will
live
to
see
it
published. Myles,
one
moment.
He
went
into
the
inner
office, closing the
door
behind
him. The first newsboy came pattering
down
the stairs
at
their
heels
and
rushed
out
into
the street, yelling: —Racing special! Dublin. I
have
much,
much
to
learn.
They
turned
to
the
left
along
Abbey
street. —I
have
a
vision
too, Stephen said. —Yes? the
professor
said, skipping
to
get
into
step. Crawford
will
follow.
Another
newsboy
shot
past them, yelling
as
he
ran: —Racing special!
DEAR
DIRTY DUBLIN Dubliners. —Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said,
elderly
and
pious,
have
lived
fifty
and
fiftythree years
in
Fumbally's lane. —Where
is
that? the
professor
asked. —Off Blackpitts, Stephen said. Damp
night
reeking
of
hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistering
tallow
under her
fustian
shawl.
Frantic
hearts. Akasic records. Quicker, darlint!
On
now.
Dare
it.
Let
there
be
life. —They
want
to
see
the views
of
Dublin
from
the
top
of
Nelson's pillar.
They
save
up
three
and
tenpence
in
a
red
tin
letterbox moneybox.
They
shake
out
the threepenny bits
and
sixpences
and
coax
out
the pennies
with
the
blade
of
a
knife.
Two
and
three
in
silver
and
one
and
seven
in
coppers.
They
put
on
their
bonnets
and
best
clothes
and
take
their
umbrellas
for
fear
it
may
come
on
to
rain. —Wise virgins,
professor
MacHugh said.
LIFE
ON
THE
RAW
—They
buy
one
and
fourpenceworth
of
brawn
and
four slices
of
panloaf
at
the north
city
diningrooms
in
Marlborough
street
from
Miss
Kate Collins, proprietress...
They
purchase
four
and
twenty
ripe
plums
from
a
girl
at
the
foot
of
Nelson's
pillar
to
take
off
the
thirst
of
the brawn.
They
give
two
threepenny bits
to
the gentleman
at
the turnstile
and
begin
to
waddle
slowly
up
the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging
each
other,
afraid
of
the dark, panting,
one
asking the
other
have
you
the brawn, praising
God
and
the Blessed Virgin, threatening
to
come
down, peeping
at
the airslits.
Glory
be
to
God.
They
had no
idea
it
was
that
high.
Their
names
are
Anne Kearns
and
Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the
lumbago
for
which
she
rubs
on
Lourdes water,
given
her
by
a
lady
who
got
a
bottleful
from
a
passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes
a
crubeen
and
a
bottle
of
double
X
for
supper
every
Saturday. —Antithesis, the
professor
said nodding twice.
Vestal
virgins. I
can
see
them. What's keeping
our
friend?
He
turned.
A
bevy
of
scampering newsboys rushed
down
the steps, scattering
in
all directions, yelling,
their
white
papers fluttering.
Hard
after
them
Myles Crawford appeared
on
the steps,
his
hat
aureoling
his
scarlet
face, talking
with
J. J. O'Molloy. —Come along, the
professor
cried, waving
his
arm.
He
set
off
again
to
walk
by
Stephen's side.
RETURN
OF
BLOOM
—Yes,
he
said. I
see
them. —Mr Crawford!
A
moment! —What
is
it? Myles Crawford said, falling
back
a
pace.
A
newsboy cried
in
Mr Bloom's face: —Terrible
tragedy
in
Rathmines!
A
child
bit
by
a
bellows! INTERVIEW
WITH
THE
EDITOR
—Will
you
tell
him
he
can
kiss
my arse? Myles Crawford said throwing
out
his
arm
for
emphasis.
Tell
him
that
straight
from
the stable.
A
bit
nervy.
Look
out
for
squalls. All
off
for
a
drink.
Arm
in
arm. Lenehan's yachting
cap
on
the cadge beyond.
Usual
blarney.
Wonder
is
that
young
Dedalus the moving spirit. Has
a
good
pair
of
boots
on
him
today.
Last
time
I
saw
him
he
had
his
heels
on
view. Been walking
in
muck somewhere.
Careless
chap.
What
was
he
doing
in
Irishtown? —Well, Mr
Bloom
said,
his
eyes returning,
if
I
can
get
the
design
I
suppose
it's
worth
a
short
par. He'd
give
the ad, I think. I'll
tell
him
... K.M.R.I.A. —He
can
kiss
my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly
over
his
shoulder.
Any
time
he
likes,
tell
him.
While
Mr
Bloom
stood weighing the
point
and
about
to
smile
he
strode
on
jerkily.
RAISING
THE WIND J. J. O'Molloy pulled
a
long
face
and
walked
on
silently.
They
caught
up
on
the others
and
walked abreast. —When
they
have
eaten the
brawn
and
the bread
and
wiped
their
twenty
fingers
in
the paper the bread
was
wrapped
in
they
go
nearer
to
the railings. —Something
for
you, the
professor
explained
to
Myles Crawford.
Two
old
Dublin women
on
the
top
of
Nelson's pillar.
SOME
COLUMN!—THAT'S
WHAT
WADDLER
ONE
SAID —That's new, Myles Crawford said. That's copy.
Out
for
the waxies Dargle.
Two
old
trickies, what? —But
they
are
afraid
the
pillar
will
fall, Stephen went on.
They
see
the roofs
and
argue
about
where
the
different
churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, Adam
and
Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. But
it
makes
them
giddy
to
look
so
they
pull
up
their
skirts...
THOSE
SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES —Easy all, Myles Crawford said. No
poetic
licence. We're
in
the archdiocese here. —And
settle
down
on
their
striped petticoats, peering
up
at
the
statue
of
the onehandled adulterer. —Onehandled adulterer! the
professor
cried. I
like
that. I
see
the idea. I
see
what
you
mean. DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS,
BELIEF
—It gives
them
a
crick
in
their
necks, Stephen said,
and
they
are
too
tired
to
look
up
or
down
or
to
speak.
They
put
the
bag
of
plums
between
them
and
eat
the plums
out
of
it,
one
after
another, wiping
off
with
their
handkerchiefs the plumjuice
that
dribbles
out
of
their
mouths
and
spitting the plumstones
slowly
out
between
the railings.
He
gave
a
sudden
loud
young
laugh
as
a
close. Lenehan
and
Mr O'Madden Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned
and
led
on
across
towards
Mooney's. —Finished? Myles Crawford said.
So
long
as
they
do
no worse.
SOPHIST
WALLOPS
HAUGHTY
HELEN
SQUARE
ON
PROBOSCIS. SPARTANS
GNASH
MOLARS. ITHACANS
VOW
PEN
IS
CHAMP. —You remind
me
of
Antisthenes, the
professor
said,
a
disciple
of
Gorgias, the sophist.
It
is
said
of
him
that
none
could
tell
if
he
were
bitterer against others
or
against himself.
He
was
the
son
of
a
noble
and
a
bondwoman.
And
he
wrote
a
book
in
which
he
took
away
the
palm
of
beauty
from
Argive Helen
and
handed
it
to
poor
Penelope.
Poor
Penelope. Penelope Rich.
They
made
ready
to
cross
O'Connell street. HELLO THERE, CENTRAL!
At
various
points
along
the
eight
lines tramcars
with
motionless trolleys stood
in
their
tracks, bound
for
or
from
Rathmines, Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown
and
Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend
and
Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park
and
Upper
Rathmines, all still, becalmed
in
short
circuit. Hackney cars, cabs,
delivery
waggons, mailvans,
private
broughams, aerated
mineral
water
floats
with
rattling crates
of
bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly. WHAT?—AND LIKEWISE—WHERE? —But
what
do
you
call
it? Myles Crawford asked.
Where
did
they
get
the plums? VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE.
SOPHOMORE
PLUMPS
FOR
OLD
MAN
MOSES. —I see, the
professor
said.
He
laughed richly. —I see,
he
said
again
with
new
pleasure. Moses
and
the promised land.
We
gave
him
that
idea,
he
added
to
J. J. O'Molloy. HORATIO
IS
CYNOSURE
THIS
FAIR
JUNE
DAY
J. J. O'Molloy sent
a
weary
sidelong
glance
towards
the
statue
and
held
his
peace. —I see, the
professor
said.
He
halted
on
sir John Gray's
pavement
island
and
peered
aloft
at
Nelson through the meshes
of
his
wry
smile. DIMINISHED DIGITS
PROVE
TOO
TITILLATING
FOR
FRISKY
FRUMPS. ANNE WIMBLES, FLO WANGLES—YET
CAN
YOU
BLAME
THEM? —Onehandled adulterer,
he
said smiling grimly.
That
tickles me, I
must
say. —Tickled the
old
ones too, Myles Crawford said,
if
the
God
Almighty's
truth
was
known.