Homework 6 - Text Visualization

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Homework 6 - Text Visualization

Katie House, 4/28/2018

Data Description and Source

The data consists of two documents:

1. Ulysses, by James Joyce (265,222 Words)
2. King Jame's Bible (783,137 Words)

The data were preprocessed in textAnalysis.py which used the PySpark API to remove stop words, aggregate, clean, and join the word count. Then, more preprocessing was completed with Excel.

The data consist of the top 500 words in both Ulysses and the Bible. The fields are the following:

1. word -the word
2. Book - Appeared in which document (either 'Ulysses' or 'Bible')
3. Count - Number of times the word appeared in the document
4. letter - Which letter category does the word fall in

Uses of Data

These data could be used in a document comparison analysis. For example, it answers the questions: what are the most frequently used words in the Bible or Ulysses? What are some common words between the two documents?

Linking the Graphs

• Probing Example: Hover over the left side of the Sankey diagram to filter by document.
• Clicking Example: Select the bars in the bar chart to filter by document. Reset the filter by clicking again on the selected bar.

Bible.txt

Project Gutenberg EBook The Bible, King James, Book 1: Genesis

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Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts

EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971

*These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers*

Title: The Bible, King James version, Book 1: Genesis

Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8001] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on June 7, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE BIBLE, KING JAMES, BOOK 1

This eBook was produced by David Widger with the help of Derek Andrew's text from January 1992 and the work of Bryan Taylor in November 2002.

Book 01 Genesis

01:001:001 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

01:001:002 And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

01:001:003 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

01:001:004 And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.

01:001:005 And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.

01:001:006 And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.

01:001:007 And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so.

01:001:008 And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.

01:001:009 And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so.

01:001:010 And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.

01:001:011 And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth: and it was so.

01:001:012 And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind: and God saw that it was good.

01:001:013 And the evening and the morning were the third day.

01:001:014 And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years:

01:001:015 And let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth: and it was so.

01:001:016 And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also.

01:001:017 And God set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth,

01:001:018 And to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness: and God saw that it was good.

01:001:019 And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.

01:001:020 And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.

01:001:021 And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that it was good.

01:001:022 And God blessed them, saying, Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and let fowl multiply in the earth.

01:001:023 And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.

01:001:024 And God said, Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle, and creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind: and it was so.

01:001:025 And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that it was good.

01:001:026 And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.

01:001:027 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.

01:001:028 And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.

01:001:029 And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for meat.

01:001:030 And to every beast of the earth, and to every fowl of the air, and to every thing that creepeth upon the earth, wherein there is life, I have given every green herb for meat: and it was so.

01:001:031 And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.

01:002:001 Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them.

01:002:002 And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made.

01:002:003 And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God created and made.

01:002:004 These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created, in the day that the LORD God made the earth and the heavens,

01:002:005 And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew: for the LORD God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was not a man to till the ground.

01:002:006 But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground.

01:002:007 And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.

01:002:008 And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed.

01:002:009 And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.

01:002:010 And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became into four heads.

01:002:011 The name of the first is Pison: that is it which compasseth the whole land of Havilah, where there is gold;

01:002:012 And the gold of that land is good: there is bdellium and the onyx stone.

01:002:013 And the name of the second river is Gihon: the same is it that compasseth the whole land of Ethiopia.

01:002:014 And the name of the third river is Hiddekel: that is it which goeth toward the east of Assyria. And the fourth river is Euphrates.

01:002:015 And the LORD God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it.

01:002:016 And the LORD God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat:

01:002:017 But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.

01:002:018 And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.

01:002:019 And out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof.

01:002:020 And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found an help meet for him.

01:002:021 And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;

01:002:022 And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.

01:002:023 And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.

01:002:024 Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.

01:002:025 And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.

01:003:001 Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?

01:003:002 And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden:

01:003:003 But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.

01:003:004 And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:

01:003:005 For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.

01:003:006 And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.

01:003:007 And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.

01:003:008 And they heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God amongst the trees of the garden.

01:003:009 And the LORD God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art thou?

01:003:010 And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.

01:003:011 And he said, Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?

01:003:012 And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.

01:003:013 And the LORD God said unto the woman, What is this that thou hast done? And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.

01:003:014 And the LORD God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life:

01:003:015 And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.

01:003:016 Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.

01:003:017 And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life;

01:003:018 Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;

01:003:019 In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

01:003:020 And Adam called his wife's name Eve; because she was the mother of all living.

01:003:021 Unto Adam also and to his wife did the LORD God make coats of skins, and clothed them.

01:003:022 And the LORD God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever:

01:003:023 Therefore the LORD God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken.

01:003:024 So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.

01:004:001 And Adam knew Eve his wife; and she conceived, and bare Cain, and said, I have gotten a man from the LORD.

01:004:002 And she again bare his brother Abel. And Abel was a keeper of sheep, but Cain was a tiller of the ground.

01:004:003 And in process of time it came to pass, that Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering unto the LORD.

01:004:004 And Abel, he also brought of the firstlings of his flock and of the fat thereof. And the LORD had respect unto Abel and to his offering:

01:004:005 But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell.

01:004:006 And the LORD said unto Cain, Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen?

01:004:007 If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.

01:004:008 And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.

01:004:009 And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?

01:004:010 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.

01:004:011 And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand;

01:004:012 When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.

01:004:013 And Cain said unto the LORD, My punishment is greater than I can bear.

01:004:014 Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me.

01:004:015 And the LORD said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the LORD set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.

01:004:016 And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden.

01:004:017 And Cain knew his wife; and she conceived, and bare Enoch: and he builded a city, and called the name of the city, after the name of his son, Enoch.

01:004:018 And unto Enoch was born Irad: and Irad begat Mehujael: and Mehujael begat Methusael: and Methusael begat Lamech.

01:004:019 And Lamech took unto him two wives: the name of the one was Adah, and the name of the other Zillah.

01:004:020 And Adah bare Jabal: he was the father of such as dwell in tents, and of such as have cattle.

01:004:021 And his brother's name was Jubal: he was the father of all such as handle the harp and organ.

01:004:022 And Zillah, she also bare Tubalcain, an instructor of every artificer in brass and iron: and the sister of Tubalcain was Naamah.

01:004:023 And Lamech said unto his wives, Adah and Zillah, Hear my voice; ye wives of Lamech, hearken unto my speech: for I have slain a man to my wounding, and a young man to my hurt.

01:004:024 If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold, truly Lamech seventy and sevenfold.

01:004:025 And Adam knew his wife again; and she bare a son, and called his name Seth: For God, said she, hath appointed me another seed instead of Abel, whom Cain slew.

01:004:026 And to Seth, to him also there was born a son; and he called his name Enos: then began men to call upon the name of the LORD.

01:005:001 This is the book of the generations of Adam. In the day that God created man, in the likeness of God made he him;

01:005:002 Male and female created he them; and blessed them, and called their name Adam, in the day when they were created.

01:005:003 And Adam lived an hundred and thirty years, and begat a son in his own likeness, and after his image; and called his name Seth:

01:005:004 And the days of Adam after he had begotten Seth were eight hundred years: and he begat sons and daughters:

01:005:005 And all the days that Adam lived were nine hundred and thirty years: and he died.

01:005:006 And Seth lived an hundred and five years, and begat Enos:

01:005:007 And Seth lived after he begat Enos eight hundred and seven years, and begat sons and daughters:

01:005:008 And all the days of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years: and he died.

01:005:009 And Enos lived ninety years, and begat Cainan:

01:005:010 And Enos lived after he begat Cainan eight hundred and fifteen years, and begat sons and daughters:

01:005:011 And all the days of Enos were nine hundred and five years: and he died.

01:005:012 And Cainan lived seventy years and begat Mahalaleel:

01:005:013 And Cainan lived after he begat Mahalaleel eight hundred and forty years, and begat sons and daughters:

01:005:014 And all the days of Cainan were nine hundred and ten years: and he died.

01:005:015 And Mahalaleel lived sixty and five years, and begat Jared:

01:005:016 And Mahalaleel lived after he begat Jared eight hundred and thirty years, and begat sons and daughters:

01:005:017 And all the days of Mahalaleel were eight hundred ninety and five years: and he died.

01:005:018 And Jared lived an hundred sixty and two years, and he begat Enoch:

01:005:019 And Jared lived after he begat Enoch eight hundred years, and begat sons and daughters:

01:005:020 And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years: and he died.

01:005:021 And Enoch lived sixty and five years, and begat Methuselah:

01:005:022 And Enoch walked with God after he begat Methuselah three hundred years, and begat sons and daughters:

01:005:023 And all the days of Enoch were three hundred sixty and five years:

01:005:024 And Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him.

01:005:025 And Methuselah lived an hundred eighty and seven years, and begat Lamech.

01:005:026 And Methuselah lived after he begat Lamech seven hundred eighty and two years, and begat sons and daughters:

01:005:027 And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died.

01:005:028 And Lamech lived an hundred eighty and two years, and begat a son:

01:005:029 And he called his name Noah, saying, This same shall comfort us concerning our work and toil of our hands, because of the ground which the LORD hath cursed.

01:005:030 And Lamech lived after he begat Noah five hundred ninety and five years, and begat sons and daughters:

01:005:031 And all the days of Lamech were seven hundred seventy and seven years: and he died.

01:005:032 And Noah was five hundred years old: and Noah begat Shem, Ham, and Japheth.

01:006:001 And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them,

01:006:002 That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.

01:006:003 And the LORD said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is flesh: yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.

01:006:004 There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.

01:006:005 And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.

01:006:006 And it repented the LORD that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart.

01:006:007 And the LORD said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them.

01:006:008 But Noah found grace in the eyes of the LORD.

01:006:009 These are the generations of Noah: Noah was a just man and perfect in his generations, and Noah walked with God.

01:006:010 And Noah begat three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth.

01:006:011 The earth also was corrupt before God, and the earth was filled with violence.

01:006:012 And God looked upon the earth, and, behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the earth.

01:006:013 And God said unto Noah, The end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence through them; and, behold, I will destroy them with the earth.

01:006:014 Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with pitch.

01:006:015 And this is the fashion which thou shalt make it of: The length of the ark shall be three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits.

01:006:016 A window shalt thou make to the ark, and in a cubit shalt thou finish it above; and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; with lower, second, and third stories shalt thou make it.

01:006:017 And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under heaven; and every thing that is in the earth shall die.

01:006:018 But with thee will I establish my covenant; and thou shalt come into the ark, thou, and thy sons, and thy wife, and thy sons' wives with thee.

01:006:019 And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep them alive with thee; they shall be male and female.

01:006:020 Of fowls after their kind, and of cattle after their kind, of every creeping thing of the earth after his kind, two of every sort shall come unto thee, to keep them alive.

01:006:021 And take thou unto thee of all food that is eaten, and thou shalt gather it to thee; and it shall be for food for thee, and for them.

01:006:022 Thus did Noah; according to all that God commanded him, so did he.

01:007:001 And the LORD said unto Noah, Come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee have I seen righteous before me in this generation.

01:007:002 Of every clean beast thou shalt take to thee by sevens, the male and his female: and of beasts that are not clean by two, the male and his female.

01:007:003 Of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male and the female; to keep seed alive upon the face of all the earth.

01:007:004 For yet seven days, and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that I have made will I destroy from off the face of the earth.

01:007:005 And Noah did according unto all that the LORD commanded him.

01:007:006 And Noah was six hundred years old when the flood of waters was upon the earth.

01:007:007 And Noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons' wives with him, into the ark, because of the waters of the flood.

01:007:008 Of clean beasts, and of beasts that are not clean, and of fowls, and of every thing that creepeth upon the earth,

01:007:009 There went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female, as God had commanded Noah.

01:007:010 And it came to pass after seven days, that the waters of the flood were upon the earth.

01:007:011 In the six hundredth year of Noah's life, in the second month, the seventeenth day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened.

01:007:012 And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights.

01:007:013 In the selfsame day entered Noah, and Shem, and Ham, and Japheth, the sons of Noah, and Noah's wife, and the three wives of his sons with them, into the ark;

01:007:014 They, and every beast after his kind, and all the cattle after their kind, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind, and every fowl after his kind, every bird of every sort.

01:007:015 And they went in unto Noah into the ark, two and two of all flesh, wherein is the breath of life.

01:007:016 And they that went in, went in male and female of all flesh, as God had commanded him: and the LORD shut him in.

01:007:017 And the flood was forty days upon the earth; and the waters increased, and bare up the ark, and it was lift up above the earth.

01:007:018 And the waters prevailed, and were increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters.

01:007:019 And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high hills, that were under the whole heaven, were covered.

01:007:020 Fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered.

01:007:021 And all flesh died that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, and every man:

01:007:022 All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died.

01:007:023 And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark.

01:007:024 And the waters prevailed upon the earth an hundred and fifty days.

01:008:001 And God remembered Noah, and every living thing, and all the cattle that was with him in the ark: and God made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters asswaged;

01:008:002 The fountains also of the deep and the windows of heaven were stopped, and the rain from heaven was restrained;

01:008:003 And the waters returned from off the earth continually: and after the end of the hundred and fifty days the waters were abated.

01:008:004 And the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of Ararat.

01:008:005 And the waters decreased continually until the tenth month: in the tenth month, on the first day of the month, were the tops of the mountains seen.

01:008:006 And it came to pass at the end of forty days, that Noah opened the window of the ark which he had made:

01:008:007 And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth.

01:008:008 Also he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground;

01:008:009 But the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark, for the waters were on the face of the whole earth: then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.

01:008:010 And he stayed yet other seven days; and again he sent forth the dove out of the ark;

01:008:011 And the dove came in to him in the evening; and, lo, in her mouth was an olive leaf pluckt off: so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth.

01:008:012 And he stayed yet other seven days; and sent forth the dove; which returned not again unto him any more.

01:008:013 And it came to pass in the six hundredth and first year, in the first month, the first day of the month, the waters were dried up from off the earth: and Noah removed the covering of the ark, and looked, and, behold, the face of the ground was dry.

01:008:014 And in the second month, on the seven and twentieth day of the month, was the earth dried.

01:008:015 And God spake unto Noah, saying,

01:008:016 Go forth of the ark, thou, and thy wife, and thy sons, and thy sons' wives with thee.

01:008:017 Bring forth with thee every living thing that is with thee, of all flesh, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth; that they may breed abundantly in the earth, and be fruitful, and multiply upon the earth.

01:008:018 And Noah went forth, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons' wives with him:

01:008:019 Every beast, every creeping thing, and every fowl, and whatsoever creepeth upon the earth, after their kinds, went forth out of the ark.

01:008:020 And Noah builded an altar unto the LORD; and took of every clean beast, and of every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings on the altar.

01:008:021 And the LORD smelled a sweet savour; and the LORD said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake; for the imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every thing living, as I have done.

01:008:022 While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.

01:009:001 And God blessed Noah and his sons, and said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.

01:009:002 And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, upon all that moveth upon the earth, and upon all the fishes of the sea; into your hand are they delivered.

01:009:003 Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things.

01:009:004 But flesh with the life thereof, which is the blood thereof, shall ye not eat.

01:009:005 And surely your blood of your lives will I require; at the hand of every beast will I require it, and at the hand of man; at the hand of every man's brother will I require the life of man.

01:009:006 Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man.

01:009:007 And you, be ye fruitful, and multiply; bring forth abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein.

01:009:008 And God spake unto Noah, and to his sons with him, saying,

01:009:009 And I, behold, I establish my covenant with you, and with your seed after you;

01:009:010 And with every living creature that is with you, of the fowl, of the cattle, and of every beast of the earth with you; from all that go out of the ark, to every beast of the earth.

01:009:011 And I will establish my covenant with you, neither shall all flesh be cut off any more by the waters of a flood; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth.

01:009:012 And God said, This is the token of the covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for perpetual generations:

01:009:013 I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.

01:009:014 And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud:

01:009:015 And I will remember my covenant, which is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.

01:009:016 And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth.

01:009:017 And God said unto Noah, This is the token of the covenant, which I have established between me and all flesh that is upon the earth.

01:009:018 And the sons of Noah, that went forth of the ark, were Shem, and Ham, and Japheth: and Ham is the father of Canaan.

01:009:019 These are the three sons of Noah: and of them was the whole earth overspread.

01:009:020 And Noah began to be an husbandman, and he planted a vineyard:

01:009:021 And he drank of the wine, and was drunken; and he was uncovered within his tent.

01:009:022 And Ham, the father of Canaan, saw the nakedness of his father, and told his two brethren without.

01:009:023 And Shem and Japheth took a garment, and laid it upon both their shoulders, and went backward, and covered the nakedness of their father; and their faces were backward, and they saw not their father's nakedness.

01:009:024 And Noah awoke from his wine, and knew what his younger son had done unto him.

01:009:025 And he said, Cursed be Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren.

01:009:026 And he said, Blessed be the LORD God of Shem; and Canaan shall be his servant.

01:009:027 God shall enlarge Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem; and Canaan shall be his servant.

01:009:028 And Noah lived after the flood three hundred and fifty years.

01:009:029 And all the days of Noah were nine hundred and fifty years: and he died.

01:010:001 Now these are the generations of the sons of Noah, Shem, Ham, and Japheth: and unto them were sons born after the flood.

01:010:002 The sons of Japheth; Gomer, and Magog, and Madai, and Javan, and Tubal, and Meshech, and Tiras.

01:010:003 And the sons of Gomer; Ashkenaz, and Riphath, and Togarmah.

01:010:004 And the sons of Javan; Elishah, and Tarshish, Kittim, and Dodanim.

01:010:005 By these were the isles of the Gentiles divided in their lands; every one after his tongue, after their families, in their nations.

01:010:006 And the sons of Ham; Cush, and Mizraim, and Phut, and Canaan.

01:010:007 And the sons of Cush; Seba, and Havilah, and Sabtah, and Raamah, and Sabtechah: and the sons of Raamah; Sheba, and Dedan.

01:010:008 And Cush begat Nimrod: he began to be a mighty one in the earth.

01:010:009 He was a mighty hunter before the LORD: wherefore it is said, Even as Nimrod the mighty hunter before the LORD.

01:010:010 And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh, in the land of Shinar.

01:010:011 Out of that land went forth Asshur, and builded Nineveh, and the city Rehoboth, and Calah,

01:010:012 And Resen between Nineveh and Calah: the same is a great city.

01:010:013 And Mizraim begat Ludim, and Anamim, and Lehabim, and Naphtuhim,

01:010:014 And Pathrusim, and Casluhim, (out of whom came Philistim,) and Caphtorim.

01:010:015 And Canaan begat Sidon his first born, and Heth,

01:010:016 And the Jebusite, and the Amorite, and the Girgasite,

01:010:017 And the Hivite, and the Arkite, and the Sinite,

01:010:018 And the Arvadite, and the Zemarite, and the Hamathite: and afterward were the families of the Canaanites spread abroad.

01:010:019 And the border of the Canaanites was from Sidon, as thou comest to Gerar, unto Gaza; as thou goest, unto Sodom, and Gomorrah, and Admah, and Zeboim, even unto Lasha.

01:010:020 These are the sons of Ham, after their families, after their tongues, in their countries, and in their nations.

01:010:021 Unto Shem also, the father of all the children of Eber, the brother of Japheth the elder, even to him were children born.

01:010:022 The children of Shem; Elam, and Asshur, and Arphaxad, and Lud, and Aram.

01:010:023 And the children of Aram; Uz, and Hul, and Gether, and Mash.

01:010:024 And Arphaxad begat Salah; and Salah begat Eber.

01:010:025 And unto Eber were born two sons: the name of one was Peleg; for in his days was the earth divided; and his brother's name was Joktan.

01:010:026 And Joktan begat Almodad, and Sheleph, and Hazarmaveth, and Jerah,

01:010:027 And Hadoram, and Uzal, and Diklah,

01:010:028 And Obal, and Abimael, and Sheba,

01:010:029 And Ophir, and Havilah, and Jobab: all these were the sons of Joktan.

01:010:030 And their dwelling was from Mesha, as thou goest unto Sephar a mount of the east.

01:010:031 These are the sons of Shem, after their families, after their tongues, in their lands, after their nations.

01:010:032 These are the families of the sons of Noah, after their generations, in their nations: and by these were the nations divided in the earth after the flood.

01:011:001 And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech.

01:011:002 And it came to pass, as they journeyed from the east, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar; and they dwelt there.

01:011:003 And they said one to another, Go to, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for morter.

01:011:004 And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.

01:011:005 And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded.

01:011:006 And the LORD said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do.

01:011:007 Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech.

01:011:008 So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city.

01:011:009 Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth.

01:011:010 These are the generations of Shem: Shem was an hundred years old, and begat Arphaxad two years after the flood:

01:011:011 And Shem lived after he begat Arphaxad five hundred years, and begat sons and daughters.

01:011:012 And Arphaxad lived five and thirty years, and begat Salah:

01:011:013 And Arphaxad lived after he begat Salah four hundred and three years, and begat sons and daughters.

01:011:014 And Salah lived thirty years, and begat Eber:

01:011:015 And Salah lived after he begat Eber four hundred and three years, and begat sons and daughters.

01:011:016 And Eber lived four and thirty years, and begat Peleg:

01:011:017 And Eber lived after he begat Peleg four hundred and thirty years, and begat sons and daughters.

01:011:018 And Peleg lived thirty years, and begat Reu:

01:011:019 And Peleg lived after he begat Reu two hundred and nine years, and begat sons and daughters.

01:011:020 And Reu lived two and thirty years, and begat Serug:

01:011:021 And Reu lived after he begat Serug two hundred and seven years, and begat sons and daughters.

01:011:022 And Serug lived thirty years, and begat Nahor:

01:011:023 And Serug lived after he begat Nahor two hundred years, and begat sons and daughters.

01:011:024 And Nahor lived nine and twenty years, and begat Terah:

01:011:025 And Nahor lived after he begat Terah an hundred and nineteen years, and begat sons and daughters.

01:011:026 And Terah lived seventy years, and begat Abram, Nahor, and Haran.

01:011:027 Now these are the generations of Terah: Terah begat Abram, Nahor, and Haran; and Haran begat Lot.

01:011:028 And Haran died before his father Terah in the land of his nativity, in Ur of the Chaldees.

01:011:029 And Abram and Nahor took them wives: the name of Abram's wife was Sarai; and the name of Nahor's wife, Milcah, the daughter of Haran, the father of Milcah, and the father of Iscah.

01:011:030 But Sarai was barren; she had no child.

01:011:031 And Terah took Abram his son, and Lot the son of Haran his son's son, and Sarai his daughter in law, his son Abram's wife; and they went forth with them from Ur of the Chaldees, to go into the land of Canaan; and they came unto Haran, and dwelt there.

01:011:032 And the days of Terah were two hundred and five years: and Terah died in Haran.

01:012:001 Now the LORD had said unto Abram, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father's house, unto a land that I will shew thee:

01:012:002 And I will make of thee a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great; and thou shalt be a blessing:

01:012:003 And I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee: and in thee shall all families of the earth be blessed.

01:012:004 So Abram departed, as the LORD had spoken unto him; and Lot went with him: and Abram was seventy and five years old when he departed out of Haran.

01:012:005 And Abram took Sarai his wife, and Lot his brother's son, and all their substance that they had gathered, and the souls that they had gotten in Haran; and they went forth to go into the land of Canaan; and into the land of Canaan they came.

01:012:006 And Abram passed through the land unto the place of Sichem, unto the plain of Moreh. And the Canaanite was then in the land.

01:012:007 And the LORD appeared unto Abram, and said, Unto thy seed will I give this land: and there builded he an altar unto the LORD, who appeared unto him.

01:012:008 And he removed from thence unto a mountain on the east of Bethel, and pitched his tent, having Bethel on the west, and Hai on the east: and there he builded an altar unto the LORD, and called upon the name of the LORD.

01:012:009 And Abram journeyed, going on still toward the south.

01:012:010 And there was a famine in the land: and Abram went down into Egypt to sojourn there; for the famine was grievous in the land.

01:012:011 And it came to pass, when he was come near to enter into Egypt, that he said unto Sarai his wife, Behold now, I know that thou art a fair woman to look upon:

01:012:012 Therefore it shall come to pass, when the Egyptians shall see thee, that they shall say, This is his wife: and they will kill me, but they will save thee alive.

01:012:013 Say, I pray thee, thou art my sister: that it may be well with me for thy sake; and my soul shall live because of thee.

01:012:014 And it came to pass, that, when Abram was come into Egypt, the Egyptians beheld the woman that she was very fair.

01:012:015 The princes also of Pharaoh saw her, and commended her before Pharaoh: and the woman was taken into Pharaoh's house.

01:012:016 And he entreated Abram well for her sake: and he had sheep, and oxen, and he asses, and menservants, and maidservants, and she asses, and camels.

01:012:017 And the LORD plagued Pharaoh and his house with great plagues because of Sarai Abram's wife.

01:012:018 And Pharaoh called Abram and said, What is this that thou hast done unto me? why didst thou not tell me that she was thy wife?

01:012:019 Why saidst thou, She is my sister? so I might have taken her to me to wife: now therefore behold thy wife, take her, and go thy way.

01:012:020 And Pharaoh commanded his men concerning him: and they sent him away, and his wife, and all that he had.

01:013:001 And Abram went up out of Egypt, he, and his wife, and all that he had, and Lot with him, into the south.

01:013:002 And Abram was very rich in cattle, in silver, and in gold.

01:013:003 And he went on his journeys from the south even to Bethel, unto the place where his tent had been at the beginning, between Bethel and Hai;

01:013:004 Unto the place of the altar, which he had make there at the first: and there Abram called on the name of the LORD.

01:013:005 And Lot also, which went with Abram, had flocks, and herds, and tents.

01:013:006 And the land was not able to bear them, that they might dwell together: for their substance was great, so that they could not dwell together.

01:013:007 And there was a strife between the herdmen of Abram's cattle and the herdmen of Lot's cattle: and the Canaanite and the Perizzite dwelled then in the land.

01:013:008 And Abram said unto Lot, Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, and between my herdmen and thy herdmen; for we be brethren.

01:013:009 Is not the whole land before thee? separate thyself, I pray thee, from me: if thou wilt take the left hand, then I will go to the right; or if thou depart to the right hand, then I will go to the left.

01:013:010 And Lot lifted up his eyes, and beheld all the plain of Jordan, that it was well watered every where, before the LORD destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, even as the garden of the LORD, like the land of Egypt, as thou comest unto Zoar.

01:013:011 Then Lot chose him all the plain of Jordan; and Lot journeyed east: and they separated themselves the one from the other.

01:013:012 Abram dwelled in the land of Canaan, and Lot dwelled in the cities of the plain, and pitched his tent toward Sodom.

01:013:013 But the men of Sodom were wicked and sinners before the LORD exceedingly.

01:013:014 And the LORD said unto Abram, after that Lot was separated from him, Lift up now thine eyes, and look from the place where thou art northward, and southward, and eastward, and westward:

01:013:015 For all the land which thou seest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed for ever.

01:013:016 And I will make thy seed as the dust of the earth: so that if a man can number the dust of the earth, then shall thy seed also be numbered.

01:013:017 Arise, walk through the land in the length of it and in the breadth of it; for I will give it unto thee.

01:013:018 Then Abram removed his tent, and came and dwelt in the plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron, and built there an altar unto the LORD.

01:014:001 And it came to pass in the days of Amraphel king of Shinar, Arioch king of Ellasar, Chedorlaomer king of Elam, and Tidal king of nations;

01:014:002 That these made war with Bera king of Sodom, and with Birsha king of Gomorrah, Shinab king of Admah, and Shemeber king of Zeboiim, and the king of Bela, which is Zoar.

01:014:003 All these were joined together in the vale of Siddim, which is the salt sea.

01:014:004 Twelve years they served Chedorlaomer, and in the thirteenth year they rebelled.

01:014:005 And in the fourteenth year came Chedorlaomer, and the kings that were with him, and smote the Rephaims in Ashteroth Karnaim, and the Zuzims in Ham, and the Emins in Shaveh Kiriathaim,

01:014:006 And the Horites in their mount Seir, unto Elparan, which is by the wilderness.

01:014:007 And they returned, and came to Enmishpat, which is Kadesh, and smote all the country of the Amalekites, and also the Amorites, that dwelt in Hazezontamar.

01:014:008 And there went out the king of Sodom, and the king of Gomorrah, and the king of Admah, and the king of Zeboiim, and the king of Bela (the same is Zoar;) and they joined battle with them in the vale of Siddim;

01:014:009 With Chedorlaomer the king of Elam, and with Tidal king of nations, and Amraphel king of Shinar, and Arioch king of Ellasar; four kings with five.

01:014:010 And the vale of Siddim was full of slimepits; and the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah fled, and fell there; and they that remained fled to the mountain.

01:014:011 And they took all the goods of Sodom and Gomorrah, and all their victuals, and went their way.

01:014:012 And they took Lot, Abram's brother's son, who dwelt in Sodom, and his goods, and departed.

01:014:013 And there came one that had escaped, and told Abram the Hebrew; for he dwelt in the plain of Mamre the Amorite, brother of Eshcol, and brother of Aner: and these were confederate with Abram.

01:014:014 And when Abram heard that his brother was taken captive, he armed his trained servants, born in his own house, three hundred and eighteen, and pursued them unto Dan.

01:014:015 And he divided himself against them, he and his servants, by night, and smote them, and pursued them unto Hobah, which is on the left hand of Damascus.

01:014:016 And he brought back all the goods, and also brought again his brother Lot, and his goods, and the women also, and the people.

01:014:017 And the king of Sodom went out to meet him after his return from the slaughter of Chedorlaomer, and of the kings that were with him, at the valley of Shaveh, which is the king's dale.

01:014:018 And Melchizedek king of Salem brought forth bread and wine: and he was the priest of the most high God.

01:014:019 And he blessed him, and said, Blessed be Abram of the most high God, possessor of heaven and earth:

01:014:020 And blessed be the most high God, which hath delivered thine enemies into thy hand. And he gave him tithes of all.

01:014:021 And the king of Sodom said unto Abram, Give me the persons, and take the goods to thyself.

01:014:022 And Abram said to the king of Sodom, I have lift up mine hand unto the LORD, the most high God, the possessor of heaven and earth,

01:014:023 That I will not take from a thread even to a shoelatchet, and that I will not take any thing that is thine, lest thou shouldest say, I have made Abram rich:

01:014:024 Save only that which the young men have eaten, and the portion of the men which went with me, Aner, Eshcol, and Mamre; let them take their portion.

01:015:001 After these things the word of the LORD came unto Abram in a vision, saying, Fear not, Abram: I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.

01:015:002 And Abram said, LORD God, what wilt thou give me, seeing I go childless, and the steward of my house is this Eliezer of Damascus?

01:015:003 And Abram said, Behold, to me thou hast given no seed: and, lo, one born in my house is mine heir.

01:015:004 And, behold, the word of the LORD came unto him, saying, This shall not be thine heir; but he that shall come forth out of thine own bowels shall be thine heir.

01:015:005 And he brought him forth abroad, and said, Look now toward heaven, and tell the stars, if thou be able to number them: and he said unto him, So shall thy seed be.

01:015:006 And he believed in the LORD; and he counted it to him for righteousness.

01:015:007 And he said unto him, I am the LORD that brought thee out of Ur of the Chaldees, to give thee this land to inherit it.

01:015:008 And he said, LORD God, whereby shall I know that I shall inherit it?

01:015:009 And he said unto him, Take me an heifer of three years old, and a she goat of three years old, and a ram of three years old, and a turtledove, and a young pigeon.

01:015:010 And he took unto him all these, and divided them in the midst, and laid each piece one against another: but the birds divided he not.

01:015:011 And when the fowls came down upon the carcases, Abram drove them away.

01:015:012 And when the sun was going down, a deep sleep fell upon Abram; and, lo, an horror of great darkness fell upon him.

01:015:013 And he said unto Abram, Know of a surety that thy seed shall be a stranger in a land that is not their's, and shall serve them; and they shall afflict them four hundred years;

01:015:014 And also that nation, whom they shall serve, will I judge: and afterward shall they come out with great substance.

01:015:015 And thou shalt go to thy fathers in peace; thou shalt be buried in a good old age.

01:015:016 But in the fourth generation they shall come hither again: for the iniquity of the Amorites is not yet full.

01:015:017 And it came to pass, that, when the sun went down, and it was dark, behold a smoking furnace, and a burning lamp that passed between those pieces.

01:015:018 In the same day the LORD made a covenant with Abram, saying, Unto thy seed have I given this land, from the river of Egypt unto the great river, the river Euphrates:

01:015:019 The Kenites, and the Kenizzites, and the Kadmonites,

01:015:020 And the Hittites, and the Perizzites, and the Rephaims,

01:015:021 And the Amorites, and the Canaanites, and the Girgashites, and the Jebusites.

01:016:001 Now Sarai Abram's wife bare him no children: and she had an handmaid, an Egyptian, whose name was Hagar.

01:016:002 And Sarai said unto Abram, Behold now, the LORD hath restrained me from bearing: I pray thee, go in unto my maid; it may be that I may obtain children by her. And Abram hearkened to the voice of Sarai.

01:016:003 And Sarai Abram's wife took Hagar her maid the Egyptian, after Abram had dwelt ten years in the land of Canaan, and gave her to her husband Abram to be his wife.

01:016:004 And he went in unto Hagar, and she conceived: and when she saw that she had conceived, her mistress was despised in her eyes.

01:016:005 And Sarai said unto Abram, My wrong be upon thee: I have given my maid into thy bosom; and when she saw that she had conceived, I was despised in her eyes: the LORD judge between me and thee.

01:016:006 But Abram said unto Sarai, Behold, thy maid is in thine hand; do to her as it pleaseth thee. And when Sarai dealt hardly with her, she fled from her face.

01:016:007 And the angel of the LORD found her by a fountain of water in the wilderness, by the fountain in the way to Shur.

01:016:008 And he said, Hagar, Sarai's maid, whence camest thou? and whither wilt thou go? And she said, I flee from the face of my mistress Sarai.

01:016:009 And the angel of the LORD said unto her, Return to thy mistress, and submit thyself under her hands.

01:016:010 And the angel of the LORD said unto her, I will multiply thy seed exceedingly, that it shall not be numbered for multitude.

01:016:011 And the angel of the LORD said unto her, Behold, thou art with child and shalt bear a son, and shalt call his name Ishmael; because the LORD hath heard thy affliction.

01:016:012 And he will be a wild man; his hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him; and he shall dwell in the presence of all his brethren.

01:016:013 And she called the name of the LORD that spake unto her, Thou God seest me: for she said, Have I also here looked after him that seeth me?

01:016:014 Wherefore the well was called Beerlahairoi; behold, it is between Kadesh and Bered.

01:016:015 And Hagar bare Abram a son: and Abram called his son's name, which Hagar bare, Ishmael.

01:016:016 And Abram was fourscore and six years old, when Hagar bare Ishmael to Abram.

01:017:001 And when Abram was ninety years old and nine, the LORD appeared to Abram, and said unto him, I am the Almighty God; walk before me, and be thou perfect.

01:017:002 And I will make my covenant between me and thee, and will multiply thee exceedingly.

01:017:003 And Abram fell on his face: and God talked with him, saying,

01:017:004 As for me, behold, my covenant is with thee, and thou shalt be a father of many nations.

01:017:005 Neither shall thy name any more be called Abram, but thy name shall be Abraham; for a father of many nations have I made thee.

01:017:006 And I will make thee exceeding fruitful, and I will make nations of thee, and kings shall come out of thee.

01:017:007 And I will establish my covenant between me and thee and thy seed after thee in their generations for an everlasting covenant, to be a God unto thee, and to thy seed after thee.

01:017:008 And I will give unto thee, and to thy seed after thee, the land wherein thou art a stranger, all the land of Canaan, for an everlasting possession; and I will be their God.

01:017:009 And God said unto Abraham, Thou shalt keep my covenant therefore, thou, and thy seed after thee in their generations.

01:017:010 This is my covenant, which ye shall keep, between me and you and thy seed after thee; Every man child among you shall be circumcised.

01:017:011 And ye shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin; and it shall be a token of the covenant betwixt me and you.

01:017:012 And he that is eight days old shall be circumcised among you, every man child in your generations, he that is born in the house, or bought with money of any stranger, which is not of thy seed.

01:017:013 He that is born in thy house, and he that is bought with thy money, must needs be circumcised: and my covenant shall be in your flesh for an everlasting covenant.

01:017:014 And the uncircumcised man child whose flesh of his foreskin is not circumcised, that soul shall be cut off from his people; he hath broken my covenant.

01:017:015 And God said unto Abraham, As for Sarai thy wife, thou shalt not call her name Sarai, but Sarah shall her name be.

01:017:016 And I will bless her, and give thee a son also of her: yea, I will bless her, and she shall be a mother of nations; kings of people shall be of her.

01:017:017 Then Abraham fell upon his face, and laughed, and said in his heart, Shall a child be born unto him that is an hundred years old? and shall Sarah, that is ninety years old, bear?

01:017:018 And Abraham said unto God, O that Ishmael might live before thee!

01:017:019 And God said, Sarah thy wife shall bear thee a son indeed; and thou shalt call his name Isaac: and I will establish my covenant with him for an everlasting covenant, and with his seed after him.

01:017:020 And as for Ishmael, I have heard thee: Behold, I have blessed him, and will make him fruitful, and will multiply him exceedingly; twelve princes shall he beget, and I will make him a great nation.

01:017:021 But my covenant will I establish with Isaac, which Sarah shall bear unto thee at this set time in the next year.

01:017:022 And he left off talking with him, and God went up from Abraham.

01:017:023 And Abraham took Ishmael his son, and all that were born in his house, and all that were bought with his money, every male among the men of Abraham's house; and circumcised the flesh of their foreskin in the selfsame day, as God had said unto him.

01:017:024 And Abraham was ninety years old and nine, when he was circumcised in the flesh of his foreskin.

01:017:025 And Ishmael his son was thirteen years old, when he was circumcised in the flesh of his foreskin.

01:017:026 In the selfsame day was Abraham circumcised, and Ishmael his son.

01:017:027 And all the men of his house, born in the house, and bought with money of the stranger, were circumcised with him.

01:018:001 And the LORD appeared unto him in the plains of Mamre: and he sat in the tent door in the heat of the day;

01:018:002 And he lift up his eyes and looked, and, lo, three men stood by him: and when he saw them, he ran to meet them from the tent door, and bowed himself toward the ground,

01:018:003 And said, My LORD, if now I have found favour in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant:

01:018:004 Let a little water, I pray you, be fetched, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree:

01:018:005 And I will fetch a morsel of bread, and comfort ye your hearts; after that ye shall pass on: for therefore are ye come to your servant. And they said, So do, as thou hast said.

01:018:006 And Abraham hastened into the tent unto Sarah, and said, Make ready quickly three measures of fine meal, knead it, and make cakes upon the hearth.

01:018:007 And Abraham ran unto the herd, and fetcht a calf tender and good, and gave it unto a young man; and he hasted to dress it.

01:018:008 And he took butter, and milk, and the calf which he had dressed, and set it before them; and he stood by them under the tree, and they did eat.

01:018:009 And they said unto him, Where is Sarah thy wife? And he said, Behold, in the tent.

01:018:010 And he said, I will certainly return unto thee according to the time of life; and, lo, Sarah thy wife shall have a son. And Sarah heard it in the tent door, which was behind him.

01:018:011 Now Abraham and Sarah were old and well stricken in age; and it ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women.

01:018:012 Therefore Sarah laughed within herself, saying, After I am waxed old shall I have pleasure, my lord being old also?

01:018:013 And the LORD said unto Abraham, Wherefore did Sarah laugh, saying, Shall I of a surety bear a child, which am old?

01:018:014 Is any thing too hard for the LORD? At the time appointed I will return unto thee, according to the time of life, and Sarah shall have a son.

01:018:015 Then Sarah denied, saying, I laughed not; for she was afraid. And he said, Nay; but thou didst laugh.

01:018:016 And the men rose up from thence, and looked toward Sodom: and Abraham went with them to bring them on the way.

01:018:017 And the LORD said, Shall I hide from Abraham that thing which I do;

01:018:018 Seeing that Abraham shall surely become a great and mighty nation, and all the nations of the earth shall be blessed in him?

01:018:019 For I know him, that he will command his children and his household after him, and they shall keep the way of the LORD, to do justice and judgment; that the LORD may bring upon Abraham that which he hath spoken of him.

01:018:020 And the LORD said, Because the cry of Sodom and Gomorrah is great, and because their sin is very grievous;

01:018:021 I will go down now, and see whether they have done altogether according to the cry of it, which is come unto me; and if not, I will know.

01:018:022 And the men turned their faces from thence, and went toward Sodom: but Abraham stood yet before the LORD.

01:018:023 And Abraham drew near, and said, Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked?

01:018:024 Peradventure there be fifty righteous within the city: wilt thou also destroy and not spare the place for the fifty righteous that are therein?

01:018:025 That be far from thee to do after this manner, to slay the righteous with the wicked: and that the righteous should be as the wicked, that be far from thee: Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?

01:018:026 And the LORD said, If I find in Sodom fifty righteous within the city, then I will spare all the place for their sakes.

01:018:027 And Abraham answered and said, Behold now, I have taken upon me to speak unto the LORD, which am but dust and ashes:

01:018:028 Peradventure there shall lack five of the fifty righteous: wilt thou destroy all the city for lack of five? And he said, If I find there forty and five, I will not destroy it.

01:018:029 And he spake unto him yet again, and said, Peradventure there shall be forty found there. And he said, I will not do it for forty's sake.

01:018:030 And he said unto him, Oh let not the LORD be angry, and I will speak: Peradventure there shall thirty be found there. And he said, I will not do it, if I find thirty there.

01:018:031 And he said, Behold now, I have taken upon me to speak unto the LORD: Peradventure there shall be twenty found there. And he said, I will not destroy it for twenty's sake.

01:018:032 And he said, Oh let not the LORD be angry, and I will speak yet but this once: Peradventure ten shall be found there. And he said, I will not destroy it for ten's sake.

01:018:033 And the LORD went his way, as soon as he had left communing with Abraham: and Abraham returned unto his place.

01:019:001 And there came two angels to Sodom at even; and Lot sat in the gate of Sodom: and Lot seeing them rose up to meet them; and he bowed himself with his face toward the ground;

01:019:002 And he said, Behold now, my lords, turn in, I pray you, into your servant's house, and tarry all night, and wash your feet, and ye shall rise up early, and go on your ways. And they said, Nay; but we will abide in the street all night.

01:019:003 And he pressed upon them greatly; and they turned in unto him, and entered into his house; and he made them a feast, and did bake unleavened bread, and they did eat.

01:019:004 But before they lay down, the men of the city, even the men of Sodom, compassed the house round, both old and young, all the people from every quarter:

01:019:005 And they called unto Lot, and said unto him, Where are the men which came in to thee this night? bring them out unto us, that we may know them.

01:019:006 And Lot went out at the door unto them, and shut the door after him,

01:019:007 And said, I pray you, brethren, do not so wickedly.

01:019:008 Behold now, I have two daughters which have not known man; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as is good in your eyes: only unto these men do nothing; for therefore came they under the shadow of my roof.

01:019:009 And they said, Stand back. And they said again, This one fellow came in to sojourn, and he will needs be a judge: now will we deal worse with thee, than with them. And they pressed sore upon the man, even Lot, and came near to break the door.

01:019:010 But the men put forth their hand, and pulled Lot into the house to them, and shut to the door.

01:019:011 And they smote the men that were at the door of the house with blindness, both small and great: so that they wearied themselves to find the door.

01:019:012 And the men said unto Lot, Hast thou here any besides? son in law, and thy sons, and thy daughters, and whatsoever thou hast in the city, bring them out of this place:

01:019:013 For we will destroy this place, because the cry of them is waxen great before the face of the LORD; and the LORD hath sent us to destroy it.

01:019:014 And Lot went out, and spake unto his sons in law, which married his daughters, and said, Up, get you out of this place; for the LORD will destroy this city. But he seemed as one that mocked unto his sons in law.

01:019:015 And when the morning arose, then the angels hastened Lot, saying, Arise, take thy wife, and thy two daughters, which are here; lest thou be consumed in the iniquity of the city.

01:019:016 And while he lingered, the men laid hold upon his hand, and upon the hand of his wife, and upon the hand of his two daughters; the LORD being merciful unto him: and they brought him forth, and set him without the city.

01:019:017 And it came to pass, when they had brought them forth abroad, that he said, Escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed.

01:019:018 And Lot said unto them, Oh, not so, my LORD:

01:019:019 Behold now, thy servant hath found grace in thy sight, and thou hast magnified thy mercy, which thou hast shewed unto me in saving my life; and I cannot escape to the mountain, lest some evil take me, and I die:

01:019:020 Behold now, this city is near to flee unto, and it is a little one: Oh, let me escape thither, (is it not a little one?) and my soul shall live.

01:019:021 And he said unto him, See, I have accepted thee concerning this thing also, that I will not overthrow this city, for the which thou hast spoken.

01:019:022 Haste thee, escape thither; for I cannot do anything till thou be come thither. Therefore the name of the city was called Zoar.

01:019:023 The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar.

01:019:024 Then the LORD rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the LORD out of heaven;

01:019:025 And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.

01:019:026 But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.

01:019:027 And Abraham gat up early in the morning to the place where he stood before the LORD:

01:019:028 And he looked toward Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld, and, lo, the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.

01:019:029 And it came to pass, when God destroyed the cities of the plain, that God remembered Abraham, and sent Lot out of the midst of the overthrow, when he overthrew the cities in the which Lot dwelt.

01:019:030 And Lot went up out of Zoar, and dwelt in the mountain, and his two daughters with him; for he feared to dwell in Zoar: and he dwelt in a cave, he and his two daughters.

01:019:031 And the firstborn said unto the younger, Our father is old, and there is not a man in the earth to come in unto us after the manner of all the earth:

01:019:032 Come, let us make our father drink wine, and we will lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.

01:019:033 And they made their father drink wine that night: and the firstborn went in, and lay with her father; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.

01:019:034 And it came to pass on the morrow, that the firstborn said unto the younger, Behold, I lay yesternight with my father: let us make him drink wine this night also; and go thou in, and lie with him, that we may preserve seed of our father.

01:019:035 And they made their father drink wine that night also: and the younger arose, and lay with him; and he perceived not when she lay down, nor when she arose.

01:019:036 Thus were both the daughters of Lot with child by their father.

01:019:037 And the first born bare a son, and called his name Moab: the same is the father of the Moabites unto this day.

01:019:038 And the younger, she also bare a son, and called his name Benammi: the same is the father of the children of Ammon unto this day.

01:020:001 And Abraham journeyed from thence toward the south country, and dwelled between Kadesh and Shur, and sojourned in Gerar.

01:020:002 And Abraham said of Sarah his wife, She is my sister: and Abimelech king of Gerar sent, and took Sarah.

01:020:003 But God came to Abimelech in a dream by night, and said to him, Behold, thou art but a dead man, for the woman which thou hast taken; for she is a man's wife.

01:020:004 But Abimelech had not come near her: and he said, LORD, wilt thou slay also a righteous nation?

01:020:005 Said he not unto me, She is my sister? and she, even she herself said, He is my brother: in the integrity of my heart and innocency of my hands have I done this.

01:020:006 And God said unto him in a dream, Yea, I know that thou didst this in the integrity of thy heart; for I also withheld thee from sinning against me: therefore suffered I thee not to touch her.

01:020:007 Now therefore restore the man his wife; for he is a prophet, and he shall pray for thee, and thou shalt live: and if thou restore her not, know thou that thou shalt surely die, thou, and all that are thine.

01:020:008 Therefore Abimelech rose early in the morning, and called all his servants, and told all these things in their ears: and the men were sore afraid.

01:020:009 Then Abimelech called Abraham, and said unto him, What hast thou done unto us? and what have I offended thee, that thou hast brought on me and on my kingdom a great sin? thou hast done deeds unto me that ought not to be done.

01:020:010 And Abimelech said unto Abraham, What sawest thou, that thou hast done this thing?

01:020:011 And Abraham said, Because I thought, Surely the fear of God is not in this place; and they will slay me for my wife's sake.

01:020:012 And yet indeed she is my sister; she is the daughter of my father, but not the daughter of my mother; and she became my wife.

01:020:013 And it came to pass, when God caused me to wander from my father's house, that I said unto her, This is thy kindness which thou shalt shew unto me; at every place whither we shall come, say of me, He is my brother.

01:020:014 And Abimelech took sheep, and oxen, and menservants, and womenservants, and gave them unto Abraham, and restored him Sarah his wife.

01:020:015 And Abimelech said, Behold, my land is before thee: dwell where it pleaseth thee.

01:020:016 And unto Sarah he said, Behold, I have given thy brother a thousand pieces of silver: behold, he is to thee a covering of the eyes, unto all that are with thee, and with all other: thus she was reproved.

01:020:017 So Abraham prayed unto God: and God healed Abimelech, and his wife, and his maidservants; and they bare children.

01:020:018 For the LORD had fast closed up all the wombs of the house of Abimelech, because of Sarah Abraham's wife.

01:021:001 And the LORD visited Sarah as he had said, and the LORD did unto Sarah as he had spoken.

01:021:002 For Sarah conceived, and bare Abraham a son in his old age, at the set time of which God had spoken to him.

01:021:003 And Abraham called the name of his son that was born unto him, whom Sarah bare to him, Isaac.

01:021:004 And Abraham circumcised his son Isaac being eight days old, as God had commanded him.

01:021:005 And Abraham was an hundred years old, when his son Isaac was born unto him.

01:021:006 And Sarah said, God hath made me to laugh, so that all that hear will laugh with me.

01:021:007 And she said, Who would have said unto Abraham, that Sarah should have given children suck? for I have born him a son in his old age.

01:021:008 And the child grew, and was weaned: and Abraham made a great feast the same day that Isaac was weaned.

01:021:009 And Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, which she had born unto Abraham, mocking.

01:021:010 Wherefore she said unto Abraham, Cast out this bondwoman and her son: for the son of this bondwoman shall not be heir with my son, even with Isaac.

01:021:011 And the thing was very grievous in Abraham's sight because of his son.

01:021:012 And God said unto Abraham, Let it not be grievous in thy sight because of the lad, and because of thy bondwoman; in all that Sarah hath said unto thee, hearken unto her voice; for in Isaac shall thy seed be called.

01:021:013 And also of the son of the bondwoman will I make a nation, because he is thy seed.

01:021:014 And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and took bread, and a bottle of water, and gave it unto Hagar, putting it on her shoulder, and the child, and sent her away: and she departed, and wandered in the wilderness of Beersheba.

01:021:015 And the water was spent in the bottle, and she cast the child under one of the shrubs.

01:021:016 And she went, and sat her down over against him a good way off, as it were a bow shot: for she said, Let me not see the death of the child. And she sat over against him, and lift up her voice, and wept.

01:021:017 And God heard the voice of the lad; and the angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said unto her, What aileth thee, Hagar? fear not; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is.

01:021:018 Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand; for I will make him a great nation.

01:021:019 And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water; and she went, and filled the bottle with water, and gave the lad drink.

01:021:020 And God was with the lad; and he grew, and dwelt in the wilderness, and became an archer.

01:021:021 And he dwelt in the wilderness of Paran: and his mother took him a wife out of the land of Egypt.

01:021:022 And it came to pass at that time, that Abimelech and Phichol the chief captain of his host spake unto Abraham, saying, God is with thee in all that thou doest:

01:021:023 Now therefore swear unto me here by God that thou wilt not deal falsely with me, nor with my son, nor with my son's son: but according to the kindness that I have done unto thee, thou shalt do unto me, and to the land wherein thou hast sojourned.

01:021:024 And Abraham said, I will swear.

01:021:025 And Abraham reproved Abimelech because of a well of water, which Abimelech's servants had violently taken away.

01:021:026 And Abimelech said, I wot not who hath done this thing; neither didst thou tell me, neither yet heard I of it, but to day.

01:021:027 And Abraham took sheep and oxen, and gave them unto Abimelech; and both of them made a covenant.

01:021:028 And Abraham set seven ewe lambs of the flock by themselves.

01:021:029 And Abimelech said unto Abraham, What mean these seven ewe lambs which thou hast set by themselves?

01:021:030 And he said, For these seven ewe lambs shalt thou take of my hand, that they may be a witness unto me, that I have digged this well.

01:021:031 Wherefore he called that place Beersheba; because there they sware both of them.

01:021:032 Thus they made a covenant at Beersheba: then Abimelech rose up, and Phichol the chief captain of his host, and they returned into the land of the Philistines.

01:021:033 And Abraham planted a grove in Beersheba, and called there on the name of the LORD, the everlasting God.

01:021:034 And Abraham sojourned in the Philistines' land many days.

01:022:001 And it came to pass after these things, that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: and he said, Behold, here I am.

01:022:002 And he said, Take now thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.

01:022:003 And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him.

01:022:004 Then on the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place afar off.

01:022:005 And Abraham said unto his young men, Abide ye here with the ass; and I and the lad will go yonder and worship, and come again to you.

01:022:006 And Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering, and laid it upon Isaac his son; and he took the fire in his hand, and a knife; and they went both of them together.

01:022:007 And Isaac spake unto Abraham his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here am I, my son. And he said, Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?

01:022:008 And Abraham said, My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering: so they went both of them together.

01:022:009 And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood.

01:022:010 And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.

01:022:011 And the angel of the LORD called unto him out of heaven, and said, Abraham, Abraham: and he said, Here am I.

01:022:012 And he said, Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me.

01:022:013 And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold behind him a ram caught in a thicket by his horns: and Abraham went and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt offering in the stead of his son.

01:022:014 And Abraham called the name of that place Jehovahjireh: as it is said to this day, In the mount of the LORD it shall be seen.

01:022:015 And the angel of the LORD called unto Abraham out of heaven the second time,

01:022:016 And said, By myself have I sworn, saith the LORD, for because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thine only son:

01:022:017 That in blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which is upon the sea shore; and thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies;

01:022:018 And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed; because thou hast obeyed my voice.

01:022:019 So Abraham returned unto his young men, and they rose up and went together to Beersheba; and Abraham dwelt at Beersheba.

01:022:020 And it came to pass after these things, that it was told Abraham, saying, Behold, Milcah, she hath also born children unto thy brother Nahor;

01:022:021 Huz his firstborn, and Buz his brother, and Kemuel the father of Aram,

01:022:022 And Chesed, and Hazo, and Pildash, and Jidlaph, and Bethuel.

01:022:023 And Bethuel begat Rebekah: these eight Milcah did bear to Nahor, Abraham's brother.

01:022:024 And his concubine, whose name was Reumah, she bare also Tebah, and Gaham, and Thahash, and Maachah.

01:023:001 And Sarah was an hundred and seven and twenty years old: these were the years of the life of Sarah.

01:023:002 And Sarah died in Kirjatharba; the same is Hebron in the land of Canaan: and Abraham came to mourn for Sarah, and to weep for her.

01:023:003 And Abraham stood up from before his dead, and spake unto the sons of Heth, saying,

01:023:004 I am a stranger and a sojourner with you: give me a possession of a buryingplace with you, that I may bury my dead out of my sight.

01:023:005 And the children of Heth answered Abraham, saying unto him,

01:023:006 Hear us, my lord: thou art a mighty prince among us: in the choice of our sepulchres bury thy dead; none of us shall withhold from thee his sepulchre, but that thou mayest bury thy dead.

01:023:007 And Abraham stood up, and bowed himself to the people of the land, even to the children of Heth.

01:023:008 And he communed with them, saying, If it be your mind that I should bury my dead out of my sight; hear me, and intreat for me to Ephron the son of Zohar,

01:023:009 That he may give me the cave of Machpelah, which he hath, which is in the end of his field; for as much money as it is worth he shall give it me for a possession of a buryingplace amongst you.

01:023:010 And Ephron dwelt among the children of Heth: and Ephron the Hittite answered Abraham in the audience of the children of Heth, even of all that went in at the gate of his city, saying,

01:023:011 Nay, my lord, hear me: the field give I thee, and the cave that is therein, I give it thee; in the presence of the sons of my people give I it thee: bury thy dead.

01:023:012 And Abraham bowed down himself before the people of the land.

01:023:013 And he spake unto Ephron in the audience of the people of the land, saying, But if thou wilt give it, I pray thee, hear me: I will give thee money for the field; take it of me, and I will bury my dead there.

01:023:014 And Ephron answered Abraham, saying unto him,

01:023:015 My lord, hearken unto me: the land is worth four hundred shekels of silver; what is that betwixt me and thee? bury therefore thy dead.

01:023:016 And Abraham hearkened unto Ephron; and Abraham weighed to Ephron the silver, which he had named in the audience of the sons of Heth, four hundred shekels of silver, current money with the merchant.

01:023:017 And the field of Ephron which was in Machpelah, which was before Mamre, the field, and the cave which was therein, and all the trees that were in the field, that were in all the borders round about, were made sure

01:023:018 Unto Abraham for a possession in the presence of the children of Heth, before all that went in at the gate of his city.

01:023:019 And after this, Abraham buried Sarah his wife in the cave of the field of Machpelah before Mamre: the same is Hebron in the land of Canaan.

01:023:020 And the field, and the cave that is therein, were made sure unto Abraham for a possession of a buryingplace by the sons of Heth.

01:024:001 And Abraham was old, and well stricken in age: and the LORD had blessed Abraham in all things.

01:024:002 And Abraham said unto his eldest servant of his house, that ruled over all that he had, Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh:

01:024:003 And I will make thee swear by the LORD, the God of heaven, and the God of the earth, that thou shalt not take a wife unto my son of the daughters of the Canaanites, among whom I dwell:

01:024:004 But thou shalt go unto my country, and to my kindred, and take a wife unto my son Isaac.

01:024:005 And the servant said unto him, Peradventure the woman will not be willing to follow me unto this land: must I needs bring thy son again unto the land from whence thou camest?

01:024:006 And Abraham said unto him, Beware thou that thou bring not my son thither again.

01:024:007 The LORD God of heaven, which took me from my father's house, and from the land of my kindred, and which spake unto me, and that sware unto me, saying, Unto thy seed will I give this land; he shall send his angel before thee, and thou shalt take a wife unto my son from thence.

01:024:008 And if the woman will not be willing to follow thee, then thou shalt be clear from this my oath: only bring not my son thither again.

01:024:009 And the servant put his hand under the thigh of Abraham his master, and sware to him concerning that matter.

01:024:010 And the servant took ten camels of the camels of his master, and departed; for all the goods of his master were in his hand: and he arose, and went to Mesopotamia, unto the city of Nahor.

01:024:011 And he made his camels to kneel down without the city by a well of water at the time of the evening, even the time that women go out to draw water.

01:024:012 And he said O LORD God of my master Abraham, I pray thee, send me good speed this day, and shew kindness unto my master Abraham.

01:024:013 Behold, I stand here by the well of water; and the daughters of the men of the city come out to draw water:

01:024:014 And let it come to pass, that the damsel to whom I shall say, Let down thy pitcher, I pray thee, that I may drink; and she shall say, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also: let the same be she that thou hast appointed for thy servant Isaac; and thereby shall I know that thou hast shewed kindness unto my master.

01:024:015 And it came to pass, before he had done speaking, that, behold, Rebekah came out, who was born to Bethuel, son of Milcah, the wife of Nahor, Abraham's brother, with her pitcher upon her shoulder.

01:024:016 And the damsel was very fair to look upon, a virgin, neither had any man known her: and she went down to the well, and filled her pitcher, and came up.

01:024:017 And the servant ran to meet her, and said, Let me, I pray thee, drink a little water of thy pitcher.

01:024:018 And she said, Drink, my lord: and she hasted, and let down her pitcher upon her hand, and gave him drink.

01:024:019 And when she had done giving him drink, she said, I will draw water for thy camels also, until they have done drinking.

01:024:020 And she hasted, and emptied her pitcher into the trough, and ran again unto the well to draw water, and drew for all his camels.

01:024:021 And the man wondering at her held his peace, to wit whether the LORD had made his journey prosperous or not.

01:024:022 And it came to pass, as the camels had done drinking, that the man took a golden earring of half a shekel weight, and two bracelets for her hands of ten shekels weight of gold;

01:024:023 And said, Whose daughter art thou? tell me, I pray thee: is there room in thy father's house for us to lodge in?

01:024:024 And she said unto him, I am the daughter of Bethuel the son of Milcah, which she bare unto Nahor.

01:024:025 She said moreover unto him, We have both straw and provender enough, and room to lodge in.

01:024:026 And the man bowed down his head, and worshipped the LORD.

01:024:027 And he said, Blessed be the LORD God of my master Abraham, who hath not left destitute my master of his mercy and his truth: I being in the way, the LORD led me to the house of my master's brethren.

01:024:028 And the damsel ran, and told them of her mother's house these things.

01:024:029 And Rebekah had a brother, and his name was Laban: and Laban ran out unto the man, unto the well.

01:024:030 And it came to pass, when he saw the earring and bracelets upon his sister's hands, and when he heard the words of Rebekah his sister, saying, Thus spake the man unto me; that he came unto the man; and, behold, he stood by the camels at the well.

01:024:031 And he said, Come in, thou blessed of the LORD; wherefore standest thou without? for I have prepared the house, and room for the camels.

01:024:032 And the man came into the house: and he ungirded his camels, and gave straw and provender for the camels, and water to wash his feet, and the men's feet that were with him.

01:024:033 And there was set meat before him to eat: but he said, I will not eat, until I have told mine errand. And he said, Speak on.

01:024:034 And he said, I am Abraham's servant.

01:024:035 And the LORD hath blessed my master greatly; and he is become great: and he hath given him flocks, and herds, and silver, and gold, and menservants, and maidservants, and camels, and asses.

01:024:036 And Sarah my master's wife bare a son to my master when she was old: and unto him hath he given all that he hath.

01:024:037 And my master made me swear, saying, Thou shalt not take a wife to my son of the daughters of the Canaanites, in whose land I dwell:

01:024:038 But thou shalt go unto my father's house, and to my kindred, and take a wife unto my son.

01:024:039 And I said unto my master, Peradventure the woman will not follow me.

01:024:040 And he said unto me, The LORD, before whom I walk, will send his angel with thee, and prosper thy way; and thou shalt take a wife for my son of my kindred, and of my father's house:

01:024:041 Then shalt thou be clear from this my oath, when thou comest to my kindred; and if they give not thee one, thou shalt be clear from my oath.

01:024:042 And I came this day unto the well, and said, O LORD God of my master Abraham, if now thou do prosper my way which I go:

01:024:043 Behold, I stand by the well of water; and it shall come to pass, that when the virgin cometh forth to draw water, and I say to her, Give me, I pray thee, a little water of thy pitcher to drink;

01:024:044 And she say to me, Both drink thou, and I will also draw for thy camels: let the same be the woman whom the LORD hath appointed out for my master's son.

01:024:045 And before I had done speaking in mine heart, behold, Rebekah came forth with her pitcher on her shoulder; and she went down unto the well, and drew water: and I said unto her, Let me drink, I pray thee.

01:024:046 And she made haste, and let down her pitcher from her shoulder, and said, Drink, and I will give thy camels drink also: so I drank, and she made the camels drink also.

01:024:047 And I asked her, and said, Whose daughter art thou? And she said, the daughter of Bethuel, Nahor's son, whom Milcah bare unto him: and I put the earring upon her face, and the bracelets upon her hands.

01:024:048 And I bowed down my head, and worshipped the LORD, and blessed the LORD God of my master Abraham, which had led me in the right way to take my master's brother's daughter unto his son.

01:024:049 And now if ye will deal kindly and truly with my master, tell me: and if not, tell me; that I may turn to the right hand, or to the left.

01:024:050 Then Laban and Bethuel answered and said, The thing proceedeth from the LORD: we cannot speak unto thee bad or good.

01:024:051 Behold, Rebekah is before thee, take her, and go, and let her be thy master's son's wife, as the LORD hath spoken.

01:024:052 And it came to pass, that, when Abraham's servant heard their words, he worshipped the LORD, bowing himself to the earth.

01:024:053 And the servant brought forth jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment, and gave them to Rebekah: he gave also to her brother and to her mother precious things.

01:024:054 And they did eat and drink, he and the men that were with him, and tarried all night; and they rose up in the morning, and he said, Send me away unto my master.

01:024:055 And her brother and her mother said, Let the damsel abide with us a few days, at the least ten; after that she shall go.

01:024:056 And he said unto them, Hinder me not, seeing the LORD hath prospered my way; send me away that I may go to my master.

01:024:057 And they said, We will call the damsel, and enquire at her mouth.

01:024:058 And they called Rebekah, and said unto her, Wilt thou go with this man? And she said, I will go.

01:024:059 And they sent away Rebekah their sister, and her nurse, and Abraham's servant, and his men.

01:024:060 And they blessed Rebekah, and said unto her, Thou art our sister, be thou the mother of thousands of millions, and let thy seed possess the gate of those which hate them.

01:024:061 And Rebekah arose, and her damsels, and they rode upon the camels, and followed the man: and the servant took Rebekah, and went his way.

01:024:062 And Isaac came from the way of the well Lahairoi; for he dwelt in the south country.

01:024:063 And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide: and he lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels were coming.

01:024:064 And Rebekah lifted up her eyes, and when she saw Isaac, she lighted off the camel.

01:024:065 For she had said unto the servant, What man is this that walketh in the field to meet us? And the servant had said, It is my master: therefore she took a vail, and covered herself.

01:024:066 And the servant told Isaac all things that he had done.

01:024:067 And Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah's tent, and took Rebekah, and she became his wife; and he loved her: and Isaac was comforted after his mother's death.

01:025:001 Then again Abraham took a wife, and her name was Keturah.

01:025:002 And she bare him Zimran, and Jokshan, and Medan, and Midian, and Ishbak, and Shuah.

01:025:003 And Jokshan begat Sheba, and Dedan. And the sons of Dedan were Asshurim, and Letushim, and Leummim.

01:025:004 And the sons of Midian; Ephah, and Epher, and Hanoch, and Abidah, and Eldaah. All these were the children of Keturah.

01:025:005 And Abraham gave all that he had unto Isaac.

01:025:006 But unto the sons of the concubines, which Abraham had, Abraham gave gifts, and sent them away from Isaac his son, while he yet lived, eastward, unto the east country.

01:025:007 And these are the days of the years of Abraham's life which he lived, an hundred threescore and fifteen years.

01:025:008 Then Abraham gave up the ghost, and died in a good old age, an old man, and full of years; and was gathered to his people.

01:025:009 And his sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah, in the field of Ephron the son of Zohar the Hittite, which is before Mamre;

01:025:010 The field which Abraham purchased of the sons of Heth: there was Abraham buried, and Sarah his wife.

01:025:011 And it came to pass after the death of Abraham, that God blessed his son Isaac; and Isaac dwelt by the well Lahairoi.

01:025:012 Now these are the generations of Ishmael, Abraham's son, whom Hagar the Egyptian, Sarah's handmaid, bare unto Abraham:

01:025:013 And these are the names of the sons of Ishmael, by their names, according to their generations: the firstborn of Ishmael, Nebajoth; and Kedar, and Adbeel, and Mibsam,

01:025:014 And Mishma, and Dumah, and Massa,

01:025:015 Hadar, and Tema, Jetur, Naphish, and Kedemah:

01:025:016 These are the sons of Ishmael, and these are their names, by their towns, and by their castles; twelve princes according to their nations.

01:025:017 And these are the years of the life of Ishmael, an hundred and thirty and seven years: and he gave up the ghost and died; and was gathered unto his people.

01:025:018 And they dwelt from Havilah unto Shur, that is before Egypt, as thou goest toward Assyria: and he died in the presence of all his brethren.

01:025:019 And these are the generations of Isaac, Abraham's son: Abraham begat Isaac:

01:025:020 And Isaac was forty years old when he took Rebekah to wife, the daughter of Bethuel the Syrian of Padanaram, the sister to Laban the Syrian.

01:025:021 And Isaac intreated the LORD for his wife, because she was barren: and the LORD was intreated of him, and Rebekah his wife conceived.

01:025:022 And the children struggled together within her; and she said, If it be so, why am I thus? And she went to enquire of the LORD.

01:025:023 And the LORD said unto her, Two nations are in thy womb, and two manner of people shall be separated from thy bowels; and the one people shall be stronger than the other people; and the elder shall serve the younger.

01:025:024 And when her days to be delivered were fulfilled, behold, there were twins in her womb.

01:025:025 And the first came out red, all over like an hairy garment; and they called his name Esau.

01:025:026 And after that came his brother out, and his hand took hold on Esau's heel; and his name was called Jacob: and Isaac was threescore years old when she bare them.

01:025:027 And the boys grew: and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field; and Jacob was a plain man, dwelling in tents.

01:025:028 And Isaac loved Esau, because he did eat of his venison: but Rebekah loved Jacob.

01:025:029 And Jacob sod pottage: and Esau came from the field, and he was faint:

01:025:030 And Esau said to Jacob, Feed me, I pray thee, with that same red pottage; for I am faint: therefore was his name called Edom.

01:025:031 And Jacob said, Sell me this day thy birthright.

01:025:032 And Esau said, Behold, I am at the point to die: and what profit shall this birthright do to me?

01:025:033 And Jacob said, Swear to me this day; and he sware unto him: and he sold his birthright unto Jacob.

01:025:034 Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentiles; and he did eat and drink, and rose up, and went his way: thus Esau despised his birthright.

01:026:001 And there was a famine in the land, beside the first famine that was in the days of Abraham. And Isaac went unto Abimelech king of the Philistines unto Gerar.

01:026:002 And the LORD appeared unto him, and said, Go not down into Egypt; dwell in the land which I shall tell thee of:

01:026:003 Sojourn in this land, and I will be with thee, and will bless thee; for unto thee, and unto thy seed, I will give all these countries, and I will perform the oath which I sware unto Abraham thy father;

01:026:004 And I will make thy seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give unto thy seed all these countries; and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed;

01:026:005 Because that Abraham obeyed my voice, and kept my charge, my commandments, my statutes, and my laws.

01:026:006 And Isaac dwelt in Gerar:

01:026:007 And the men of the place asked him of his wife; and he said, She is my sister: for he feared to say, She is my wife; lest, said he, the men of the place should kill me for Rebekah; because she was fair to look upon.

01:026:008 And it came to pass, when he had been there a long time, that Abimelech king of the Philistines looked out at a window, and saw, and, behold, Isaac was sporting with Rebekah his wife.

01:026:009 And Abimelech called Isaac, and said, Behold, of a surety she is thy wife; and how saidst thou, She is my sister? And Isaac said unto him, Because I said, Lest I die for her.

01:026:010 And Abimelech said, What is this thou hast done unto us? one of the people might lightly have lien with thy wife, and thou shouldest have brought guiltiness upon us.

01:026:011 And Abimelech charged all his people, saying, He that toucheth this man or his wife shall surely be put to death.

01:026:012 Then Isaac sowed in that land, and received in the same year an hundredfold: and the LORD blessed him.

01:026:013 And the man waxed great, and went forward, and grew until he became very great:

01:026:014 For he had possession of flocks, and possession of herds, and great store of servants: and the Philistines envied him.

01:026:015 For all the wells which his father's servants had digged in the days of Abraham his father, the Philistines had stopped them, and filled them with earth.

01:026:016 And Abimelech said unto Isaac, Go from us; for thou art much mightier than we.

01:026:017 And Isaac departed thence, and pitched his tent in the valley of Gerar, and dwelt there.

01:026:018 And Isaac digged again the wells of water, which they had digged in the days of Abraham his father; for the Philistines had stopped them after the death of Abraham: and he called their names after the names by which his father had called them.

01:026:019 And Isaac's servants digged in the valley, and found there a well of springing water.

01:026:020 And the herdmen of Gerar did strive with Isaac's herdmen, saying, The water is ours: and he called the name of the well Esek; because they strove with him.

01:026:021 And they digged another well, and strove for that also: and he called the name of it Sitnah.

01:026:022 And he removed from thence, and digged another well; and for that they strove not: and he called the name of it Rehoboth; and he said, For now the LORD hath made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land.

01:026:023 And he went up from thence to Beersheba.

01:026:024 And the LORD appeared unto him the same night, and said, I am the God of Abraham thy father: fear not, for I am with thee, and will bless thee, and multiply thy seed for my servant Abraham's sake.

01:026:025 And he builded an altar there, and called upon the name of the LORD, and pitched his tent there: and there Isaac's servants digged a well.

01:026:026 Then Abimelech went to him from Gerar, and Ahuzzath one of his friends, and Phichol the chief captain of his army.

01:026:027 And Isaac said unto them, Wherefore come ye to me, seeing ye hate me, and have sent me away from you?

01:026:028 And they said, We saw certainly that the LORD was with thee: and we said, Let there be now an oath betwixt us, even betwixt us and thee, and let us make a covenant with thee;

01:026:029 That thou wilt do us no hurt, as we have not touched thee, and as we have done unto thee nothing but good, and have sent thee away in peace: thou art now the blessed of the LORD.

01:026:030 And he made them a feast, and they did eat and drink.

01:026:031 And they rose up betimes in the morning, and sware one to another: and Isaac sent them away, and they departed from him in peace.

01:026:032 And it came to pass the same day, that Isaac's servants came, and told him concerning the well which they had digged, and said unto him, We have found water.

01:026:033 And he called it Shebah: therefore the name of the city is Beersheba unto this day.

01:026:034 And Esau was forty years old when he took to wife Judith the daughter of Beeri the Hittite, and Bashemath the daughter of Elon the Hittite:

01:026:035 Which were a grief of mind unto Isaac and to Rebekah.

01:027:001 And it came to pass, that when Isaac was old, and his eyes were dim, so that he could not see, he called Esau his eldest son, and said unto him, My son: and he said unto him, Behold, here am I.

01:027:002 And he said, Behold now, I am old, I know not the day of my death:

01:027:003 Now therefore take, I pray thee, thy weapons, thy quiver and thy bow, and go out to the field, and take me some venison;

01:027:004 And make me savoury meat, such as I love, and bring it to me, that I may eat; that my soul may bless thee before I die.

01:027:005 And Rebekah heard when Isaac spake to Esau his son. And Esau went to the field to hunt for venison, and to bring it.

01:027:006 And Rebekah spake unto Jacob her son, saying, Behold, I heard thy father speak unto Esau thy brother, saying,

01:027:007 Bring me venison, and make me savoury meat, that I may eat, and bless thee before the LORD before my death.

01:027:008 Now therefore, my son, obey my voice according to that which I command thee.

01:027:009 Go now to the flock, and fetch me from thence two good kids of the goats; and I will make them savoury meat for thy father, such as he loveth:

01:027:010 And thou shalt bring it to thy father, that he may eat, and that he may bless thee before his death.

01:027:011 And Jacob said to Rebekah his mother, Behold, Esau my brother is a hairy man, and I am a smooth man:

01:027:012 My father peradventure will feel me, and I shall seem to him as a deceiver; and I shall bring a curse upon me, and not a blessing.

01:027:013 And his mother said unto him, Upon me be thy curse, my son: only obey my voice, and go fetch me them.

01:027:014 And he went, and fetched, and brought them to his mother: and his mother made savoury meat, such as his father loved.

01:027:015 And Rebekah took goodly raiment of her eldest son Esau, which were with her in the house, and put them upon Jacob her younger son:

01:027:016 And she put the skins of the kids of the goats upon his hands, and upon the smooth of his neck:

01:027:017 And she gave the savoury meat and the bread, which she had prepared, into the hand of her son Jacob.

01:027:018 And he came unto his father, and said, My father: and he said, Here am I; who art thou, my son?

01:027:019 And Jacob said unto his father, I am Esau thy first born; I have done according as thou badest me: arise, I pray thee, sit and eat of my venison, that thy soul may bless me.

01:027:020 And Isaac said unto his son, How is it that thou hast found it so quickly, my son? And he said, Because the LORD thy God brought it to me.

01:027:021 And Isaac said unto Jacob, Come near, I pray thee, that I may feel thee, my son, whether thou be my very son Esau or not.

01:027:022 And Jacob went near unto Isaac his father; and he felt him, and said, The voice is Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau.

01:027:023 And he discerned him not, because his hands were hairy, as his brother Esau's hands: so he blessed him.

01:027:024 And he said, Art thou my very son Esau? And he said, I am.

01:027:025 And he said, Bring it near to me, and I will eat of my son's venison, that my soul may bless thee. And he brought it near to him, and he did eat: and he brought him wine and he drank.

01:027:026 And his father Isaac said unto him, Come near now, and kiss me, my son.

01:027:027 And he came near, and kissed him: and he smelled the smell of his raiment, and blessed him, and said, See, the smell of my son is as the smell of a field which the LORD hath blessed:

01:027:028 Therefore God give thee of the dew of heaven, and the fatness of the earth, and plenty of corn and wine:

01:027:029 Let people serve thee, and nations bow down to thee: be lord over thy brethren, and let thy mother's sons bow down to thee: cursed be every one that curseth thee, and blessed be he that blesseth thee.

01:027:030 And it came to pass, as soon as Isaac had made an end of blessing Jacob, and Jacob was yet scarce gone out from the presence of Isaac his father, that Esau his brother came in from his hunting.

01:027:031 And he also had made savoury meat, and brought it unto his father, and said unto his father, Let my father arise, and eat of his son's venison, that thy soul may bless me.

01:027:032 And Isaac his father said unto him, Who art thou? And he said, I am thy son, thy firstborn Esau.

01:027:033 And Isaac trembled very exceedingly, and said, Who? where is he that hath taken venison, and brought it me, and I have eaten of all before thou camest, and have blessed him? yea, and he shall be blessed.

01:027:034 And when Esau heard the words of his father, he cried with a great and exceeding bitter cry, and said unto his father, Bless me, even me also, O my father.

01:027:035 And he said, Thy brother came with subtilty, and hath taken away thy blessing.

01:027:036 And he said, Is not he rightly named Jacob? for he hath supplanted me these two times: he took away my birthright; and, behold, now he hath taken away my blessing. And he said, Hast thou not reserved a blessing for me?

01:027:037 And Isaac answered and said unto Esau, Behold, I have made him thy lord, and all his brethren have I given to him for servants; and with corn and wine have I sustained him: and what shall I do now unto thee, my son?

01:027:038 And Esau said unto his father, Hast thou but one blessing, my father? bless me, even me also, O my father. And Esau lifted up his voice, and wept.

01:027:039 And Isaac his father answered and said unto him, Behold, thy dwelling shall be the fatness of the earth, and of the dew of heaven from above;

01:027:040 And by thy sword shalt thou live, and shalt serve thy brother; and it shall come to pass when thou shalt have the dominion, that thou shalt break his yoke from off thy neck.

01:027:041 And Esau hated Jacob because of the blessing wherewith his father blessed him: and Esau said in his heart, The days of mourning for my father are at hand; then will I slay my brother Jacob.

01:027:042 And these words of Esau her elder son were told to Rebekah: and she sent and called Jacob her younger son, and said unto him, Behold, thy brother Esau, as touching thee, doth comfort himself, purposing to kill thee.

01:027:043 Now therefore, my son, obey my voice; arise, flee thou to Laban my brother to Haran;

01:027:044 And tarry with him a few days, until thy brother's fury turn away;

01:027:045 Until thy brother's anger turn away from thee, and he forget that which thou hast done to him: then I will send, and fetch thee from thence: why should I be deprived also of you both in one day?

01:027:046 And Rebekah said to Isaac, I am weary of my life because of the daughters of Heth: if Jacob take a wife of the daughters of Heth, such as these which are of the daughters of the land, what good shall my life do me?

01:028:001 And Isaac called Jacob, and blessed him, and charged him, and said unto him, Thou shalt not take a wife of the daughters of Canaan.

01:028:002 Arise, go to Padanaram, to the house of Bethuel thy mother's father; and take thee a wife from thence of the daughers of Laban thy mother's brother.

01:028:003 And God Almighty bless thee, and make thee fruitful, and multiply thee, that thou mayest be a multitude of people;

01:028:004 And give thee the blessing of Abraham, to thee, and to thy seed with thee; that thou mayest inherit the land wherein thou art a stranger, which God gave unto Abraham.

01:028:005 And Isaac sent away Jacob: and he went to Padanaram unto Laban, son of Bethuel the Syrian, the brother of Rebekah, Jacob's and Esau's mother.

01:028:006 When Esau saw that Isaac had blessed Jacob, and sent him away to Padanaram, to take him a wife from thence; and that as he blessed him he gave him a charge, saying, Thou shalt not take a wife of the daughers of Canaan;

01:028:007 And that Jacob obeyed his father and his mother, and was gone to Padanaram;

01:028:008 And Esau seeing that the daughters of Canaan pleased not Isaac his father;

01:028:009 Then went Esau unto Ishmael, and took unto the wives which he had Mahalath the daughter of Ishmael Abraham's son, the sister of Nebajoth, to be his wife.

01:028:010 And Jacob went out from Beersheba, and went toward Haran.

01:028:011 And he lighted upon a certain place, and tarried there all night, because the sun was set; and he took of the stones of that place, and put them for his pillows, and lay down in that place to sleep.

01:028:012 And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven: and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it.

01:028:013 And, behold, the LORD stood above it, and said, I am the LORD God of Abraham thy father, and the God of Isaac: the land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed;

01:028:014 And thy seed shall be as the dust of the earth, and thou shalt spread abroad to the west, and to the east, and to the north, and to the south: and in thee and in thy seed shall all the families of the earth be blessed.

01:028:015 And, behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest, and will bring thee again into this land; for I will not leave thee, until I have done that which I have spoken to thee of.

01:028:016 And Jacob awaked out of his sleep, and he said, Surely the LORD is in this place; and I knew it not.

01:028:017 And he was afraid, and said, How dreadful is this place! this is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.

01:028:018 And Jacob rose up early in the morning, and took the stone that he had put for his pillows, and set it up for a pillar, and poured oil upon the top of it.

01:028:019 And he called the name of that place Bethel: but the name of that city was called Luz at the first.

01:028:020 And Jacob vowed a vow, saying, If God will be with me, and will keep me in this way that I go, and will give me bread to eat, and raiment to put on,

01:028:021 So that I come again to my father's house in peace; then shall the LORD be my God:

01:028:022 And this stone, which I have set for a pillar, shall be God's house: and of all that thou shalt give me I will surely give the tenth unto thee.

01:029:001 Then Jacob went on his journey, and came into the land of the people of the east.

01:029:002 And he looked, and behold a well in the field, and, lo, there were three flocks of sheep lying by it; for out of that well they watered the flocks: and a great stone was upon the well's mouth.

01:029:003 And thither were all the flocks gathered: and they rolled the stone from the well's mouth, and watered the sheep, and put the stone again upon the well's mouth in his place.

01:029:004 And Jacob said unto them, My brethren, whence be ye? And they said, Of Haran are we.

01:029:005 And he said unto them, Know ye Laban the son of Nahor? And they said, We know him.

01:029:006 And he said unto them, Is he well? And they said, He is well: and, behold, Rachel his daughter cometh with the sheep.

01:029:007 And he said, Lo, it is yet high day, neither is it time that the cattle should be gathered together: water ye the sheep, and go and feed them.

01:029:008 And they said, We cannot, until all the flocks be gathered together, and till they roll the stone from the well's mouth; then we water the sheep.

01:029:009 And while he yet spake with them, Rachel came with her father's sheep; for she kept them.

01:029:010 And it came to pass, when Jacob saw Rachel the daughter of Laban his mother's brother, and the sheep of Laban his mother's brother, that Jacob went near, and rolled the stone from the well's mouth, and watered the flock of Laban his mother's brother.

01:029:011 And Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up his voice, and wept.

01:029:012 And Jacob told Rachel that he was her father's brother, and that he was Rebekah's son: and she ran and told her father.

01:029:013 And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister's son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his house. And he told Laban all these things.

01:029:014 And Laban said to him, Surely thou art my bone and my flesh. And he abode with him the space of a month.

01:029:015 And Laban said unto Jacob, Because thou art my brother, shouldest thou therefore serve me for nought? tell me, what shall thy wages be?

01:029:016 And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel.

01:029:017 Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured.

01:029:018 And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter.

01:029:019 And Laban said, It is better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.

01:029:020 And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.

01:029:021 And Jacob said unto Laban, Give me my wife, for my days are fulfilled, that I may go in unto her.

01:029:022 And Laban gathered together all the men of the place, and made a feast.

01:029:023 And it came to pass in the evening, that he took Leah his daughter, and brought her to him; and he went in unto her.

01:029:024 And Laban gave unto his daughter Leah Zilpah his maid for an handmaid.

01:029:025 And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah: and he said to Laban, What is this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?

01:029:026 And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn.

01:029:027 Fulfil her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years.

01:029:028 And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week: and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also.

01:029:029 And Laban gave to Rachel his daughter Bilhah his handmaid to be her maid.

01:029:030 And he went in also unto Rachel, and he loved also Rachel more than Leah, and served with him yet seven other years.

01:029:031 And when the LORD saw that Leah was hated, he opened her womb: but Rachel was barren.

01:029:032 And Leah conceived, and bare a son, and she called his name Reuben: for she said, Surely the LORD hath looked upon my affliction; now therefore my husband will love me.

01:029:033 And she conceived again, and bare a son; and said, Because the LORD hath heard I was hated, he hath therefore given me this son also: and she called his name Simeon.

01:029:034 And she conceived again, and bare a son; and said, Now this time will my husband be joined unto me, because I have born him three sons: therefore was his name called Levi.

01:029:035 And she conceived again, and bare a son: and she said, Now will I praise the LORD: therefore she called his name Judah; and left bearing.

01:030:001 And when Rachel saw that she bare Jacob no children, Rachel envied her sister; and said unto Jacob, Give me children, or else I die.

01:030:002 And Jacob's anger was kindled against Rachel: and he said, Am I in God's stead, who hath withheld from thee the fruit of the womb?

01:030:003 And she said, Behold my maid Bilhah, go in unto her; and she shall bear upon my knees, that I may also have children by her.

01:030:004 And she gave him Bilhah her handmaid to wife: and Jacob went in unto her.

01:030:005 And Bilhah conceived, and bare Jacob a son.

01:030:006 And Rachel said, God hath judged me, and hath also heard my voice, and hath given me a son: therefore called she his name Dan.

01:030:007 And Bilhah Rachel's maid conceived again, and bare Jacob a second son.

01:030:008 And Rachel said, With great wrestlings have I wrestled with my sister, and I have prevailed: and she called his name Naphtali.

01:030:009 When Leah saw that she had left bearing, she took Zilpah her maid, and gave her Jacob to wife.

01:030:010 And Zilpah Leah's maid bare Jacob a son.

01:030:011 And Leah said, A troop cometh: and she called his name Gad.

01:030:012 And Zilpah Leah's maid bare Jacob a second son.

01:030:013 And Leah said, Happy am I, for the daughters will call me blessed: and she called his name Asher.

01:030:014 And Reuben went in the days of wheat harvest, and found mandrakes in the field, and brought them unto his mother Leah. Then Rachel said to Leah, Give me, I pray thee, of thy son's mandrakes.

01:030:015 And she said unto her, Is it a small matter that thou hast taken my husband? and wouldest thou take away my son's mandrakes also? And Rachel said, Therefore he shall lie with thee to night for thy son's mandrakes.

01:030:016 And Jacob came out of the field in the evening, and Leah went out to meet him, and said, Thou must come in unto me; for surely I have hired thee with my son's mandrakes. And he lay with her that night.

01:030:017 And God hearkened unto Leah, and she conceived, and bare Jacob the fifth son.

01:030:018 And Leah said, God hath given me my hire, because I have given my maiden to my husband: and she called his name Issachar.

01:030:019 And Leah conceived again, and bare Jacob the sixth son.

01:030:020 And Leah said, God hath endued me with a good dowry; now will my husband dwell with me, because I have born him six sons: and she called his name Zebulun.

01:030:021 And afterwards she bare a daughter, and called her name Dinah.

01:030:022 And God remembered Rachel, and God hearkened to her, and opened her womb.

01:030:023 And she conceived, and bare a son; and said, God hath taken away my reproach:

01:030:024 And she called his name Joseph; and said, The LORD shall add to me another son.

01:030:025 And it came to pass, when Rachel had born Joseph, that Jacob said unto Laban, Send me away, that I may go unto mine own place, and to my country.

01:030:026 Give me my wives and my children, for whom I have served thee, and let me go: for thou knowest my service which I have done thee.

01:030:027 And Laban said unto him, I pray thee, if I have found favour in thine eyes, tarry: for I have learned by experience that the LORD hath blessed me for thy sake.

01:030:028 And he said, Appoint me thy wages, and I will give it.

01:030:029 And he said unto him, Thou knowest how I have served thee, and how thy cattle was with me.

01:030:030 For it was little which thou hadst before I came, and it is now increased unto a multitude; and the LORD hath blessed thee since my coming: and now when shall I provide for mine own house also?

01:030:031 And he said, What shall I give thee? And Jacob said, Thou shalt not give me any thing: if thou wilt do this thing for me, I will again feed and keep thy flock.

01:030:032 I will pass through all thy flock to day, removing from thence all the speckled and spotted cattle, and all the brown cattle among the sheep, and the spotted and speckled among the goats: and of such shall be my hire.

01:030:033 So shall my righteousness answer for me in time to come, when it shall come for my hire before thy face: every one that is not speckled and spotted among the goats, and brown among the sheep, that shall be counted stolen with me.

01:030:034 And Laban said, Behold, I would it might be according to thy word.

01:030:035 And he removed that day the he goats that were ringstraked and spotted, and all the she goats that were speckled and spotted, and every one that had some white in it, and all the brown among the sheep, and gave them into the hand of his sons.

01:030:036 And he set three days' journey betwixt himself and Jacob: and Jacob fed the rest of Laban's flocks.

01:030:037 And Jacob took him rods of green poplar, and of the hazel and chesnut tree; and pilled white strakes in them, and made the white appear which was in the rods.

01:030:038 And he set the rods which he had pilled before the flocks in the gutters in the watering troughs when the flocks came to drink, that they should conceive when they came to drink.

01:030:039 And the flocks conceived before the rods, and brought forth cattle ringstraked, speckled, and spotted.

01:030:040 And Jacob did separate the lambs, and set the faces of the flocks toward the ringstraked, and all the brown in the flock of Laban; and he put his own flocks by themselves, and put them not unto Laban's cattle.

01:030:041 And it came to pass, whensoever the stronger cattle did conceive, that Jacob laid the rods before the eyes of the cattle in the gutters, that they might conceive among the rods.

01:030:042 But when the cattle were feeble, he put them not in: so the feebler were Laban's, and the stronger Jacob's.

01:030:043 And the man increased exceedingly, and had much cattle, and maidservants, and menservants, and camels, and asses.

01:031:001 And he heard the words of Laban's sons, saying, Jacob hath taken away all that was our father's; and of that which was our father's hath he gotten all this glory.

01:031:002 And Jacob beheld the countenance of Laban, and, behold, it was not toward him as before.

01:031:003 And the LORD said unto Jacob, Return unto the land of thy fathers, and to thy kindred; and I will be with thee.

01:031:004 And Jacob sent and called Rachel and Leah to the field unto his flock,

01:031:005 And said unto them, I see your father's countenance, that it is not toward me as before; but the God of my father hath been with me.

01:031:006 And ye know that with all my power I have served your father.

01:031:007 And your father hath deceived me, and changed my wages ten times; but God suffered him not to hurt me.

01:031:008 If he said thus, The speckled shall be thy wages; then all the cattle bare speckled: and if he said thus, The ringstraked shall be thy hire; then bare all the cattle ringstraked.

01:031:009 Thus God hath taken away the cattle of your father, and given them to me.

01:031:010 And it came to pass at the time that the cattle conceived, that I lifted up mine eyes, and saw in a dream, and, behold, the rams which leaped upon the cattle were ringstraked, speckled, and grisled.

01:031:011 And the angel of God spake unto me in a dream, saying, Jacob: And I said, Here am I.

01:031:012 And he said, Lift up now thine eyes, and see, all the rams which leap upon the cattle are ringstraked, speckled, and grisled: for I have seen all that Laban doeth unto thee.

01:031:013 I am the God of Bethel, where thou anointedst the pillar, and where thou vowedst a vow unto me: now arise, get thee out from this land, and return unto the land of thy kindred.

01:031:014 And Rachel and Leah answered and said unto him, Is there yet any portion or inheritance for us in our father's house?

01:031:015 Are we not counted of him strangers? for he hath sold us, and hath quite devoured also our money.

01:031:016 For all the riches which God hath taken from our father, that is ours, and our children's: now then, whatsoever God hath said unto thee, do.

01:031:017 Then Jacob rose up, and set his sons and his wives upon camels;

01:031:018 And he carried away all his cattle, and all his goods which he had gotten, the cattle of his getting, which he had gotten in Padanaram, for to go to Isaac his father in the land of Canaan.

01:031:019 And Laban went to shear his sheep: and Rachel had stolen the images that were her father's.

01:031:020 And Jacob stole away unawares to Laban the Syrian, in that he told him not that he fled.

01:031:021 So he fled with all that he had; and he rose up, and passed over the river, and set his face toward the mount Gilead.

01:031:022 And it was told Laban on the third day that Jacob was fled.

01:031:023 And he took his brethren with him, and pursued after him seven days' journey; and they overtook him in the mount Gilead.

01:031:024 And God came to Laban the Syrian in a dream by night, and said unto him, Take heed that thou speak not to Jacob either good or bad.

01:031:025 Then Laban overtook Jacob. Now Jacob had pitched his tent in the mount: and Laban with his brethren pitched in the mount of Gilead.

01:031:026 And Laban said to Jacob, What hast thou done, that thou hast stolen away unawares to me, and carried away my daughters, as captives taken with the sword?

01:031:027 Wherefore didst thou flee away secretly, and steal away from me; and didst not tell me, that I might have sent thee away with mirth, and with songs, with tabret, and with harp?

01:031:028 And hast not suffered me to kiss my sons and my daughters? thou hast now done foolishly in so doing.

01:031:029 It is in the power of my hand to do you hurt: but the God of your father spake unto me yesternight, saying, Take thou heed that thou speak not to Jacob either good or bad.

01:031:030 And now, though thou wouldest needs be gone, because thou sore longedst after thy father's house, yet wherefore hast thou stolen my gods?

01:031:031 And Jacob answered and said to Laban, Because I was afraid: for I said, Peradventure thou wouldest take by force thy daughters from me.

01:031:032 With whomsoever thou findest thy gods, let him not live: before our brethren discern thou what is thine with me, and take it to thee. For Jacob knew not that Rachel had stolen them.

01:031:033 And Laban went into Jacob's tent, and into Leah's tent, and into the two maidservants' tents; but he found them not. Then went he out of Leah's tent, and entered into Rachel's tent.

01:031:034 Now Rachel had taken the images, and put them in the camel's furniture, and sat upon them. And Laban searched all the tent, but found them not.

01:031:035 And she said to her father, Let it not displease my lord that I cannot rise up before thee; for the custom of women is upon me. And he searched but found not the images.

01:031:036 And Jacob was wroth, and chode with Laban: and Jacob answered and said to Laban, What is my trespass? what is my sin, that thou hast so hotly pursued after me?

01:031:037 Whereas thou hast searched all my stuff, what hast thou found of all thy household stuff? set it here before my brethren and thy brethren, that they may judge betwixt us both.

01:031:038 This twenty years have I been with thee; thy ewes and thy she goats have not cast their young, and the rams of thy flock have I not eaten.

01:031:039 That which was torn of beasts I brought not unto thee; I bare the loss of it; of my hand didst thou require it, whether stolen by day, or stolen by night.

01:031:040 Thus I was; in the day the drought consumed me, and the frost by night; and my sleep departed from mine eyes.

01:031:041 Thus have I been twenty years in thy house; I served thee fourteen years for thy two daughters, and six years for thy cattle: and thou hast changed my wages ten times.

01:031:042 Except the God of my father, the God of Abraham, and the fear of Isaac, had been with me, surely thou hadst sent me away now empty. God hath seen mine affliction and the labour of my hands, and rebuked thee yesternight.

01:031:043 And Laban answered and said unto Jacob, These daughters are my daughters, and these children are my children, and these cattle are my cattle, and all that thou seest is mine: and what can I do this day unto these my daughters, or unto their children which they have born?

01:031:044 Now therefore come thou, let us make a covenant, I and thou; and let it be for a witness between me and thee.

01:031:045 And Jacob took a stone, and set it up for a pillar.

01:031:046 And Jacob said unto his brethren, Gather stones; and they took stones, and made an heap: and they did eat there upon the heap.

01:031:047 And Laban called it Jegarsahadutha: but Jacob called it Galeed.

01:031:048 And Laban said, This heap is a witness between me and thee this day. Therefore was the name of it called Galeed;

01:031:049 And Mizpah; for he said, The LORD watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.

01:031:050 If thou shalt afflict my daughters, or if thou shalt take other wives beside my daughters, no man is with us; see, God is witness betwixt me and thee.

01:031:051 And Laban said to Jacob, Behold this heap, and behold this pillar, which I have cast betwixt me and thee:

01:031:052 This heap be witness, and this pillar be witness, that I will not pass over this heap to thee, and that thou shalt not pass over this heap and this pillar unto me, for harm.

01:031:053 The God of Abraham, and the God of Nahor, the God of their father, judge betwixt us. And Jacob sware by the fear of his father Isaac.

01:031:054 Then Jacob offered sacrifice upon the mount, and called his brethren to eat bread: and they did eat bread, and tarried all night in the mount.

01:031:055 And early in the morning Laban rose up, and kissed his sons and his daughters, and blessed them: and Laban departed, and returned unto his place.

01:032:001 And Jacob went on his way, and the angels of God met him.

01:032:002 And when Jacob saw them, he said, This is God's host: and he called the name of that place Mahanaim.

01:032:003 And Jacob sent messengers before him to Esau his brother unto the land of Seir, the country of Edom.

01:032:004 And he commanded them, saying, Thus shall ye speak unto my lord Esau; Thy servant Jacob saith thus, I have sojourned with Laban, and stayed there until now:

01:032:005 And I have oxen, and asses, flocks, and menservants, and womenservants: and I have sent to tell my lord, that I may find grace in thy sight.

01:032:006 And the messengers returned to Jacob, saying, We came to thy brother Esau, and also he cometh to meet thee, and four hundred men with him.

01:032:007 Then Jacob was greatly afraid and distressed: and he divided the people that was with him, and the flocks, and herds, and the camels, into two bands;

01:032:008 And said, If Esau come to the one company, and smite it, then the other company which is left shall escape.

01:032:009 And Jacob said, O God of my father Abraham, and God of my father Isaac, the LORD which saidst unto me, Return unto thy country, and to thy kindred, and I will deal well with thee:

01:032:010 I am not worthy of the least of all the mercies, and of all the truth, which thou hast shewed unto thy servant; for with my staff I passed over this Jordan; and now I am become two bands.

01:032:011 Deliver me, I pray thee, from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau: for I fear him, lest he will come and smite me, and the mother with the children.

01:032:012 And thou saidst, I will surely do thee good, and make thy seed as the sand of the sea, which cannot be numbered for multitude.

01:032:013 And he lodged there that same night; and took of that which came to his hand a present for Esau his brother;

01:032:014 Two hundred she goats, and twenty he goats, two hundred ewes, and twenty rams,

01:032:015 Thirty milch camels with their colts, forty kine, and ten bulls, twenty she asses, and ten foals.

01:032:016 And he delivered them into the hand of his servants, every drove by themselves; and said unto his servants, Pass over before me, and put a space betwixt drove and drove.

01:032:017 And he commanded the foremost, saying, When Esau my brother meeteth thee, and asketh thee, saying, Whose art thou? and whither goest thou? and whose are these before thee?

01:032:018 Then thou shalt say, They be thy servant Jacob's; it is a present sent unto my lord Esau: and, behold, also he is behind us.

01:032:019 And so commanded he the second, and the third, and all that followed the droves, saying, On this manner shall ye speak unto Esau, when ye find him.

01:032:020 And say ye moreover, Behold, thy servant Jacob is behind us. For he said, I will appease him with the present that goeth before me, and afterward I will see his face; peradventure he will accept of me.

01:032:021 So went the present over before him: and himself lodged that night in the company.

01:032:022 And he rose up that night, and took his two wives, and his two womenservants, and his eleven sons, and passed over the ford Jabbok.

01:032:023 And he took them, and sent them over the brook, and sent over that he had.

01:032:024 And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day.

01:032:025 And when he saw that he prevailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob's thigh was out of joint, as he wrestled with him.

01:032:026 And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.

01:032:027 And he said unto him, What is thy name? And he said, Jacob.

01:032:028 And he said, Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel: for as a prince hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed.

01:032:029 And Jacob asked him, and said, Tell me, I pray thee, thy name. And he said, Wherefore is it that thou dost ask after my name? And he blessed him there.

01:032:030 And Jacob called the name of the place Peniel: for I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.

01:032:031 And as he passed over Penuel the sun rose upon him, and he halted upon his thigh.

01:032:032 Therefore the children of Israel eat not of the sinew which shrank, which is upon the hollow of the thigh, unto this day: because he touched the hollow of Jacob's thigh in the sinew that shrank.

01:033:001 And Jacob lifted up his eyes, and looked, and, behold, Esau came, and with him four hundred men. And he divided the children unto Leah, and unto Rachel, and unto the two handmaids.

01:033:002 And he put the handmaids and their children foremost, and Leah and her children after, and Rachel and Joseph hindermost.

01:033:003 And he passed over before them, and bowed himself to the ground seven times, until he came near to his brother.

01:033:004 And Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell on his neck, and kissed him: and they wept.

01:033:005 And he lifted up his eyes, and saw the women and the children; and said, Who are those with thee? And he said, The children which God hath graciously given thy servant.

01:033:006 Then the handmaidens came near, they and their children, and they bowed themselves.

01:033:007 And Leah also with her children came near, and bowed themselves: and after came Joseph near and Rachel, and they bowed themselves.

01:033:008 And he said, What meanest thou by all this drove which I met? And he said, These are to find grace in the sight of my lord.

01:033:009 And Esau said, I have enough, my brother; keep that thou hast unto thyself.

01:033:010 And Jacob said, Nay, I pray thee, if now I have found grace in thy sight, then receive my present at my hand: for therefore I have seen thy face, as though I had seen the face of God, and thou wast pleased with me.

01:033:011 Take, I pray thee, my blessing that is brought to thee; because God hath dealt graciously with me, and because I have enough. And he urged him, and he took it.

01:033:012 And he said, Let us take our journey, and let us go, and I will go before thee.

01:033:013 And he said unto him, My lord knoweth that the children are tender, and the flocks and herds with young are with me: and if men should overdrive them one day, all the flock will die.

01:033:014 Let my lord, I pray thee, pass over before his servant: and I will lead on softly, according as the cattle that goeth before me and the children be able to endure, until I come unto my lord unto Seir.

01:033:015 And Esau said, Let me now leave with thee some of the folk that are with me. And he said, What needeth it? let me find grace in the sight of my lord.

01:033:016 So Esau returned that day on his way unto Seir.

01:033:017 And Jacob journeyed to Succoth, and built him an house, and made booths for his cattle: therefore the name of the place is called Succoth.

01:033:018 And Jacob came to Shalem, a city of Shechem, which is in the land of Canaan, when he came from Padanaram; and pitched his tent before the city.

01:033:019 And he bought a parcel of a field, where he had spread his tent, at the hand of the children of Hamor, Shechem's father, for an hundred pieces of money.

01:033:020 And he erected there an altar, and called it EleloheIsrael.

01:034:001 And Dinah the daughter of Leah, which she bare unto Jacob, went out to see the daughters of the land.

01:034:002 And when Shechem the son of Hamor the Hivite, prince of the country, saw her, he took her, and lay with her, and defiled her.

01:034:003 And his soul clave unto Dinah the daughter of Jacob, and he loved the damsel, and spake kindly unto the damsel.

01:034:004 And Shechem spake unto his father Hamor, saying, Get me this damsel to wife.

01:034:005 And Jacob heard that he had defiled Dinah his daughter: now his sons were with his cattle in the field: and Jacob held his peace until they were come.

01:034:006 And Hamor the father of Shechem went out unto Jacob to commune with him.

01:034:007 And the sons of Jacob came out of the field when they heard it: and the men were grieved, and they were very wroth, because he had wrought folly in Israel in lying with Jacob's daughter: which thing ought not to be done.

01:034:008 And Hamor communed with them, saying, The soul of my son Shechem longeth for your daughter: I pray you give her him to wife.

01:034:009 And make ye marriages with us, and give your daughters unto us, and take our daughters unto you.

01:034:010 And ye shall dwell with us: and the land shall be before you; dwell and trade ye therein, and get you possessions therein.

01:034:011 And Shechem said unto her father and unto her brethren, Let me find grace in your eyes, and what ye shall say unto me I will give.

01:034:012 Ask me never so much dowry and gift, and I will give according as ye shall say unto me: but give me the damsel to wife.

01:034:013 And the sons of Jacob answered Shechem and Hamor his father deceitfully, and said, because he had defiled Dinah their sister:

01:034:014 And they said unto them, We cannot do this thing, to give our sister to one that is uncircumcised; for that were a reproach unto us:

01:034:015 But in this will we consent unto you: If ye will be as we be, that every male of you be circumcised;

01:034:016 Then will we give our daughters unto you, and we will take your daughters to us, and we will dwell with you, and we will become one people.

01:034:017 But if ye will not hearken unto us, to be circumcised; then will we take our daughter, and we will be gone.

01:034:018 And their words pleased Hamor, and Shechem Hamor's son.

01:034:019 And the young man deferred not to do the thing, because he had delight in Jacob's daughter: and he was more honourable than all the house of his father.

01:034:020 And Hamor and Shechem his son came unto the gate of their city, and communed with the men of their city, saying,

01:034:021 These men are peaceable with us; therefore let them dwell in the land, and trade therein; for the land, behold, it is large enough for them; let us take their daughters to us for wives, and let us give them our daughters.

01:034:022 Only herein will the men consent unto us for to dwell with us, to be one people, if every male among us be circumcised, as they are circumcised.

01:034:023 Shall not their cattle and their substance and every beast of their's be our's? only let us consent unto them, and they will dwell with us.

01:034:024 And unto Hamor and unto Shechem his son hearkened all that went out of the gate of his city; and every male was circumcised, all that went out of the gate of his city.

01:034:025 And it came to pass on the third day, when they were sore, that two of the sons of Jacob, Simeon and Levi, Dinah's brethren, took each man his sword, and came upon the city boldly, and slew all the males.

01:034:026 And they slew Hamor and Shechem his son with the edge of the sword, and took Dinah out of Shechem's house, and went out.

01:034:027 The sons of Jacob came upon the slain, and spoiled the city, because they had defiled their sister.

01:034:028 They took their sheep, and their oxen, and their asses, and that which was in the city, and that which was in the field,

01:034:029 And all their wealth, and all their little ones, and their wives took they captive, and spoiled even all that was in the house.

01:034:030 And Jacob said to Simeon and Levi, Ye have troubled me to make me to stink among the inhabitants of the land, among the Canaanites and the Perizzites: and I being few in number, they shall gather themselves together against me, and slay me; and I shall be destroyed, I and my house.

01:034:031 And they said, Should he deal with our sister as with an harlot?

01:035:001 And God said unto Jacob, Arise, go up to Bethel, and dwell there: and make there an altar unto God, that appeared unto thee when thou fleddest from the face of Esau thy brother.

01:035:002 Then Jacob said unto his household, and to all that were with him, Put away the strange gods that are among you, and be clean, and change your garments:

01:035:003 And let us arise, and go up to Bethel; and I will make there an altar unto God, who answered me in the day of my distress, and was with me in the way which I went.

01:035:004 And they gave unto Jacob all the strange gods which were in their hand, and all their earrings which were in their ears; and Jacob hid them under the oak which was by Shechem.

01:035:005 And they journeyed: and the terror of God was upon the cities that were round about them, and they did not pursue after the sons of Jacob.

01:035:006 So Jacob came to Luz, which is in the land of Canaan, that is, Bethel, he and all the people that were with him.

01:035:007 And he built there an altar, and called the place Elbethel: because there God appeared unto him, when he fled from the face of his brother.

01:035:008 But Deborah Rebekah's nurse died, and she was buried beneath Bethel under an oak: and the name of it was called Allonbachuth.

01:035:009 And God appeared unto Jacob again, when he came out of Padanaram, and blessed him.

01:035:010 And God said unto him, Thy name is Jacob: thy name shall not be called any more Jacob, but Israel shall be thy name: and he called his name Israel.

01:035:011 And God said unto him, I am God Almighty: be fruitful and multiply; a nation and a company of nations shall be of thee, and kings shall come out of thy loins;

01:035:012 And the land which I gave Abraham and Isaac, to thee I will give it, and to thy seed after thee will I give the land.

01:035:013 And God went up from him in the place where he talked with him.

01:035:014 And Jacob set up a pillar in the place where he talked with him, even a pillar of stone: and he poured a drink offering thereon, and he poured oil thereon.

01:035:015 And Jacob called the name of the place where God spake with him, Bethel.

01:035:016 And they journeyed from Bethel; and there was but a little way to come to Ephrath: and Rachel travailed, and she had hard labour.

01:035:017 And it came to pass, when she was in hard labour, that the midwife said unto her, Fear not; thou shalt have this son also.

01:035:018 And it came to pass, as her soul was in departing, (for she died) that she called his name Benoni: but his father called him Benjamin.

01:035:019 And Rachel died, and was buried in the way to Ephrath, which is Bethlehem.

01:035:020 And Jacob set a pillar upon her grave: that is the pillar of Rachel's grave unto this day.

01:035:021 And Israel journeyed, and spread his tent beyond the tower of Edar.

01:035:022 And it came to pass, when Israel dwelt in that land, that Reuben went and lay with Bilhah his father's concubine: and Israel heard it. Now the sons of Jacob were twelve:

01:035:023 The sons of Leah; Reuben, Jacob's firstborn, and Simeon, and Levi, and Judah, and Issachar, and Zebulun:

01:035:024 The sons of Rachel; Joseph, and Benjamin:

01:035:025 And the sons of Bilhah, Rachel's handmaid; Dan, and Naphtali:

01:035:026 And the sons of Zilpah, Leah's handmaid: Gad, and Asher: these are the sons of Jacob, which were born to him in Padanaram.

01:035:027 And Jacob came unto Isaac his father unto Mamre, unto the city of Arbah, which is Hebron, where Abraham and Isaac sojourned.

01:035:028 And the days of Isaac were an hundred and fourscore years.

01:035:029 And Isaac gave up the ghost, and died, and was gathered unto his people, being old and full of days: and his sons Esau and Jacob buried him.

01:036:001 Now these are the generations of Esau, who is Edom.

01:036:002 Esau took his wives of the daughters of Canaan; Adah the daughter of Elon the Hittite, and Aholibamah the daughter of Anah the daughter of Zibeon the Hivite;

01:036:003 And Bashemath Ishmael's daughter, sister of Nebajoth.

01:036:004 And Adah bare to Esau Eliphaz; and Bashemath bare Reuel;

01:036:005 And Aholibamah bare Jeush, and Jaalam, and Korah: these are the sons of Esau, which were born unto him in the land of Canaan.

01:036:006 And Esau took his wives, and his sons, and his daughters, and all the persons of his house, and his cattle, and all his beasts, and all his substance, which he had got in the land of Canaan; and went into the country from the face of his brother Jacob.

01:036:007 For their riches were more than that they might dwell together; and the land wherein they were strangers could not bear them because of their cattle.

01:036:008 Thus dwelt Esau in mount Seir: Esau is Edom.

01:036:009 And these are the generations of Esau the father of the Edomites in mount Seir:

01:036:010 These are the names of Esau's sons; Eliphaz the son of Adah the wife of Esau, Reuel the son of Bashemath the wife of Esau.

01:036:011 And the sons of Eliphaz were Teman, Omar, Zepho, and Gatam, and Kenaz.

01:036:012 And Timna was concubine to Eliphaz Esau's son; and she bare to Eliphaz Amalek: these were the sons of Adah Esau's wife.

01:036:013 And these are the sons of Reuel; Nahath, and Zerah, Shammah, and Mizzah: these were the sons of Bashemath Esau's wife.

01:036:014 And these were the sons of Aholibamah, the daughter of Anah the daughter of Zibeon, Esau's wife: and she bare to Esau Jeush, and Jaalam, and Korah.

01:036:015 These were dukes of the sons of Esau: the sons of Eliphaz the firstborn son of Esau; duke Teman, duke Omar, duke Zepho, duke Kenaz,

01:036:016 Duke Korah, duke Gatam, and duke Amalek: these are the dukes that came of Eliphaz in the land of Edom; these were the sons of Adah.

01:036:017 And these are the sons of Reuel Esau's son; duke Nahath, duke Zerah, duke Shammah, duke Mizzah: these are the dukes that came of Reuel in the land of Edom; these are the sons of Bashemath Esau's wife.

01:036:018 And these are the sons of Aholibamah Esau's wife; duke Jeush, duke Jaalam, duke Korah: these were the dukes that came of Aholibamah the daughter of Anah, Esau's wife.

01:036:019 These are the sons of Esau, who is Edom, and these are their dukes.

01:036:020 These are the sons of Seir the Horite, who inhabited the land; Lotan, and Shobal, and Zibeon, and Anah,

01:036:021 And Dishon, and Ezer, and Dishan: these are the dukes of the Horites, the children of Seir in the land of Edom.

01:036:022 And the children of Lotan were Hori and Hemam; and Lotan's sister was Timna.

01:036:023 And the children of Shobal were these; Alvan, and Manahath, and Ebal, Shepho, and Onam.

01:036:024 And these are the children of Zibeon; both Ajah, and Anah: this was that Anah that found the mules in the wilderness, as he fed the asses of Zibeon his father.

01:036:025 And the children of Anah were these; Dishon, and Aholibamah the daughter of Anah.

01:036:026 And these are the children of Dishon; Hemdan, and Eshban, and Ithran, and Cheran.

01:036:027 The children of Ezer are these; Bilhan, and Zaavan, and Akan.

01:036:028 The children of Dishan are these; Uz, and Aran.

01:036:029 These are the dukes that came of the Horites; duke Lotan, duke Shobal, duke Zibeon, duke Anah,

01:036:030 Duke Dishon, duke Ezer, duke Dishan: these are the dukes that came of Hori, among their dukes in the land of Seir.

01:036:031 And these are the kings that reigned in the land of Edom, before there reigned any king over the children of Israel.

01:036:032 And Bela the son of Beor reigned in Edom: and the name of his city was Dinhabah.

01:036:033 And Bela died, and Jobab the son of Zerah of Bozrah reigned in his stead.

01:036:034 And Jobab died, and Husham of the land of Temani reigned in his stead.

01:036:035 And Husham died, and Hadad the son of Bedad, who smote Midian in the field of Moab, reigned in his stead: and the name of his city was Avith.

01:036:036 And Hadad died, and Samlah of Masrekah reigned in his stead.

01:036:037 And Samlah died, and Saul of Rehoboth by the river reigned in his stead.

01:036:038 And Saul died, and Baalhanan the son of Achbor reigned in his stead.

01:036:039 And Baalhanan the son of Achbor died, and Hadar reigned in his stead: and the name of his city was Pau; and his wife's name was Mehetabel, the daughter of Matred, the daughter of Mezahab.

01:036:040 And these are the names of the dukes that came of Esau, according to their families, after their places, by their names; duke Timnah, duke Alvah, duke Jetheth,

01:036:041 Duke Aholibamah, duke Elah, duke Pinon,

01:036:042 Duke Kenaz, duke Teman, duke Mibzar,

01:036:043 Duke Magdiel, duke Iram: these be the dukes of Edom, according to their habitations in the land of their possession: he is Esau the father of the Edomites.

01:037:001 And Jacob dwelt in the land wherein his father was a stranger, in the land of Canaan.

01:037:002 These are the generations of Jacob. Joseph, being seventeen years old, was feeding the flock with his brethren; and the lad was with the sons of Bilhah, and with the sons of Zilpah, his father's wives: and Joseph brought unto his father their evil report.

01:037:003 Now Israel loved Joseph more than all his children, because he was the son of his old age: and he made him a coat of many colours.

01:037:004 And when his brethren saw that their father loved him more than all his brethren, they hated him, and could not speak peaceably unto him.

01:037:005 And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told it his brethren: and they hated him yet the more.

01:037:006 And he said unto them, Hear, I pray you, this dream which I have dreamed:

01:037:007 For, behold, we were binding sheaves in the field, and, lo, my sheaf arose, and also stood upright; and, behold, your sheaves stood round about, and made obeisance to my sheaf.

01:037:008 And his brethren said to him, Shalt thou indeed reign over us? or shalt thou indeed have dominion over us? And they hated him yet the more for his dreams, and for his words.

01:037:009 And he dreamed yet another dream, and told it his brethren, and said, Behold, I have dreamed a dream more; and, behold, the sun and the moon and the eleven stars made obeisance to me.

01:037:010 And he told it to his father, and to his brethren: and his father rebuked him, and said unto him, What is this dream that thou hast dreamed? Shall I and thy mother and thy brethren indeed come to bow down ourselves to thee to the earth?

01:037:011 And his brethren envied him; but his father observed the saying.

01:037:012 And his brethren went to feed their father's flock in Shechem.

01:037:013 And Israel said unto Joseph, Do not thy brethren feed the flock in Shechem? come, and I will send thee unto them. And he said to him, Here am I.

01:037:014 And he said to him, Go, I pray thee, see whether it be well with thy brethren, and well with the flocks; and bring me word again. So he sent him out of the vale of Hebron, and he came to Shechem.

01:037:015 And a certain man found him, and, behold, he was wandering in the field: and the man asked him, saying, What seekest thou?

01:037:016 And he said, I seek my brethren: tell me, I pray thee, where they feed their flocks.

01:037:017 And the man said, They are departed hence; for I heard them say, Let us go to Dothan. And Joseph went after his brethren, and found them in Dothan.

01:037:018 And when they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto them, they conspired against him to slay him.

01:037:019 And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh.

01:037:020 Come now therefore, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say, Some evil beast hath devoured him: and we shall see what will become of his dreams.

01:037:021 And Reuben heard it, and he delivered him out of their hands; and said, Let us not kill him.

01:037:022 And Reuben said unto them, Shed no blood, but cast him into this pit that is in the wilderness, and lay no hand upon him; that he might rid him out of their hands, to deliver him to his father again.

01:037:023 And it came to pass, when Joseph was come unto his brethren, that they stript Joseph out of his coat, his coat of many colours that was on him;

01:037:024 And they took him, and cast him into a pit: and the pit was empty, there was no water in it.

01:037:025 And they sat down to eat bread: and they lifted up their eyes and looked, and, behold, a company of Ishmeelites came from Gilead with their camels bearing spicery and balm and myrrh, going to carry it down to Egypt.

01:037:026 And Judah said unto his brethren, What profit is it if we slay our brother, and conceal his blood?

01:037:027 Come, and let us sell him to the Ishmeelites, and let not our hand be upon him; for he is our brother and our flesh. And his brethren were content.

01:037:028 Then there passed by Midianites merchantmen; and they drew and lifted up Joseph out of the pit, and sold Joseph to the Ishmeelites for twenty pieces of silver: and they brought Joseph into Egypt.

01:037:029 And Reuben returned unto the pit; and, behold, Joseph was not in the pit; and he rent his clothes.

01:037:030 And he returned unto his brethren, and said, The child is not; and I, whither shall I go?

01:037:031 And they took Joseph's coat, and killed a kid of the goats, and dipped the coat in the blood;

01:037:032 And they sent the coat of many colours, and they brought it to their father; and said, This have we found: know now whether it be thy son's coat or no.

01:037:033 And he knew it, and said, It is my son's coat; an evil beast hath devoured him; Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces.

01:037:034 And Jacob rent his clothes, and put sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days.

01:037:035 And all his sons and all his daughters rose up to comfort him; but he refused to be comforted; and he said, For I will go down into the grave unto my son mourning. Thus his father wept for him.

01:037:036 And the Midianites sold him into Egypt unto Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh's, and captain of the guard.

01:038:001 And it came to pass at that time, that Judah went down from his brethren, and turned in to a certain Adullamite, whose name was Hirah.

01:038:002 And Judah saw there a daughter of a certain Canaanite, whose name was Shuah; and he took her, and went in unto her.

01:038:003 And she conceived, and bare a son; and he called his name Er.

01:038:004 And she conceived again, and bare a son; and she called his name Onan.

01:038:005 And she yet again conceived, and bare a son; and called his name Shelah: and he was at Chezib, when she bare him.

01:038:006 And Judah took a wife for Er his firstborn, whose name was Tamar.

01:038:007 And Er, Judah's firstborn, was wicked in the sight of the LORD; and the LORD slew him.

01:038:008 And Judah said unto Onan, Go in unto thy brother's wife, and marry her, and raise up seed to thy brother.

01:038:009 And Onan knew that the seed should not be his; and it came to pass, when he went in unto his brother's wife, that he spilled it on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother.

01:038:010 And the thing which he did displeased the LORD: wherefore he slew him also.

01:038:011 Then said Judah to Tamar his daughter in law, Remain a widow at thy father's house, till Shelah my son be grown: for he said, Lest peradventure he die also, as his brethren did. And Tamar went and dwelt in her father's house.

01:038:012 And in process of time the daughter of Shuah Judah's wife died; and Judah was comforted, and went up unto his sheepshearers to Timnath, he and his friend Hirah the Adullamite.

01:038:013 And it was told Tamar, saying, Behold thy father in law goeth up to Timnath to shear his sheep.

01:038:014 And she put her widow's garments off from her, and covered her with a vail, and wrapped herself, and sat in an open place, which is by the way to Timnath; for she saw that Shelah was grown, and she was not given unto him to wife.

01:038:015 When Judah saw her, he thought her to be an harlot; because she had covered her face.

01:038:016 And he turned unto her by the way, and said, Go to, I pray thee, let me come in unto thee; (for he knew not that she was his daughter in law.) And she said, What wilt thou give me, that thou mayest come in unto me?

01:038:017 And he said, I will send thee a kid from the flock. And she said, Wilt thou give me a pledge, till thou send it?

01:038:018 And he said, What pledge shall I give thee? And she said, Thy signet, and thy bracelets, and thy staff that is in thine hand. And he gave it her, and came in unto her, and she conceived by him.

01:038:019 And she arose, and went away, and laid by her vail from her, and put on the garments of her widowhood.

01:038:020 And Judah sent the kid by the hand of his friend the Adullamite, to receive his pledge from the woman's hand: but he found her not.

01:038:021 Then he asked the men of that place, saying, Where is the harlot, that was openly by the way side? And they said, There was no harlot in this place.

01:038:022 And he returned to Judah, and said, I cannot find her; and also the men of the place said, that there was no harlot in this place.

01:038:023 And Judah said, Let her take it to her, lest we be shamed: behold, I sent this kid, and thou hast not found her.

01:038:024 And it came to pass about three months after, that it was told Judah, saying, Tamar thy daughter in law hath played the harlot; and also, behold, she is with child by whoredom. And Judah said, Bring her forth, and let her be burnt.

01:038:025 When she was brought forth, she sent to her father in law, saying, By the man, whose these are, am I with child: and she said, Discern, I pray thee, whose are these, the signet, and bracelets, and staff.

01:038:026 And Judah acknowledged them, and said, She hath been more righteous than I; because that I gave her not to Shelah my son. And he knew her again no more.

01:038:027 And it came to pass in the time of her travail, that, behold, twins were in her womb.

01:038:028 And it came to pass, when she travailed, that the one put out his hand: and the midwife took and bound upon his hand a scarlet thread, saying, This came out first.

01:038:029 And it came to pass, as he drew back his hand, that, behold, his brother came out: and she said, How hast thou broken forth? this breach be upon thee: therefore his name was called Pharez.

01:038:030 And afterward came out his brother, that had the scarlet thread upon his hand: and his name was called Zarah.

01:039:001 And Joseph was brought down to Egypt; and Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh, captain of the guard, an Egyptian, bought him of the hands of the Ishmeelites, which had brought him down thither.

01:039:002 And the LORD was with Joseph, and he was a prosperous man; and he was in the house of his master the Egyptian.

01:039:003 And his master saw that the LORD was with him, and that the LORD made all that he did to prosper in his hand.

01:039:004 And Joseph found grace in his sight, and he served him: and he made him overseer over his house, and all that he had he put into his hand.

01:039:005 And it came to pass from the time that he had made him overseer in his house, and over all that he had, that the LORD blessed the Egyptian's house for Joseph's sake; and the blessing of the LORD was upon all that he had in the house, and in the field.

01:039:006 And he left all that he had in Joseph's hand; and he knew not ought he had, save the bread which he did eat. And Joseph was a goodly person, and well favoured.

01:039:007 And it came to pass after these things, that his master's wife cast her eyes upon Joseph; and she said, Lie with me.

01:039:008 But he refused, and said unto his master's wife, Behold, my master wotteth not what is with me in the house, and he hath committed all that he hath to my hand;

01:039:009 There is none greater in this house than I; neither hath he kept back any thing from me but thee, because thou art his wife: how then can I do this great wickedness, and sin against God?

01:039:010 And it came to pass, as she spake to Joseph day by day, that he hearkened not unto her, to lie by her, or to be with her.

01:039:011 And it came to pass about this time, that Joseph went into the house to do his business; and there was none of the men of the house there within.

01:039:012 And she caught him by his garment, saying, Lie with me: and he left his garment in her hand, and fled, and got him out.

01:039:013 And it came to pass, when she saw that he had left his garment in her hand, and was fled forth,

01:039:014 That she called unto the men of her house, and spake unto them, saying, See, he hath brought in an Hebrew unto us to mock us; he came in unto me to lie with me, and I cried with a loud voice:

01:039:015 And it came to pass, when he heard that I lifted up my voice and cried, that he left his garment with me, and fled, and got him out.

01:039:016 And she laid up his garment by her, until his lord came home.

01:039:017 And she spake unto him according to these words, saying, The Hebrew servant, which thou hast brought unto us, came in unto me to mock me:

01:039:018 And it came to pass, as I lifted up my voice and cried, that he left his garment with me, and fled out.

01:039:019 And it came to pass, when his master heard the words of his wife, which she spake unto him, saying, After this manner did thy servant to me; that his wrath was kindled.

01:039:020 And Joseph's master took him, and put him into the prison, a place where the king's prisoners were bound: and he was there in the prison.

01:039:021 But the LORD was with Joseph, and shewed him mercy, and gave him favour in the sight of the keeper of the prison.

01:039:022 And the keeper of the prison committed to Joseph's hand all the prisoners that were in the prison; and whatsoever they did there, he was the doer of it.

01:039:023 The keeper of the prison looked not to any thing that was under his hand; because the LORD was with him, and that which he did, the LORD made it to prosper.

01:040:001 And it came to pass after these things, that the butler of the king of Egypt and his baker had offended their lord the king of Egypt.

01:040:002 And Pharaoh was wroth against two of his officers, against the chief of the butlers, and against the chief of the bakers.

01:040:003 And he put them in ward in the house of the captain of the guard, into the prison, the place where Joseph was bound.

01:040:004 And the captain of the guard charged Joseph with them, and he served them: and they continued a season in ward.

01:040:005 And they dreamed a dream both of them, each man his dream in one night, each man according to the interpretation of his dream, the butler and the baker of the king of Egypt, which were bound in the prison.

01:040:006 And Joseph came in unto them in the morning, and looked upon them, and, behold, they were sad.

01:040:007 And he asked Pharaoh's officers that were with him in the ward of his lord's house, saying, Wherefore look ye so sadly to day?

01:040:008 And they said unto him, We have dreamed a dream, and there is no interpreter of it. And Joseph said unto them, Do not interpretations belong to God? tell me them, I pray you.

01:040:009 And the chief butler told his dream to Joseph, and said to him, In my dream, behold, a vine was before me;

01:040:010 And in the vine were three branches: and it was as though it budded, and her blossoms shot forth; and the clusters thereof brought forth ripe grapes:

01:040:011 And Pharaoh's cup was in my hand: and I took the grapes, and pressed them into Pharaoh's cup, and I gave the cup into Pharaoh's hand.

01:040:012 And Joseph said unto him, This is the interpretation of it: The three branches are three days:

01:040:013 Yet within three days shall Pharaoh lift up thine head, and restore thee unto thy place: and thou shalt deliver Pharaoh's cup into his hand, after the former manner when thou wast his butler.

01:040:014 But think on me when it shall be well with thee, and shew kindness, I pray thee, unto me, and make mention of me unto Pharaoh, and bring me out of this house:

01:040:015 For indeed I was stolen away out of the land of the Hebrews: and here also have I done nothing that they should put me into the dungeon.

01:040:016 When the chief baker saw that the interpretation was good, he said unto Joseph, I also was in my dream, and, behold, I had three white baskets on my head:

01:040:017 And in the uppermost basket there was of all manner of bakemeats for Pharaoh; and the birds did eat them out of the basket upon my head.

01:040:018 And Joseph answered and said, This is the interpretation thereof: The three baskets are three days:

01:040:019 Yet within three days shall Pharaoh lift up thy head from off thee, and shall hang thee on a tree; and the birds shall eat thy flesh from off thee.

01:040:020 And it came to pass the third day, which was Pharaoh's birthday, that he made a feast unto all his servants: and he lifted up the head of the chief butler and of the chief baker among his servants.

01:040:021 And he restored the chief butler unto his butlership again; and he gave the cup into Pharaoh's hand:

01:040:022 But he hanged the chief baker: as Joseph had interpreted to them.

01:040:023 Yet did not the chief butler remember Joseph, but forgat him.

01:041:001 And it came to pass at the end of two full years, that Pharaoh dreamed: and, behold, he stood by the river.

01:041:002 And, behold, there came up out of the river seven well favoured kine and fatfleshed; and they fed in a meadow.

01:041:003 And, behold, seven other kine came up after them out of the river, ill favoured and leanfleshed; and stood by the other kine upon the brink of the river.

01:041:004 And the ill favoured and leanfleshed kine did eat up the seven well favoured and fat kine. So Pharaoh awoke.

01:041:005 And he slept and dreamed the second time: and, behold, seven ears of corn came up upon one stalk, rank and good.

01:041:006 And, behold, seven thin ears and blasted with the east wind sprung up after them.

01:041:007 And the seven thin ears devoured the seven rank and full ears. And Pharaoh awoke, and, behold, it was a dream.

01:041:008 And it came to pass in the morning that his spirit was troubled; and he sent and called for all the magicians of Egypt, and all the wise men thereof: and Pharaoh told them his dream; but there was none that could interpret them unto Pharaoh.

01:041:009 Then spake the chief butler unto Pharaoh, saying, I do remember my faults this day:

01:041:010 Pharaoh was wroth with his servants, and put me in ward in the captain of the guard's house, both me and the chief baker:

01:041:011 And we dreamed a dream in one night, I and he; we dreamed each man according to the interpretation of his dream.

01:041:012 And there was there with us a young man, an Hebrew, servant to the captain of the guard; and we told him, and he interpreted to us our dreams; to each man according to his dream he did interpret.

01:041:013 And it came to pass, as he interpreted to us, so it was; me he restored unto mine office, and him he hanged.

01:041:014 Then Pharaoh sent and called Joseph, and they brought him hastily out of the dungeon: and he shaved himself, and changed his raiment, and came in unto Pharaoh.

01:041:015 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I have dreamed a dream, and there is none that can interpret it: and I have heard say of thee, that thou canst understand a dream to interpret it.

01:041:016 And Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying, It is not in me: God shall give Pharaoh an answer of peace.

01:041:017 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, In my dream, behold, I stood upon the bank of the river:

01:041:018 And, behold, there came up out of the river seven kine, fatfleshed and well favoured; and they fed in a meadow:

01:041:019 And, behold, seven other kine came up after them, poor and very ill favoured and leanfleshed, such as I never saw in all the land of Egypt for badness:

01:041:020 And the lean and the ill favoured kine did eat up the first seven fat kine:

01:041:021 And when they had eaten them up, it could not be known that they had eaten them; but they were still ill favoured, as at the beginning. So I awoke.

01:041:022 And I saw in my dream, and, behold, seven ears came up in one stalk, full and good:

01:041:023 And, behold, seven ears, withered, thin, and blasted with the east wind, sprung up after them:

01:041:024 And the thin ears devoured the seven good ears: and I told this unto the magicians; but there was none that could declare it to me.

01:041:025 And Joseph said unto Pharaoh, The dream of Pharaoh is one: God hath shewed Pharaoh what he is about to do.

01:041:026 The seven good kine are seven years; and the seven good ears are seven years: the dream is one.

01:041:027 And the seven thin and ill favoured kine that came up after them are seven years; and the seven empty ears blasted with the east wind shall be seven years of famine.

01:041:028 This is the thing which I have spoken unto Pharaoh: What God is about to do he sheweth unto Pharaoh.

01:041:029 Behold, there come seven years of great plenty throughout all the land of Egypt:

01:041:030 And there shall arise after them seven years of famine; and all the plenty shall be forgotten in the land of Egypt; and the famine shall consume the land;

01:041:031 And the plenty shall not be known in the land by reason of that famine following; for it shall be very grievous.

01:041:032 And for that the dream was doubled unto Pharaoh twice; it is because the thing is established by God, and God will shortly bring it to pass.

01:041:033 Now therefore let Pharaoh look out a man discreet and wise, and set him over the land of Egypt.

01:041:034 Let Pharaoh do this, and let him appoint officers over the land, and take up the fifth part of the land of Egypt in the seven plenteous years.

01:041:035 And let them gather all the food of those good years that come, and lay up corn under the hand of Pharaoh, and let them keep food in the cities.

01:041:036 And that food shall be for store to the land against the seven years of famine, which shall be in the land of Egypt; that the land perish not through the famine.

01:041:037 And the thing was good in the eyes of Pharaoh, and in the eyes of all his servants.

01:041:038 And Pharaoh said unto his servants, Can we find such a one as this is, a man in whom the Spirit of God is?

01:041:039 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, Forasmuch as God hath shewed thee all this, there is none so discreet and wise as thou art:

01:041:040 Thou shalt be over my house, and according unto thy word shall all my people be ruled: only in the throne will I be greater than thou.

01:041:041 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, See, I have set thee over all the land of Egypt.

01:041:042 And Pharaoh took off his ring from his hand, and put it upon Joseph's hand, and arrayed him in vestures of fine linen, and put a gold chain about his neck;

01:041:043 And he made him to ride in the second chariot which he had; and they cried before him, Bow the knee: and he made him ruler over all the land of Egypt.

01:041:044 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I am Pharaoh, and without thee shall no man lift up his hand or foot in all the land of Egypt.

01:041:045 And Pharaoh called Joseph's name Zaphnathpaaneah; and he gave him to wife Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On. And Joseph went out over all the land of Egypt.

01:041:046 And Joseph was thirty years old when he stood before Pharaoh king of Egypt. And Joseph went out from the presence of Pharaoh, and went throughout all the land of Egypt.

01:041:047 And in the seven plenteous years the earth brought forth by handfuls.

01:041:048 And he gathered up all the food of the seven years, which were in the land of Egypt, and laid up the food in the cities: the food of the field, which was round about every city, laid he up in the same.

01:041:049 And Joseph gathered corn as the sand of the sea, very much, until he left numbering; for it was without number.

01:041:050 And unto Joseph were born two sons before the years of famine came, which Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On bare unto him.

01:041:051 And Joseph called the name of the firstborn Manasseh: For God, said he, hath made me forget all my toil, and all my father's house.

01:041:052 And the name of the second called he Ephraim: For God hath caused me to be fruitful in the land of my affliction.

01:041:053 And the seven years of plenteousness, that was in the land of Egypt, were ended.

01:041:054 And the seven years of dearth began to come, according as Joseph had said: and the dearth was in all lands; but in all the land of Egypt there was bread.

01:041:055 And when all the land of Egypt was famished, the people cried to Pharaoh for bread: and Pharaoh said unto all the Egyptians, Go unto Joseph; what he saith to you, do.

01:041:056 And the famine was over all the face of the earth: and Joseph opened all the storehouses, and sold unto the Egyptians; and the famine waxed sore in the land of Egypt.

01:041:057 And all countries came into Egypt to Joseph for to buy corn; because that the famine was so sore in all lands.

01:042:001 Now when Jacob saw that there was corn in Egypt, Jacob said unto his sons, Why do ye look one upon another?

01:042:002 And he said, Behold, I have heard that there is corn in Egypt: get you down thither, and buy for us from thence; that we may live, and not die.

01:042:003 And Joseph's ten brethren went down to buy corn in Egypt.

01:042:004 But Benjamin, Joseph's brother, Jacob sent not with his brethren; for he said, Lest peradventure mischief befall him.

01:042:005 And the sons of Israel came to buy corn among those that came: for the famine was in the land of Canaan.

01:042:006 And Joseph was the governor over the land, and he it was that sold to all the people of the land: and Joseph's brethren came, and bowed down themselves before him with their faces to the earth.

01:042:007 And Joseph saw his brethren, and he knew them, but made himself strange unto them, and spake roughly unto them; and he said unto them, Whence come ye? And they said, From the land of Canaan to buy food.

01:042:008 And Joseph knew his brethren, but they knew not him.

01:042:009 And Joseph remembered the dreams which he dreamed of them, and said unto them, Ye are spies; to see the nakedness of the land ye are come.

01:042:010 And they said unto him, Nay, my lord, but to buy food are thy servants come.

01:042:011 We are all one man's sons; we are true men, thy servants are no spies.

01:042:012 And he said unto them, Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land ye are come.

01:042:013 And they said, Thy servants are twelve brethren, the sons of one man in the land of Canaan; and, behold, the youngest is this day with our father, and one is not.

01:042:014 And Joseph said unto them, That is it that I spake unto you, saying, Ye are spies:

01:042:015 Hereby ye shall be proved: By the life of Pharaoh ye shall not go forth hence, except your youngest brother come hither.

01:042:016 Send one of you, and let him fetch your brother, and ye shall be kept in prison, that your words may be proved, whether there be any truth in you: or else by the life of Pharaoh surely ye are spies.

01:042:017 And he put them all together into ward three days.

01:042:018 And Joseph said unto them the third day, This do, and live; for I fear God:

01:042:019 If ye be true men, let one of your brethren be bound in the house of your prison: go ye, carry corn for the famine of your houses:

01:042:020 But bring your youngest brother unto me; so shall your words be verified, and ye shall not die. And they did so.

01:042:021 And they said one to another, We are verily guilty concerning our brother, in that we saw the anguish of his soul, when he besought us, and we would not hear; therefore is this distress come upon us.

01:042:022 And Reuben answered them, saying, Spake I not unto you, saying, Do not sin against the child; and ye would not hear? therefore, behold, also his blood is required.

01:042:023 And they knew not that Joseph understood them; for he spake unto them by an interpreter.

01:042:024 And he turned himself about from them, and wept; and returned to them again, and communed with them, and took from them Simeon, and bound him before their eyes.

01:042:025 Then Joseph commanded to fill their sacks with corn, and to restore every man's money into his sack, and to give them provision for the way: and thus did he unto them.

01:042:026 And they laded their asses with the corn, and departed thence.

01:042:027 And as one of them opened his sack to give his ass provender in the inn, he espied his money; for, behold, it was in his sack's mouth.

01:042:028 And he said unto his brethren, My money is restored; and, lo, it is even in my sack: and their heart failed them, and they were afraid, saying one to another, What is this that God hath done unto us?

01:042:029 And they came unto Jacob their father unto the land of Canaan, and told him all that befell unto them; saying,

01:042:030 The man, who is the lord of the land, spake roughly to us, and took us for spies of the country.

01:042:031 And we said unto him, We are true men; we are no spies:

01:042:032 We be twelve brethren, sons of our father; one is not, and the youngest is this day with our father in the land of Canaan.

01:042:033 And the man, the lord of the country, said unto us, Hereby shall I know that ye are true men; leave one of your brethren here with me, and take food for the famine of your households, and be gone:

01:042:034 And bring your youngest brother unto me: then shall I know that ye are no spies, but that ye are true men: so will I deliver you your brother, and ye shall traffick in the land.

01:042:035 And it came to pass as they emptied their sacks, that, behold, every man's bundle of money was in his sack: and when both they and their father saw the bundles of money, they were afraid.

01:042:036 And Jacob their father said unto them, Me have ye bereaved of my children: Joseph is not, and Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin away: all these things are against me.

01:042:037 And Reuben spake unto his father, saying, Slay my two sons, if I bring him not to thee: deliver him into my hand, and I will bring him to thee again.

01:042:038 And he said, My son shall not go down with you; for his brother is dead, and he is left alone: if mischief befall him by the way in the which ye go, then shall ye bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.

01:043:001 And the famine was sore in the land.

01:043:002 And it came to pass, when they had eaten up the corn which they had brought out of Egypt, their father said unto them, Go again, buy us a little food.

01:043:003 And Judah spake unto him, saying, The man did solemnly protest unto us, saying, Ye shall not see my face, except your brother be with you.

01:043:004 If thou wilt send our brother with us, we will go down and buy thee food:

01:043:005 But if thou wilt not send him, we will not go down: for the man said unto us, Ye shall not see my face, except your brother be with you.

01:043:006 And Israel said, Wherefore dealt ye so ill with me, as to tell the man whether ye had yet a brother?

01:043:007 And they said, The man asked us straitly of our state, and of our kindred, saying, Is your father yet alive? have ye another brother? and we told him according to the tenor of these words: could we certainly know that he would say, Bring your brother down?

01:043:008 And Judah said unto Israel his father, Send the lad with me, and we will arise and go; that we may live, and not die, both we, and thou, and also our little ones.

01:043:009 I will be surety for him; of my hand shalt thou require him: if I bring him not unto thee, and set him before thee, then let me bear the blame for ever:

01:043:010 For except we had lingered, surely now we had returned this second time.

01:043:011 And their father Israel said unto them, If it must be so now, do this; take of the best fruits in the land in your vessels, and carry down the man a present, a little balm, and a little honey, spices, and myrrh, nuts, and almonds:

01:043:012 And take double money in your hand; and the money that was brought again in the mouth of your sacks, carry it again in your hand; peradventure it was an oversight:

01:043:013 Take also your brother, and arise, go again unto the man:

01:043:014 And God Almighty give you mercy before the man, that he may send away your other brother, and Benjamin. If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved.

01:043:015 And the men took that present, and they took double money in their hand and Benjamin; and rose up, and went down to Egypt, and stood before Joseph.

01:043:016 And when Joseph saw Benjamin with them, he said to the ruler of his house, Bring these men home, and slay, and make ready; for these men shall dine with me at noon.

01:043:017 And the man did as Joseph bade; and the man brought the men into Joseph's house.

01:043:018 And the men were afraid, because they were brought into Joseph's house; and they said, Because of the money that was returned in our sacks at the first time are we brought in; that he may seek occasion against us, and fall upon us, and take us for bondmen, and our asses.

01:043:019 And they came near to the steward of Joseph's house, and they communed with him at the door of the house,

01:043:020 And said, O sir, we came indeed down at the first time to buy food:

01:043:021 And it came to pass, when we came to the inn, that we opened our sacks, and, behold, every man's money was in the mouth of his sack, our money in full weight: and we have brought it again in our hand.

01:043:022 And other money have we brought down in our hands to buy food: we cannot tell who put our money in our sacks.

01:043:023 And he said, Peace be to you, fear not: your God, and the God of your father, hath given you treasure in your sacks: I had your money. And he brought Simeon out unto them.

01:043:024 And the man brought the men into Joseph's house, and gave them water, and they washed their feet; and he gave their asses provender.

01:043:025 And they made ready the present against Joseph came at noon: for they heard that they should eat bread there.

01:043:026 And when Joseph came home, they brought him the present which was in their hand into the house, and bowed themselves to him to the earth.

01:043:027 And he asked them of their welfare, and said, Is your father well, the old man of whom ye spake? Is he yet alive?

01:043:028 And they answered, Thy servant our father is in good health, he is yet alive. And they bowed down their heads, and made obeisance.

01:043:029 And he lifted up his eyes, and saw his brother Benjamin, his mother's son, and said, Is this your younger brother, of whom ye spake unto me? And he said, God be gracious unto thee, my son.

01:043:030 And Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother: and he sought where to weep; and he entered into his chamber, and wept there.

01:043:031 And he washed his face, and went out, and refrained himself, and said, Set on bread.

01:043:032 And they set on for him by himself, and for them by themselves, and for the Egyptians, which did eat with him, by themselves: because the Egyptians might not eat bread with the Hebrews; for that is an abomination unto the Egyptians.

01:043:033 And they sat before him, the firstborn according to his birthright, and the youngest according to his youth: and the men marvelled one at another.

01:043:034 And he took and sent messes unto them from before him: but Benjamin's mess was five times so much as any of their's. And they drank, and were merry with him.

01:044:001 And he commanded the steward of his house, saying, Fill the men's sacks with food, as much as they can carry, and put every man's money in his sack's mouth.

01:044:002 And put my cup, the silver cup, in the sack's mouth of the youngest, and his corn money. And he did according to the word that Joseph had spoken.

01:044:003 As soon as the morning was light, the men were sent away, they and their asses.

01:044:004 And when they were gone out of the city, and not yet far off, Joseph said unto his steward, Up, follow after the men; and when thou dost overtake them, say unto them, Wherefore have ye rewarded evil for good?

01:044:005 Is not this it in which my lord drinketh, and whereby indeed he divineth? ye have done evil in so doing.

01:044:006 And he overtook them, and he spake unto them these same words.

01:044:007 And they said unto him, Wherefore saith my lord these words? God forbid that thy servants should do according to this thing:

01:044:008 Behold, the money, which we found in our sacks' mouths, we brought again unto thee out of the land of Canaan: how then should we steal out of thy lord's house silver or gold?

01:044:009 With whomsoever of thy servants it be found, both let him die, and we also will be my lord's bondmen.

01:044:010 And he said, Now also let it be according unto your words: he with whom it is found shall be my servant; and ye shall be blameless.

01:044:011 Then they speedily took down every man his sack to the ground, and opened every man his sack.

01:044:012 And he searched, and began at the eldest, and left at the youngest: and the cup was found in Benjamin's sack.

01:044:013 Then they rent their clothes, and laded every man his ass, and returned to the city.

01:044:014 And Judah and his brethren came to Joseph's house; for he was yet there: and they fell before him on the ground.

01:044:015 And Joseph said unto them, What deed is this that ye have done? wot ye not that such a man as I can certainly divine?

01:044:016 And Judah said, What shall we say unto my lord? what shall we speak? or how shall we clear ourselves? God hath found out the iniquity of thy servants: behold, we are my lord's servants, both we, and he also with whom the cup is found.

01:044:017 And he said, God forbid that I should do so: but the man in whose hand the cup is found, he shall be my servant; and as for you, get you up in peace unto your father.

01:044:018 Then Judah came near unto him, and said, Oh my lord, let thy servant, I pray thee, speak a word in my lord's ears, and let not thine anger burn against thy servant: for thou art even as Pharaoh.

01:044:019 My lord asked his servants, saying, Have ye a father, or a brother?

01:044:020 And we said unto my lord, We have a father, an old man, and a child of his old age, a little one; and his brother is dead, and he alone is left of his mother, and his father loveth him.

01:044:021 And thou saidst unto thy servants, Bring him down unto me, that I may set mine eyes upon him.

01:044:022 And we said unto my lord, The lad cannot leave his father: for if he should leave his father, his father would die.

01:044:023 And thou saidst unto thy servants, Except your youngest brother come down with you, ye shall see my face no more.

01:044:024 And it came to pass when we came up unto thy servant my father, we told him the words of my lord.

01:044:025 And our father said, Go again, and buy us a little food.

01:044:026 And we said, We cannot go down: if our youngest brother be with us, then will we go down: for we may not see the man's face, except our youngest brother be with us.

01:044:027 And thy servant my father said unto us, Ye know that my wife bare me two sons:

01:044:028 And the one went out from me, and I said, Surely he is torn in pieces; and I saw him not since:

01:044:029 And if ye take this also from me, and mischief befall him, ye shall bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.

01:044:030 Now therefore when I come to thy servant my father, and the lad be not with us; seeing that his life is bound up in the lad's life;

01:044:031 It shall come to pass, when he seeth that the lad is not with us, that he will die: and thy servants shall bring down the gray hairs of thy servant our father with sorrow to the grave.

01:044:032 For thy servant became surety for the lad unto my father, saying, If I bring him not unto thee, then I shall bear the blame to my father for ever.

01:044:033 Now therefore, I pray thee, let thy servant abide instead of the lad a bondman to my lord; and let the lad go up with his brethren.

01:044:034 For how shall I go up to my father, and the lad be not with me? lest peradventure I see the evil that shall come on my father.

01:045:001 Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him; and he cried, Cause every man to go out from me. And there stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren.

01:045:002 And he wept aloud: and the Egyptians and the house of Pharaoh heard.

01:045:003 And Joseph said unto his brethren, I am Joseph; doth my father yet live? And his brethren could not answer him; for they were troubled at his presence.

01:045:004 And Joseph said unto his brethren, Come near to me, I pray you. And they came near. And he said, I am Joseph your brother, whom ye sold into Egypt.

01:045:005 Now therefore be not grieved, nor angry with yourselves, that ye sold me hither: for God did send me before you to preserve life.

01:045:006 For these two years hath the famine been in the land: and yet there are five years, in the which there shall neither be earing nor harvest.

01:045:007 And God sent me before you to preserve you a posterity in the earth, and to save your lives by a great deliverance.

01:045:008 So now it was not you that sent me hither, but God: and he hath made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house, and a ruler throughout all the land of Egypt.

01:045:009 Haste ye, and go up to my father, and say unto him, Thus saith thy son Joseph, God hath made me lord of all Egypt: come down unto me, tarry not:

01:045:010 And thou shalt dwell in the land of Goshen, and thou shalt be near unto me, thou, and thy children, and thy children's children, and thy flocks, and thy herds, and all that thou hast:

01:045:011 And there will I nourish thee; for yet there are five years of famine; lest thou, and thy household, and all that thou hast, come to poverty.

01:045:012 And, behold, your eyes see, and the eyes of my brother Benjamin, that it is my mouth that speaketh unto you.

01:045:013 And ye shall tell my father of all my glory in Egypt, and of all that ye have seen; and ye shall haste and bring down my father hither.

01:045:014 And he fell upon his brother Benjamin's neck, and wept; and Benjamin wept upon his neck.

01:045:015 Moreover he kissed all his brethren, and wept upon them: and after that his brethren talked with him.

01:045:016 And the fame thereof was heard in Pharaoh's house, saying, Joseph's brethren are come: and it pleased Pharaoh well, and his servants.

01:045:017 And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, Say unto thy brethren, This do ye; lade your beasts, and go, get you unto the land of Canaan;

01:045:018 And take your father and your households, and come unto me: and I will give you the good of the land of Egypt, and ye shall eat the fat of the land.

01:045:019 Now thou art commanded, this do ye; take you wagons out of the land of Egypt for your little ones, and for your wives, and bring your father, and come.

01:045:020 Also regard not your stuff; for the good of all the land of Egypt is your's.

01:045:021 And the children of Israel did so: and Joseph gave them wagons, according to the commandment of Pharaoh, and gave them provision for the way.

01:045:022 To all of them he gave each man changes of raiment; but to Benjamin he gave three hundred pieces of silver, and five changes of raiment.

01:045:023 And to his father he sent after this manner; ten asses laden with the good things of Egypt, and ten she asses laden with corn and bread and meat for his father by the way.

01:045:024 So he sent his brethren away, and they departed: and he said unto them, See that ye fall not out by the way.

01:045:025 And they went up out of Egypt, and came into the land of Canaan unto Jacob their father,

01:045:026 And told him, saying, Joseph is yet alive, and he is governor over all the land of Egypt. And Jacob's heart fainted, for he believed them not.

01:045:027 And they told him all the words of Joseph, which he had said unto them: and when he saw the wagons which Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of Jacob their father revived:

01:045:028 And Israel said, It is enough; Joseph my son is yet alive: I will go and see him before I die.

01:046:001 And Israel took his journey with all that he had, and came to Beersheba, and offered sacrifices unto the God of his father Isaac.

01:046:002 And God spake unto Israel in the visions of the night, and said, Jacob, Jacob. And he said, Here am I.

01:046:003 And he said, I am God, the God of thy father: fear not to go down into Egypt; for I will there make of thee a great nation:

01:046:004 I will go down with thee into Egypt; and I will also surely bring thee up again: and Joseph shall put his hand upon thine eyes.

01:046:005 And Jacob rose up from Beersheba: and the sons of Israel carried Jacob their father, and their little ones, and their wives, in the wagons which Pharaoh had sent to carry him.

01:046:006 And they took their cattle, and their goods, which they had gotten in the land of Canaan, and came into Egypt, Jacob, and all his seed with him:

01:046:007 His sons, and his sons' sons with him, his daughters, and his sons' daughters, and all his seed brought he with him into Egypt.

01:046:008 And these are the names of the children of Israel, which came into Egypt, Jacob and his sons: Reuben, Jacob's firstborn.

01:046:009 And the sons of Reuben; Hanoch, and Phallu, and Hezron, and Carmi.

01:046:010 And the sons of Simeon; Jemuel, and Jamin, and Ohad, and Jachin, and Zohar, and Shaul the son of a Canaanitish woman.

01:046:011 And the sons of Levi; Gershon, Kohath, and Merari.

01:046:012 And the sons of Judah; Er, and Onan, and Shelah, and Pharez, and Zarah: but Er and Onan died in the land of Canaan. And the sons of Pharez were Hezron and Hamul.

01:046:013 And the sons of Issachar; Tola, and Phuvah, and Job, and Shimron.

01:046:014 And the sons of Zebulun; Sered, and Elon, and Jahleel.

01:046:015 These be the sons of Leah, which she bare unto Jacob in Padanaram, with his daughter Dinah: all the souls of his sons and his daughters were thirty and three.

01:046:016 And the sons of Gad; Ziphion, and Haggi, Shuni, and Ezbon, Eri, and Arodi, and Areli.

01:046:017 And the sons of Asher; Jimnah, and Ishuah, and Isui, and Beriah, and Serah their sister: and the sons of Beriah; Heber, and Malchiel.

01:046:018 These are the sons of Zilpah, whom Laban gave to Leah his daughter, and these she bare unto Jacob, even sixteen souls.

01:046:019 The sons of Rachel Jacob's wife; Joseph, and Benjamin.

01:046:020 And unto Joseph in the land of Egypt were born Manasseh and Ephraim, which Asenath the daughter of Potipherah priest of On bare unto him.

01:046:021 And the sons of Benjamin were Belah, and Becher, and Ashbel, Gera, and Naaman, Ehi, and Rosh, Muppim, and Huppim, and Ard.

01:046:022 These are the sons of Rachel, which were born to Jacob: all the souls were fourteen.

01:046:023 And the sons of Dan; Hushim.

01:046:024 And the sons of Naphtali; Jahzeel, and Guni, and Jezer, and Shillem.

01:046:025 These are the sons of Bilhah, which Laban gave unto Rachel his daughter, and she bare these unto Jacob: all the souls were seven.

01:046:026 All the souls that came with Jacob into Egypt, which came out of his loins, besides Jacob's sons' wives, all the souls were threescore and six;

01:046:027 And the sons of Joseph, which were born him in Egypt, were two souls: all the souls of the house of Jacob, which came into Egypt, were threescore and ten.

01:046:028 And he sent Judah before him unto Joseph, to direct his face unto Goshen; and they came into the land of Goshen.

01:046:029 And Joseph made ready his chariot, and went up to meet Israel his father, to Goshen, and presented himself unto him; and he fell on his neck, and wept on his neck a good while.

01:046:030 And Israel said unto Joseph, Now let me die, since I have seen thy face, because thou art yet alive.

01:046:031 And Joseph said unto his brethren, and unto his father's house, I will go up, and shew Pharaoh, and say unto him, My brethren, and my father's house, which were in the land of Canaan, are come unto me;

01:046:032 And the men are shepherds, for their trade hath been to feed cattle; and they have brought their flocks, and their herds, and all that they have.

01:046:033 And it shall come to pass, when Pharaoh shall call you, and shall say, What is your occupation?

01:046:034 That ye shall say, Thy servants' trade hath been about cattle from our youth even until now, both we, and also our fathers: that ye may dwell in the land of Goshen; for every shepherd is an abomination unto the Egyptians.

01:047:001 Then Joseph came and told Pharaoh, and said, My father and my brethren, and their flocks, and their herds, and all that they have, are come out of the land of Canaan; and, behold, they are in the land of Goshen.

01:047:002 And he took some of his brethren, even five men, and presented them unto Pharaoh.

01:047:003 And Pharaoh said unto his brethren, What is your occupation? And they said unto Pharaoh, Thy servants are shepherds, both we, and also our fathers.

01:047:004 They said morever unto Pharaoh, For to sojourn in the land are we come; for thy servants have no pasture for their flocks; for the famine is sore in the land of Canaan: now therefore, we pray thee, let thy servants dwell in the land of Goshen.

01:047:005 And Pharaoh spake unto Joseph, saying, Thy father and thy brethren are come unto thee:

01:047:006 The land of Egypt is before thee; in the best of the land make thy father and brethren to dwell; in the land of Goshen let them dwell: and if thou knowest any men of activity among them, then make them rulers over my cattle.

01:047:007 And Joseph brought in Jacob his father, and set him before Pharaoh: and Jacob blessed Pharaoh.

01:047:008 And Pharaoh said unto Jacob, How old art thou?

01:047:009 And Jacob said unto Pharaoh, The days of the years of my pilgrimage are an hundred and thirty years: few and evil have the days of the years of my life been, and have not attained unto the days of the years of the life of my fathers in the days of their pilgrimage.

01:047:010 And Jacob blessed Pharaoh, and went out from before Pharaoh.

01:047:011 And Joseph placed his father and his brethren, and gave them a possession in the land of Egypt, in the best of the land, in the land of Rameses, as Pharaoh had commanded.

01:047:012 And Joseph nourished his father, and his brethren, and all his father's household, with bread, according to their families.

01:047:013 And there was no bread in all the land; for the famine was very sore, so that the land of Egypt and all the land of Canaan fainted by reason of the famine.

01:047:014 And Joseph gathered up all the money that was found in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, for the corn which they bought: and Joseph brought the money into Pharaoh's house.

01:047:015 And when money failed in the land of Egypt, and in the land of Canaan, all the Egyptians came unto Joseph, and said, Give us bread: for why should we die in thy presence? for the money faileth.

01:047:016 And Joseph said, Give your cattle; and I will give you for your cattle, if money fail.

01:047:017 And they brought their cattle unto Joseph: and Joseph gave them bread in exchange for horses, and for the flocks, and for the cattle of the herds, and for the asses: and he fed them with bread for all their cattle for that year.

01:047:018 When that year was ended, they came unto him the second year, and said unto him, We will not hide it from my lord, how that our money is spent; my lord also hath our herds of cattle; there is not ought left in the sight of my lord, but our bodies, and our lands:

01:047:019 Wherefore shall we die before thine eyes, both we and our land? buy us and our land for bread, and we and our land will be servants unto Pharaoh: and give us seed, that we may live, and not die, that the land be not desolate.

01:047:020 And Joseph bought all the land of Egypt for Pharaoh; for the Egyptians sold every man his field, because the famine prevailed over them: so the land became Pharaoh's.

01:047:021 And as for the people, he removed them to cities from one end of the borders of Egypt even to the other end thereof.

01:047:022 Only the land of the priests bought he not; for the priests had a portion assigned them of Pharaoh, and did eat their portion which Pharaoh gave them: wherefore they sold not their lands.

01:047:023 Then Joseph said unto the people, Behold, I have bought you this day and your land for Pharaoh: lo, here is seed for you, and ye shall sow the land.

01:047:024 And it shall come to pass in the increase, that ye shall give the fifth part unto Pharaoh, and four parts shall be your own, for seed of the field, and for your food, and for them of your households, and for food for your little ones.

01:047:025 And they said, Thou hast saved our lives: let us find grace in the sight of my lord, and we will be Pharaoh's servants.

01:047:026 And Joseph made it a law over the land of Egypt unto this day, that Pharaoh should have the fifth part, except the land of the priests only, which became not Pharaoh's.

01:047:027 And Israel dwelt in the land of Egypt, in the country of Goshen; and they had possessions therein, and grew, and multiplied exceedingly.

01:047:028 And Jacob lived in the land of Egypt seventeen years: so the whole age of Jacob was an hundred forty and seven years.

01:047:029 And the time drew nigh that Israel must die: and he called his son Joseph, and said unto him, If now I have found grace in thy sight, put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh, and deal kindly and truly with me; bury me not, I pray thee, in Egypt:

01:047:030 But I will lie with my fathers, and thou shalt carry me out of Egypt, and bury me in their buryingplace. And he said, I will do as thou hast said.

01:047:031 And he said, Swear unto me. And he sware unto him. And Israel bowed himself upon the bed's head.

01:048:001 And it came to pass after these things, that one told Joseph, Behold, thy father is sick: and he took with him his two sons, Manasseh and Ephraim.

01:048:002 And one told Jacob, and said, Behold, thy son Joseph cometh unto thee: and Israel strengthened himself, and sat upon the bed.

01:048:003 And Jacob said unto Joseph, God Almighty appeared unto me at Luz in the land of Canaan, and blessed me,

01:048:004 And said unto me, Behold, I will make thee fruitful, and multiply thee, and I will make of thee a multitude of people; and will give this land to thy seed after thee for an everlasting possession.

01:048:005 And now thy two sons, Ephraim and Manasseh, which were born unto thee in the land of Egypt before I came unto thee into Egypt, are mine; as Reuben and Simeon, they shall be mine.

01:048:006 And thy issue, which thou begettest after them, shall be thine, and shall be called after the name of their brethren in their inheritance.

01:048:007 And as for me, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan in the way, when yet there was but a little way to come unto Ephrath: and I buried her there in the way of Ephrath; the same is Bethlehem.

01:048:008 And Israel beheld Joseph's sons, and said, Who are these?

01:048:009 And Joseph said unto his father, They are my sons, whom God hath given me in this place. And he said, Bring them, I pray thee, unto me, and I will bless them.

01:048:010 Now the eyes of Israel were dim for age, so that he could not see. And he brought them near unto him; and he kissed them, and embraced them.

01:048:011 And Israel said unto Joseph, I had not thought to see thy face: and, lo, God hath shewed me also thy seed.

01:048:012 And Joseph brought them out from between his knees, and he bowed himself with his face to the earth.

01:048:013 And Joseph took them both, Ephraim in his right hand toward Israel's left hand, and Manasseh in his left hand toward Israel's right hand, and brought them near unto him.

01:048:014 And Israel stretched out his right hand, and laid it upon Ephraim's head, who was the younger, and his left hand upon Manasseh's head, guiding his hands wittingly; for Manasseh was the firstborn.

01:048:015 And he blessed Joseph, and said, God, before whom my fathers Abraham and Isaac did walk, the God which fed me all my life long unto this day,

01:048:016 The Angel which redeemed me from all evil, bless the lads; and let my name be named on them, and the name of my fathers Abraham and Isaac; and let them grow into a multitude in the midst of the earth.

01:048:017 And when Joseph saw that his father laid his right hand upon the head of Ephraim, it displeased him: and he held up his father's hand, to remove it from Ephraim's head unto Manasseh's head.

01:048:018 And Joseph said unto his father, Not so, my father: for this is the firstborn; put thy right hand upon his head.

01:048:019 And his father refused, and said, I know it, my son, I know it: he also shall become a people, and he also shall be great: but truly his younger brother shall be greater than he, and his seed shall become a multitude of nations.

01:048:020 And he blessed them that day, saying, In thee shall Israel bless, saying, God make thee as Ephraim and as Manasseh: and he set Ephraim before Manasseh.

01:048:021 And Israel said unto Joseph, Behold, I die: but God shall be with you, and bring you again unto the land of your fathers.

01:048:022 Moreover I have given to thee one portion above thy brethren, which I took out of the hand of the Amorite with my sword and with my bow.

01:049:001 And Jacob called unto his sons, and said, Gather yourselves together, that I may tell you that which shall befall you in the last days.

01:049:002 Gather yourselves together, and hear, ye sons of Jacob; and hearken unto Israel your father.

01:049:003 Reuben, thou art my firstborn, my might, and the beginning of my strength, the excellency of dignity, and the excellency of power:

01:049:004 Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel; because thou wentest up to thy father's bed; then defiledst thou it: he went up to my couch.

01:049:005 Simeon and Levi are brethren; instruments of cruelty are in their habitations.

01:049:006 O my soul, come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly, mine honour, be not thou united: for in their anger they slew a man, and in their selfwill they digged down a wall.

01:049:007 Cursed be their anger, for it was fierce; and their wrath, for it was cruel: I will divide them in Jacob, and scatter them in Israel.

01:049:008 Judah, thou art he whom thy brethren shall praise: thy hand shall be in the neck of thine enemies; thy father's children shall bow down before thee.

01:049:009 Judah is a lion's whelp: from the prey, my son, thou art gone up: he stooped down, he couched as a lion, and as an old lion; who shall rouse him up?

01:049:010 The sceptre shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet, until Shiloh come; and unto him shall the gathering of the people be.

01:049:011 Binding his foal unto the vine, and his ass's colt unto the choice vine; he washed his garments in wine, and his clothes in the blood of grapes:

01:049:012 His eyes shall be red with wine, and his teeth white with milk.

01:049:013 Zebulun shall dwell at the haven of the sea; and he shall be for an haven of ships; and his border shall be unto Zidon.

01:049:014 Issachar is a strong ass couching down between two burdens:

01:049:015 And he saw that rest was good, and the land that it was pleasant; and bowed his shoulder to bear, and became a servant unto tribute.

01:049:016 Dan shall judge his people, as one of the tribes of Israel.

01:049:017 Dan shall be a serpent by the way, an adder in the path, that biteth the horse heels, so that his rider shall fall backward.

01:049:018 I have waited for thy salvation, O LORD.

01:049:019 Gad, a troop shall overcome him: but he shall overcome at the last.

01:049:020 Out of Asher his bread shall be fat, and he shall yield royal dainties.

01:049:021 Naphtali is a hind let loose: he giveth goodly words.

01:049:022 Joseph is a fruitful bough, even a fruitful bough by a well; whose branches run over the wall:

01:049:023 The archers have sorely grieved him, and shot at him, and hated him:

01:049:024 But his bow abode in strength, and the arms of his hands were made strong by the hands of the mighty God of Jacob; (from thence is the shepherd, the stone of Israel:)

01:049:025 Even by the God of thy father, who shall help thee; and by the Almighty, who shall bless thee with blessings of heaven above, blessings of the deep that lieth under, blessings of the breasts, and of the womb:

01:049:026 The blessings of thy father have prevailed above the blessings of my progenitors unto the utmost bound of the everlasting hills: they shall be on the head of Joseph, and on the crown of the head of him that was separate from his brethren.

01:049:027 Benjamin shall ravin as a wolf: in the morning he shall devour the prey, and at night he shall divide the spoil.

01:049:028 All these are the twelve tribes of Israel: and this is it that their father spake unto them, and blessed them; every one according to his blessing he blessed them.

01:049:029 And he charged them, and said unto them, I am to be gathered unto my people: bury me with my fathers in the cave that is in the field of Ephron the Hittite,

01:049:030 In the cave that is in the field of Machpelah, which is before Mamre, in the land of Canaan, which Abraham bought with the field of Ephron the Hittite for a possession of a buryingplace.

01:049:031 There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife; there they buried Isaac and Rebekah his wife; and there I buried Leah.

01:049:032 The purchase of the field and of the cave that is therein was from the children of Heth.

01:049:033 And when Jacob had made an end of commanding his sons, he gathered up his feet into the bed, and yielded up the ghost, and was gathered unto his people.

01:050:001 And Joseph fell upon his father's face, and wept upon him, and kissed him.

01:050:002 And Joseph commanded his servants the physicians to embalm his father: and the physicians embalmed Israel.

01:050:003 And forty days were fulfilled for him; for so are fulfilled the days of those which are embalmed: and the Egyptians mourned for him threescore and ten days.

01:050:004 And when the days of his mourning were past, Joseph spake unto the house of Pharaoh, saying, If now I have found grace in your eyes, speak, I pray you, in the ears of Pharaoh, saying,

01:050:005 My father made me swear, saying, Lo, I die: in my grave which I have digged for me in the land of Canaan, there shalt thou bury me. Now therefore let me go up, I pray thee, and bury my father, and I will come again.

01:050:006 And Pharaoh said, Go up, and bury thy father, according as he made thee swear.

01:050:007 And Joseph went up to bury his father: and with him went up all the servants of Pharaoh, the elders of his house, and all the elders of the land of Egypt,

01:050:008 And all the house of Joseph, and his brethren, and his father's house: only their little ones, and their flocks, and their herds, they left in the land of Goshen.

01:050:009 And there went up with him both chariots and horsemen: and it was a very great company.

01:050:010 And they came to the threshingfloor of Atad, which is beyond Jordan, and there they mourned with a great and very sore lamentation: and he made a mourning for his father seven days.

01:050:011 And when the inhabitants of the land, the Canaanites, saw the mourning in the floor of Atad, they said, This is a grievous mourning to the Egyptians: wherefore the name of it was called Abelmizraim, which is beyond Jordan.

01:050:012 And his sons did unto him according as he commanded them:

01:050:013 For his sons carried him into the land of Canaan, and buried him in the cave of the field of Machpelah, which Abraham bought with the field for a possession of a buryingplace of Ephron the Hittite, before Mamre.

01:050:014 And Joseph returned into Egypt, he, and his brethren, and all that went up with him to bury his father, after he had buried his father.

01:050:015 And when Joseph's brethren saw that their father was dead, they said, Joseph will peradventure hate us, and will certainly requite us all the evil which we did unto him.

01:050:016 And they sent a messenger unto Joseph, saying, Thy father did command before he died, saying,

01:050:017 So shall ye say unto Joseph, Forgive, I pray thee now, the trespass of thy brethren, and their sin; for they did unto thee evil: and now, we pray thee, forgive the trespass of the servants of the God of thy father. And Joseph wept when they spake unto him.

01:050:018 And his brethren also went and fell down before his face; and they said, Behold, we be thy servants.

01:050:019 And Joseph said unto them, Fear not: for am I in the place of God?

01:050:020 But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.

01:050:021 Now therefore fear ye not: I will nourish you, and your little ones. And he comforted them, and spake kindly unto them.

01:050:022 And Joseph dwelt in Egypt, he, and his father's house: and Joseph lived an hundred and ten years.

01:050:023 And Joseph saw Ephraim's children of the third generation: the children also of Machir the son of Manasseh were brought up upon Joseph's knees.

01:050:024 And Joseph said unto his brethren, I die: and God will surely visit you, and bring you out of this land unto the land which he sware to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob.

01:050:025 And Joseph took an oath of the children of Israel, saying, God will surely visit you, and ye shall carry up my bones from hence.

01:050:026 So Joseph died, being an hundred and ten years old: and they embalmed him, and he was put in a coffin in Egypt.

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Ulysses.txt

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This etext was prepared by Col Choat <colchoat@yahoo.com.au>.

Ulysses by James Joyce


    -- I --



Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of
lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown,
ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He
held the bowl aloft and intoned:

--INTROIBO AD ALTARE DEI.

Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:

--Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!

Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced
about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the
awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent
towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and
shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms
on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face
that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair,
grained and hued like pale oak.

Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered
the bowl smartly.

--Back to barracks! he said sternly.

He added in a preacher's tone:

--For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and
blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A
little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.

He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then
paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and
there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered
through the calm.

--Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the
current, will you?

He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher,
gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed
face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle
ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.

--The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!

He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet,
laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily
halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he
propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and
lathered cheeks and neck.

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.

--My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a
Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We
must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty
quid?

He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:

--Will he come? The jejune jesuit!

Ceasing, he began to shave with care.

--Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.

--Yes, my love?

--How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?

Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.

--God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks
you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money
and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you
have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you
is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.

He shaved warily over his chin.

--He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is
his guncase?

--A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?

--I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark
with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a
black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If
he stays on here I am off.

Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped
down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

--Scutter! he cried thickly.

He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's
upper pocket, said:

--Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.

Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a
dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly.
Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:

--The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen.
You can almost taste it, can't you?

He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his
fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.

--God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet
mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. EPI OINOPA PONTON.
Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them in the
original. THALATTA! THALATTA! She is our great sweet mother. Come and
look.

Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he
looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth
of Kingstown.

--Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.

He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's
face.

--The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't
let me have anything to do with you.

--Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.

--You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother
asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to
think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and
pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you ...

He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant
smile curled his lips.

--But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest
mummer of them all!

He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.

Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm
against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black
coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart.
Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body
within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and
rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint
odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea
hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring
of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china
had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she
had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.

Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.

--Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and
a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?

--They fit well enough, Stephen answered.

Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.

--The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God
knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair
stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch. You
look damn well when you're dressed.

--Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey.

--He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror.
Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey
trousers.

He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the
smooth skin.

Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its
smokeblue mobile eyes.

--That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan, says
you have g.p.i. He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General
paralysis of the insane!

He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad
in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and
the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong
wellknit trunk.

--Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard!

Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft
by a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this
face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.

--I pinched it out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her
all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead
him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.

Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering
eyes.

--The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If
Wilde were only alive to see you!

Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:

--It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.

Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with
him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he
had thrust them.

--It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God
knows you have more spirit than any of them.

Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The
cold steelpen.

--Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs
and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking with money and thinks you're
not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or
some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work
together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.

Cranly's arm. His arm.

--And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the only one
that knows what you are. Why don't you trust me more? What have you up
your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I'll bring
down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive
Kempthorpe.

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces:
they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I
shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit
ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table,
with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's
shears. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I don't want to be
debagged! Don't you play the giddy ox with me!

Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A
deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his
mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of
grasshalms.

To ourselves ... new paganism ... omphalos.

--Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at
night.

--Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm
quite frank with you. What have you against me now?

They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on
the water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm
quietly.

--Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.

--Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything.

He looked in Stephen's face as he spoke. A light wind passed his
brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of
anxiety in his eyes.

Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:

--Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's
death?

Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:

--What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and
sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?

--You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get
more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the
drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room.

--Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.

--You said, Stephen answered, O, IT'S ONLY DEDALUS WHOSE MOTHER IS
BEASTLY DEAD.

A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to
Buck Mulligan's cheek.

--Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?

He shook his constraint from him nervously.

--And what is death, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own? You
saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and
Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It's a beastly
thing and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter. You wouldn't kneel down
to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because
you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it's injected the wrong
way. To me it's all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not
functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups
off the quilt. Humour her till it's over. You crossed her last wish in
death and yet you sulk with me because I don't whinge like some hired mute
from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I didn't mean to offend
the memory of your mother.

He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping
wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:

--I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.

--Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked.

--Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.

Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.

--O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.

He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post,
gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now
grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he
felt the fever of his cheeks.

A voice within the tower called loudly:

--Are you up there, Mulligan?

--I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered.

He turned towards Stephen and said:

--Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch,
and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.

His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level
with the roof:

--Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the
moody brooding.

His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out
of the stairhead:


    AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD
   UPON LOVE'S BITTER MYSTERY
   FOR FERGUS RULES THE BRAZEN CARS.


Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the
stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of
water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the
dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the
harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words
shimmering on the dim tide.

A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in
deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song: I
sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door
was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to
her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen:
love's bitter mystery.

Where now?

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with
musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the
sunny window of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing
in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he
sang:


    I AM THE BOY
    THAT CAN ENJOY
    INVISIBILITY.


Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.


    AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD.


Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset
his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had
approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting
for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails
reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts.

In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its
loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath,
bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On
me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the
tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed
on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. LILIATA RUTILANTIUM TE
CONFESSORUM TURMA CIRCUMDET: IUBILANTIUM TE VIRGINUM CHORUS EXCIPIAT.

Ghoul! Chewer of corpses!

No, mother! Let me be and let me live.

--Kinch ahoy!

Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up
the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul's cry,
heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.

--Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is
apologising for waking us last night. It's all right.

--I'm coming, Stephen said, turning.

--Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our
sakes.

His head disappeared and reappeared.

--I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it's very clever. Touch
him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.

--I get paid this morning, Stephen said.

--The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us
one.

--If you want it, Stephen said.

--Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We'll have a
glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent sovereigns.

He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out
of tune with a Cockney accent:


    O, WON'T WE HAVE A MERRY TIME,
    DRINKING WHISKY, BEER AND WINE!
    ON CORONATION,
    CORONATION DAY!
    O, WON'T WE HAVE A MERRY TIME
    ON CORONATION DAY!


Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone,
forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there
all day, forgotten friendship?

He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness,
smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck. So
I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another now and yet
the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.

In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's
gowned form moved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and
revealing its yellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the
flagged floor from the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a
cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.

--We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you?

Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the
hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open
the inner doors.

--Have you the key? a voice asked.

--Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked!

He howled, without looking up from the fire:

--Kinch!

--It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.

The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had
been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the
doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and
sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside him.
Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them
down heavily and sighed with relief.

--I'm melting, he said, as the candle remarked when ... But, hush! Not a
word more on that subject! Kinch, wake up! Bread, butter, honey. Haines,
come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. Where's
the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk.

Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler
from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.

--What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.

--We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There's a lemon in the
locker.

--O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove
milk.

Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly:

--That woman is coming up with the milk.

--The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his
chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I
can't go fumbling at the damned eggs.

He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three
plates, saying:

--IN NOMINE PATRIS ET FILII ET SPIRITUS SANCTI.

Haines sat down to pour out the tea.

--I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do
make strong tea, don't you?

Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old
woman's wheedling voice:

--When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I
makes water I makes water.

--By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.

Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:

--SO I DO, MRS CAHILL, says she. BEGOB, MA'AM, says Mrs Cahill, GOD SEND
YOU DON'T MAKE THEM IN THE ONE POT.

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread,
impaled on his knife.

--That's folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five lines
of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum.
Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.

He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his
brows:

--Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of
in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?

--I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.

--Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?

--I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the
Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary
Ann.

Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight.

--Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and
blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming!

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a
hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:


  --FOR OLD MARY ANN
    SHE DOESN'T CARE A DAMN.
    BUT, HISING UP HER PETTICOATS ...


He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.

The doorway was darkened by an entering form.

--The milk, sir!

--Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.

An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow.

--That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.

--To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure!

Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.

--The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of
the collector of prepuces.

--How much, sir? asked the old woman.

--A quart, Stephen said.

He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich
white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful
and a tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a
messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching
by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool,
her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her
whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman,
names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal
serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a
messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he
could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.

--It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.

--Taste it, sir, she said.

He drank at her bidding.

--If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat
loudly, we wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts.
Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust,
horsedung and consumptives' spits.

--Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.

--I am, ma'am, Buck Mulligan answered.

--Look at that now, she said.

Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice
that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me she
slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is
of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's
likeness, the serpent's prey. And to the loud voice that now bids her be
silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

--Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her.

--Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.

Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.

--Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you?

--I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the
west, sir?

--I am an Englishman, Haines answered.

--He's English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak Irish
in Ireland.

--Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I'm ashamed I don't speak the
language myself. I'm told it's a grand language by them that knows.

--Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fill
us out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma'am?

--No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the
milkcan on her forearm and about to go.

Haines said to her:

--Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn't we?

Stephen filled again the three cups.

--Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a pint at
twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three
mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling. That's a
shilling and one and two is two and two, sir.

Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust
thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to
search his trouser pockets.

--Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick
rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his
fingers and cried:

--A miracle!

He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying:

--Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give.

Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.

--We'll owe twopence, he said.

--Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good morning,
sir.

She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender
chant:


  --HEART OF MY HEART, WERE IT MORE,
    MORE WOULD BE LAID AT YOUR FEET.


He turned to Stephen and said:

--Seriously, Dedalus. I'm stony. Hurry out to your school kip and bring
us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland expects
that every man this day will do his duty.

--That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your
national library today.

--Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.

He turned to Stephen and asked blandly:

--Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?

Then he said to Haines:

--The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

--All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey
trickle over a slice of the loaf.

Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about
the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:

--I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.

Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit.
Conscience. Yet here's a spot.

--That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol
of Irish art is deuced good.

Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said with
warmth of tone:

--Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.

--Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just
thinking of it when that poor old creature came in.

--Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked.

Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of
the hammock, said:

--I don't know, I'm sure.

He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen
and said with coarse vigour:

--You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for?

--Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the
milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think.

--I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along
with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.

--I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.

Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm.

--From me, Kinch, he said.

In a suddenly changed tone he added:

--To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all else they
are good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell with them all. Let
us get out of the kip.

He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown,
saying resignedly:

--Mulligan is stripped of his garments.

He emptied his pockets on to the table.

--There's your snotrag, he said.

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them,
chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and
rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God, we'll
simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green boots.
Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict
myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking
hands.

--And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said.

Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the
doorway:

--Are you coming, you fellows?

--I'm ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out,
Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out with
grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:

--And going forth he met Butterly.

Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out
and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and locked
it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.

At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked:

--Did you bring the key?

--I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.

He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy
bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.

--Down, sir! How dare you, sir!

Haines asked:

--Do you pay rent for this tower?

--Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.

--To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last:

--Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it?

--Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on
the sea. But ours is the omphalos.

--What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen.

--No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I'm not equal to Thomas
Aquinas and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up. Wait till
I have a few pints in me first.

He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of
his primrose waistcoat:

--You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you?

--It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.

--You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox?

--Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes.
It's quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is
Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own
father.

--What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself?

Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending
in loose laughter, said to Stephen's ear:

--O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father!

--We're always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is
rather long to tell.

Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.

--The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.

--I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower
and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. THAT BEETLES O'ER HIS
BASE INTO THE SEA, ISN'T IT?

Buck Mulligan turned suddenly. for an instant towards Stephen but
did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in
cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.

--It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.

Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent.
The seas' ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the
smokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and a sail tacking
by the Muglins.

--I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused.
The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the
Father.

Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He
looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he
had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He
moved a doll's head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and
began to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice:


  --I'M THE QUEEREST YOUNG FELLOW THAT EVER YOU HEARD.
    MY MOTHER'S A JEW, MY FATHER'S A BIRD.
    WITH JOSEPH THE JOINER I CANNOT AGREE.
    SO HERE'S TO DISCIPLES AND CALVARY.


He held up a forefinger of warning.


  --IF ANYONE THINKS THAT I AMN'T DIVINE
    HE'LL GET NO FREE DRINKS WHEN I'M MAKING THE WINE
    BUT HAVE TO DRINK WATER AND WISH IT WERE PLAIN
    THAT I MAKE WHEN THE WINE BECOMES WATER AGAIN.


He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running
forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins
or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:


  --GOODBYE, NOW, GOODBYE! WRITE DOWN ALL I SAID
    AND TELL TOM, DIEK AND HARRY I ROSE FROM THE DEAD.
    WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE CANNOT FAIL ME TO FLY
    AND OLIVET'S BREEZY ... GOODBYE, NOW, GOODBYE!


He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering
his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the fresh
wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.

Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen
and said:

--We oughtn't to laugh, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous. I'm not a
believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it
somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?

--The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.

--O, Haines said, you have heard it before?

--Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.

--You're not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the
narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a
personal God.

--There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.

Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a
green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.

--Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.

Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his
sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it
open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards
Stephen in the shell of his hands.

--Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe or
you don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of a personal
God. You don't stand for that, I suppose?

--You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible
example of free thought.

He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his
side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My
familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line along the
path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark. He wants that
key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the
key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes.

--After all, Haines began ...

Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him
was not all unkind.

--After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your
own master, it seems to me.

--I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an Italian.

--Italian? Haines said.

A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.

--And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.

--Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?

--The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and
the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he
spoke.

--I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think
like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather
unfairly. It seems history is to blame.

The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph
of their brazen bells: ET UNAM SANCTAM CATHOLICAM ET APOSTOLICAM
ECCLESIAM: the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare
thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the mass for
pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and
behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed and
menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry:
Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius,
warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the
Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and the subtle
African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father was Himself His own
Son. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger.
Idle mockery. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a
menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the
church, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with
their lances and their shields.

Hear, hear! Prolonged applause. ZUT! NOM DE DIEU!

--Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and I feel as one. I
don't want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either.
That's our national problem, I'm afraid, just now.

Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman,
boatman.

--She's making for Bullock harbour.

The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.

--There's five fathoms out there, he said. It'll be swept up that way
when the tide comes in about one. It's nine days today.

The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay
waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face,
saltwhite. Here I am.

They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan
stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his
shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowly
frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.

--Is the brother with you, Malachi?

--Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.

--Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young
thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.

--Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.

Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up
near the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones,
water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water
rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black
sagging loincloth.

Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at
Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow
and lips and breastbone.

--Seymour's back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur of
rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.

--Ah, go to God! Buck Mulligan said.

--Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?

--Yes.

--Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto with
money.

--Is she up the pole?

--Better ask Seymour that.

--Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said.


He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying
tritely:

--Redheaded women buck like goats.

He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.

--My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I'm the ubermench. Toothless Kinch
and I, the supermen.

He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where his
clothes lay.

--Are you going in here, Malachi?

--Yes. Make room in the bed.

The young man shoved himself backward through the water and
reached the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down
on a stone, smoking.

--Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked.

--Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast.

Stephen turned away.

--I'm going, Mulligan, he said.

--Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.

Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped
clothes.

--And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there.

Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing.
Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:

--He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake
Zarathustra.

His plump body plunged.

--We'll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path
and smiling at wild Irish.

Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.

--The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.

--Good, Stephen said.

He walked along the upwardcurving path.


    LILIATA RUTILANTIUM.
    TURMA CIRCUMDET.
    IUBILANTIUM TE VIRGINUM.


The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will
not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.


A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea.
Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head,
a seal's, far out on the water, round.

Usurper.


    * * * * * * *


--You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?

--Tarentum, sir.

--Very good. Well?

--There was a battle, sir.

--Very good. Where?

The boy's blank face asked the blank window.

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not
as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings
of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling
masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us then?

--I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C.

--Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred
book.

--Yes, sir. And he said: ANOTHER VICTORY LIKE THAT AND WE ARE DONE FOR.

That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind.
From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers,
leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.

--You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?

--End of Pyrrhus, sir?

--I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.

--Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them
between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to
the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people, proud
that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey.

--Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.

All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked
round at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will
laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas
pay.

--Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the book,
what is a pier.

--A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of a
bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.

Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back
bench whispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned nor ever been
innocent. All. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty,
Lily. Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their
bracelets tittering in the struggle.

--Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.

The words troubled their gaze.

--How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.

For Haines's chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid
wild drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A
jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a
clement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly for
the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too
often heard, their land a pawnshop.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar
not been knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has
branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite
possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing
that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass? Weave,
weaver of the wind.

--Tell us a story, sir.

--O, do, sir. A ghoststory.

--Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.

--WEEP NO MORE, Comyn said.

--Go on then, Talbot.

--And the story, sir?

--After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.

A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the
breastwork of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at
the text:


  --WEEP NO MORE, WOFUL SHEPHERDS, WEEP NO MORE
    FOR LYCIDAS, YOUR SORROW, IS NOT DEAD,
    SUNK THOUGH HE BE BENEATH THE WATERY FLOOR ...


It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible.
Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out
into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had
read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a
delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains
about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in
my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of
brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of
thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the
soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of
forms.

Talbot repeated:


  --THROUGH THE DEAR MIGHT OF HIM THAT WALKED THE WAVES,
    THROUGH THE DEAR MIGHT ...


--Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything.

--What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.

His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again,
having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over
these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips
and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the
tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. A long look
from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church's
looms. Ay.


    RIDDLE ME, RIDDLE ME, RANDY RO.
    MY FATHER GAVE ME SEEDS TO SOW.


Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.

--Have I heard all? Stephen asked.

--Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.

--Half day, sir. Thursday.

--Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.
Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling
gaily:

--A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.

--O, ask me, sir.

--A hard one, sir.

--This is the riddle, Stephen said:


    THE COCK CREW,
    THE SKY WAS BLUE:
    THE BELLS IN HEAVEN
    WERE STRIKING ELEVEN.
    'TIS TIME FOR THIS POOR SOUL
    TO GO TO HEAVEN.


What is that?

--What, sir?

--Again, sir. We didn't hear.

Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence
Cochrane said:

--What is it, sir? We give it up.

Stephen, his throat itching, answered:

--The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries
echoed dismay.

A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:

--Hockey!

They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them.
Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks
and clamour of their boots and tongues.

Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an
open copybook. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of
unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.
On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped,
recent and damp as a snail's bed.

He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the
headline. Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature
with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.

--Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to
you, sir.

Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.

--Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.

--Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to
copy them off the board, sir.

--Can you do them. yourself? Stephen asked.

--No, sir.

Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail's
bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart.
But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a
squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from
her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother's
prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no
more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of
rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled
underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul gone to heaven:
and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur,
with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the
earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by
algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Sargent peered
askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the
lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery
of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands,
traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from
the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and
movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the
world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not
comprehend.

--Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?

--Yes, sir.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a
word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue
of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris: subjective and
objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him
and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.

Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My
childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or
lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony
sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their
tyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned.

The sum was done.

--It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.

--Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.

He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his
copybook back to his bench.

--You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as
he followed towards the door the boy's graceless form.

--Yes, sir.

In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.

--Sargent!

--Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.

He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the
scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams
and Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet.
When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to
him. He turned his angry white moustache.

--What is it now? he cried continually without listening.

--Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said.

--Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore
order here.

And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's voice
cried sternly:

--What is the matter? What is it now?

Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms
closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed
head.

Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded
leather of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As
it was in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart
coins, base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their
spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to
all the gentiles: world without end.

A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his
rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.

--First, our little financial settlement, he said.

He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It
slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid
them carefully on the table.

--Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.

And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand
moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money
cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and
this, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure,
hollow shells.

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.

--Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand.
These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is for
shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.

He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.

--Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find that's right.

--Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy
haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.

--No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.

Stephen's hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols
too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed
and misery.

--Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You'll pull it out somewhere
and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You'll find them very
handy.

Answer something.

--Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.

The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three
times now. Three nooses round me here. Well? I can break them in this
instant if I will.

--Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don't
know yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived as long as I
have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say?
PUT BUT MONEY IN THY PURSE.

--Iago, Stephen murmured.

He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man's stare.

--He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes,
but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do
you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an
Englishman's mouth?

The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems
history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.

--That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.

--Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He
tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.

--I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I PAID
MY WAY.

Good man, good man.

--I PAID MY WAY. I NEVER BORROWED A SHILLING IN MY LIFE. Can you feel
that? I OWE NOTHING. Can you?

Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.
Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings.
Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob
Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five
weeks' board. The lump I have is useless.

--For the moment, no, Stephen answered.

Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.

--I knew you couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We
are a generous people but we must also be just.

--I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.

Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at
the shapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of
Wales.

--You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. I
saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine
in '46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the
union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your
communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.

Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in
Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and
armed, the planters' covenant. The black north and true blue bible.
Croppies lie down.

Stephen sketched a brief gesture.

--I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But I
am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are all
Irish, all kings' sons.

--Alas, Stephen said.

--PER VIAS RECTAS, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for it
and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so.


    LAL THE RAL THE RA
    THE ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN.


A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John!
Soft day, your honour! ... Day! ... Day! ... Two topboots jog dangling
on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.

--That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus,
with some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press.
Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.

He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and
read off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.

--Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, THE DICTATES OF COMMON
SENSE. Just a moment.

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his
elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard
slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.

Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence.
Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their
meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of
Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, PRIX DE PARIS,
1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds,
backing king's colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds.

--Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this
allimportant question ...

Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among
the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and
reek of the canteen, over the motley slush. Fair Rebel! Fair Rebel! Even
money the favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we
hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the
meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.

Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle.

Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a
medley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who
seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by
shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the
slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

--Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.

He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.

--I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about the
foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two opinions
on the matter.

May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of LAISSEZ FAIRE
which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old
industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme.
European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the
channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of
agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who
was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.

--I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.

Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and
virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at
Murzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price.
Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant
question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking
you for the hospitality of your columns.

--I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the
next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be
cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is
regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer
to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the department.
Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties,
by ... intrigues by ... backstairs influence by ...

He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.

--Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of the
jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are the
signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's
vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure as we are
standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction.
Old England is dying.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a
broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.

--Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.


    THE HARLOT'S CRY FROM STREET TO STREET
    SHALL WEAVE OLD ENGLAND'S WINDINGSHEET.


His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in
which he halted.

--A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or
gentile, is he not?

--They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see
the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the
earth to this day.

On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting
prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud,
uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk
hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full
slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew
the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience
to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by the
roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their years of
wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.

--Who has not? Stephen said.

--What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.

He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell
sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me.

--History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal.
What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

--The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human
history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.

Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:

--That is God.

Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!

--What? Mr Deasy asked.

--A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose
tweaked between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.

--I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and
many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no
better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years
the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the strangers
to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of
Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but
not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will
fight for the right till the end.


    FOR ULSTER WILL FIGHT
    AND ULSTER WILL BE RIGHT.


Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.

--Well, sir, he began ...

--I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at
this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong.

--A learner rather, Stephen said.

And here what will you learn more?

Mr Deasy shook his head.

--Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great
teacher.

Stephen rustled the sheets again.

--As regards these, he began.

--Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them
published at once.

TELEGRAPH. IRISH HOMESTEAD.

--I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two editors
slightly.

--That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field,
M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the
City Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see
if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?

--THE EVENING TELEGRAPH ...

--That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to
answer that letter from my cousin.

--Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket.
Thank you.

--Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I like
to break a lance with you, old as I am.

--Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the
trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield.
The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate:
toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub
me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.

--Mr Dedalus!

Running after me. No more letters, I hope.

--Just one moment.

--Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

--I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of
being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that?
No. And do you know why?

He frowned sternly on the bright air.

--Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.

--Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a
rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his
lifted arms waving to the air.

--She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he
stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That's why.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung
spangles, dancing coins.


    * * * * * * *


Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought
through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and
seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust:
coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he
was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his
sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, MAESTRO
DI COLOR CHE SANNO. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane,
adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if
not a door. Shut your eyes and see.

Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and
shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A
very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the
NACHEINANDER. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the
audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles
o'er his base, fell through the NEBENEINANDER ineluctably! I am getting on
nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do.
My two feet in his boots are at the ends of his legs, NEBENEINANDER.
Sounds solid: made by the mallet of LOS DEMIURGOS. Am I walking into
eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea
money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.


    WON'T YOU COME TO SANDYMOUNT,
    MADELINE THE MARE?


Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs
marching. No, agallop: DELINE THE MARE.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I
open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. BASTA! I will see if I can
see.

See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world
without end.

They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently,
FRAUENZIMMER: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet
sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty
mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp
poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence
MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride
Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from
nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord,
hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of
all flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your
omphalos. Hello! Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought,
nought, one.

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had
no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut
vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from
everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin.

Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the
man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her
breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. From before the
ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A LEX ETERNA
stays about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son
are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring
his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred
heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. With
beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a
widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.

Airs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming,
waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds
of Mananaan.

I mustn't forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half
twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile.

Yes, I must.

His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to aunt Sara's or not? My
consubstantial father's voice. Did you see anything of your artist brother
Stephen lately? No? Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt

Sally? Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and and and tell
us, Stephen, how is uncle Si? O, weeping God, the things I married into!
De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother,
the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers! And skeweyed Walter
sirring his father, no less! Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no
wonder, by Christ!

I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take
me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

--It's Stephen, sir.

--Let him in. Let Stephen in.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

--We thought you were someone else.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over
the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the
upper moiety.

--Morrow, nephew.

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the
eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and
common searches and a writ of DUCES TECUM. A bogoak frame over his bald
head: Wilde's REQUIESCAT. The drone of his misleading whistle brings
Walter back.

--Yes, sir?

--Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?

--Bathing Crissie, sir.

Papa's little bedpal. Lump of love.

--No, uncle Richie ...

--Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!

--Uncle Richie, really ...

--Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down.

Walter squints vainly for a chair.

--He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

--He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair.
Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs
here. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better.
We have nothing in the house but backache pills.

ALL'ERTA!

He drones bars of Ferrando's ARIA DI SORTITA. The grandest number,
Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.

His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air,
his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

This wind is sweeter.

Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry
you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of
them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh's
library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For
whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his
kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the
moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine
faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbas father,--
furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! DESCENDE,
CALVE, UT NE AMPLIUS DECALVERIS. A garland of grey hair on his comminated
head see him me clambering down to the footpace (DESCENDE!), clutching a
monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, baldpoll! A choir gives back menace
and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the snorted Latin of
jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat
with the fat of kidneys of wheat.

And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.
Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own
cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,
invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his
brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second
bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard
(now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.

Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were
awfully holy, weren't you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might
not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the
fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet
street. O SI, CERTO! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a
squaw. More tell me, more still!! On the top of the Howth tram alone
crying to the rain: Naked women! NAKED WOMEN! What about that, eh?

What about what? What else were they invented for?

Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was
young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause
earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one
saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles.
Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful.
O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply
deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the
world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few
thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like
a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels
that one is at one with one who once ...

The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a
damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the
unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.
Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward
sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden
of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up,
stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of
dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark
cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach
a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown
steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.

He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going
there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the
firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

--QUI VOUS A MIS DANS CETTE FICHUE POSITION?

--C'EST LE PIGEON, JOSEPH.

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar
MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird,
he lapped the sweet LAIT CHAUD with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face.
Lap, LAPIN. He hopes to win in the GROS LOTS. About the nature of women he
read in Michelet. But he must send me LA VIE DE JESUS by M. Leo Taxil.
Lent it to his friend.

--C'EST TORDANT, VOUS SAVEZ. MOI, JE SUIS SOCIALISTE. JE NE CROIS PAS EN
L'EXISTENCE DE DIEU. FAUT PAS LE DIRE A MON P-RE.

--IL CROIT?

--MON PERE, OUI.

SCHLUSS. He laps.

My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I
want puce gloves. You were a student, weren't you? Of what in the other
devil's name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: PHYSIQUES, CHIMIQUES ET
NATURELLES. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of MOU EN CIVET, fleshpots of
Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone:
when I was in Paris; BOUL' MICH', I used to. Yes, used to carry punched
tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere.
Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was
seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat,
nose. LUI, C'EST MOI. You seem to have enjoyed yourself.

Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a
dispossessed. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the banging door
of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache.
ENCORE DEUX MINUTES. Look clock. Must get. FERME. Hired dog! Shoot him
to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass
buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that's all
right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that's all right. Shake a
shake. O, that's all only all right.

You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after
fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt
from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: EUGE! EUGE! Pretending to speak
broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the
slimy pier at Newhaven. COMMENT? Rich booty you brought back; LE TUTU,
five tattered numbers of PANTALON BLANC ET CULOTTE ROUGE; a blue
French telegram, curiosity to show:

--Mother dying come home father.

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That's why she won't.


    THEN HERE'S A HEALTH TO MULLIGAN'S AUNT
    AND I'LL TELL YOU THE REASON WHY.
    SHE ALWAYS KEPT THINGS DECENT IN
    THE HANNIGAN FAMILEYE.


His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows,
along by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled
stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is
there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of
farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air.
Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's wife, the kerchiefed
housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. In Rodot's Yvonne
and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth
CHAUSSONS of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the PUS OF FLAN BRETON.
Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled
conquistadores.

Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through
fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his
white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. UN DEMI
SETIER! A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at
his beck. IL EST IRLANDAIS. HOLLANDAIS? NON FROMAGE. DEUX IRLANDAIS, NOUS,
IRLANDE, VOUS SAVEZ AH, OUI! She thought you wanted a cheese HOLLANDAIS.
Your postprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial. There was a
fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his
postprandial. Well: SLAINTE! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined
breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our saucestained
plates, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the
Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E,
pimander, good shepherd of men. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes
our common cause. You're your father's son. I know the voice. His fustian
shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. M.
Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen
Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. VIEILLE OGRESSE with the DENTS
JAUNES. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, LA PATRIE, M. Millevoye, Felix
Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, BONNE A TOUT FAIRE,
who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. MOI FAIRE, she said, TOUS
LES MESSIEURS. Not this MONSIEUR, I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a
most private thing. I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother,
most lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious
people.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose
tobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw
facebones under his peep of day boy's hat. How the head centre got away,
authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms,
drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed,
wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.

Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell
you. I'll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love
he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls
of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward
in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides,
Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his day's stations, the
dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short
night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the
gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her
outcast man, madame in rue GIT-LE-COEUR, canary and two buck lodgers.
Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's. Spurned and
undespairing. Tell Pat you saw me, won't you? I wanted to get poor Pat a
job one time. MON FILS, soldier of France. I taught him to sing THE BOYS
OF KILKENNY ARE STOUT ROARING BLADES. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice
that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Goes
like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.


    O, O THE BOYS OF
    KILKENNY ...


Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he
them. Remembering thee, O Sion.

He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his
boots. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air
of seeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship,
am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking
soil. Turn back.

Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in
new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the
barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are
sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep
blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback
chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to
clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes.
A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their--blind bodies, the
panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He lifted his feet up from
the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all. My
soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon's midwatches I pace the
path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting
flood.

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get
back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the
sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant
in a grike.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the
gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. UN COCHE ENSABLE Louis Veuillot called
Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted
here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats.
Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the
past. Sir Lout's toys. Mind you don't get one bang on the ear. I'm the
bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my
steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman.

A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand.
Lord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty. You will not be
master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. From farther
away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two. The
two maries. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see
you. No, the dog. He is running back to them. Who?

Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their
bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Dane vikings, torcs
of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of
gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting,
hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of
jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling,
hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters. Their
blood is in me, their lusts my waves. I moved among them on the frozen
Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke
to no-one: none to me.

The dog's bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my
enemy. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. TERRIBILIA MEDITANS.
A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. For that are you
pining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live their lives. The
Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's
false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and
Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. All
kings' sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved men from
drowning and you shake at a cur's yelping. But the courtiers who mocked
Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House of ... We don't
want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did? A
boat would be near, a lifebuoy. NATURLICH, put there for you. Would you or
would you not? The man that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock.
They are waiting for him now. The truth, spit it out. I would want to.
I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft. When I put my
face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can't see! Who's behind me? Out
quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides,
sheeting the lows of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured? If I had land under
my feet. I want his life still to be his, mine to be mine. A drowning man.
His human eyes scream to me out of horror of his death. I ... With him
together down ... I could not save her. Waters: bitter death: lost.

A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing
on all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made
off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a
lowskimming gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He
turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field
tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of the tide
he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted
barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his
feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing,
from far, from farther out, waves and waves.

Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping,
soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped
running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again
reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as
they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from
his jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a
calf's gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked
round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a
dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on
the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies poor
dogsbody's body.

--Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel!

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless
kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight. He
slunk back in a curve. Doesn't see me. Along by the edge of the mole he
lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock. and from under a cocked hindleg pissed
against it. He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed
quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. His
hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.
Something he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in the sand,
dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand
again with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in
spousebreach, vulturing the dead.

After he woke me last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open
hallway. Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting
it. That man led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held
against my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In.
Come. Red carpet spread. You will see who.

Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians. His blued
feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick
muffler strangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed: the
ruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and
shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hair trailed.
Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. When night hides
her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs
have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of
Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping
dell! A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally's lane that
night: the tanyard smells.


    WHITE THY FAMBLES, RED THY GAN
    AND THY QUARRONS DAINTY IS.
    COUCH A HOGSHEAD WITH ME THEN.
    IN THE DARKMANS CLIP AND KISS.


Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, FRATE PORCOSPINO.
Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: THY QUARRONS DAINTY
IS. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on
their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.

Passing now.

A side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? I
am not. Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun's flaming
sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps,
trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her
wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, OINOPA PONTON,
a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon. In sleep the wet sign
calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death,
ghostcandled. OMNIS CARO AD TE VENIET. He comes, pale vampire, through
storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's
kiss.

Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss.

No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her mouth's kiss.

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her
moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath,
unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring
wayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy's
letter. Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off.
Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and
scribbled words. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library
counter.

His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till
the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness
shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with
his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea,
unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars.
I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back.
Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever
anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere
to someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil
of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems
hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat: yes, that's right.
Flat I see, then think distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back. Ah,
see now! Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Click does the trick.
You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls do you not think?
Flutier. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more,
a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.

She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue
hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality
of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin
at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet
books you were going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through
the braided jesse of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with
a grief and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else,
Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders
and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Talk about apple dumplings,
PIUTTOSTO. Where are your wits?

Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch
me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone.
Sad too. Touch, touch me.

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the
scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. His hat down on his eyes.
That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep.
ET VIDIT DEUS. ET ERANT VALDE BONA. Alo! BONJOUR. Welcome as the flowers
in May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the
southing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal
noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the
tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far.

AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD.

His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck's castoffs,
NEBENEINANDER. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's
foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I
dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you:
girl I knew in Paris. TIENS, QUEL PETIT PIED! Staunch friend, a brother
soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. His arm: Cranly's arm. He
now will leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.

In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering
greengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float
away. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the
low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a
fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of
waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops:
flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It
flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly
and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water
swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night:
lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary; and, whispered to,
they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting,
awaiting the fullness of their times, DIEBUS AC NOCTIBUS INIURIAS PATIENS
INGEMISCIT. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing,
wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious
men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.

Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, he
said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose
drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising
saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward.
There he is. Hook it quick. Pull. Sunk though he be beneath the watery
floor. We have him. Easy now.

Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a
spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God
becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed
mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous
offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the
stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.

A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths
known to man. Old Father Ocean. PRIX DE PARIS: beware of imitations. Just
you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there?
Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect,
LUCIFER, DICO, QUI NESCIT OCCASUM. No. My cockle hat and staff and hismy
sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.

He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still.
Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end.
By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the
glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman
poet. GIA. For the old hag with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont,
gentleman journalist. Gia. My teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder. Feel.
That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with
that money? That one. This. Toothless Kinch, the superman. Why is that, I
wonder, or does it mean something perhaps?

My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up?

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buy one.

He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock,
carefully. For the rest let look who will.

Behind. Perhaps there is someone.

He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through
the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the
crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.
+

    -- II --


 Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and
fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart,
liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he
liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of
faintly scented urine.

Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly,
righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air
were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere.
Made him feel a bit peckish.

The coals were reddening.

Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like
her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the
hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its
spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly
round a leg of the table with tail on high.

--Mkgnao!

--O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.

The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the
table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my
head. Prr.

Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to
see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her
tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his
knees.

--Milk for the pussens, he said.

--Mrkgnao! the cat cried.

They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we
understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel.
Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look
like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.

--Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the
chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.

Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.

--Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively
and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits
narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the
dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured
warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.

--Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.

He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped
three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they
can't mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind
of feelers in the dark, perhaps.

He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with
this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a
mutton kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a
pork kidney at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower,
then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough? To lap
better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round him. No.

On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused
by the bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and
butter she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.

He said softly in the bare hall:

--I'm going round the corner. Be back in a minute.

And when he had heard his voice say it he added:

--You don't want anything for breakfast?

A sleepy soft grunt answered:

--Mn.

No. She didn't want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh,
softer, as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead
jingled. Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar.
Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for it.
Old style. Ah yes! of course. Bought it at the governor's auction. Got a
short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At Plevna
that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it. Still he had
brains enough to make that corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing.

His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat
and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback
pictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. Course they do.
The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high
grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White slip of
paper. Quite safe.

On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there.
In the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe.
No use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. He pulled the
halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently
over the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut. All right till I come back
anyhow.

He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number
seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Be a warm
day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Black
conducts, reflects, (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldn't go in that
light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as he
walked in happy warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily
but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Makes you
feel young. Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at dawn. Travel
round in front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep it up for ever
never grow a day older technically. Walk along a strand, strange land,
come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy's big
moustaches, leaning on a long kind of a spear. Wander through awned
streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man,
Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. Cries of
sellers in the streets. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Dander
along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well, meet him. Getting on to
sundown. The shadows of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a
scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening wind. I pass
on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches me from her doorway. She calls her
children home in their dark language. High wall: beyond strings twanged.
Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Strings. Listen.
A girl playing one of those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers.
I pass.

Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read: in the track of
the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled, pleasing himself. What
Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the FREEMAN leader: a
homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank
of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule sun
rising up in the north-west.

He approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar grating floated up
the flabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out
whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just the end
of the city traffic. For instance M'Auley's down there: n. g. as position.
Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the
cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot.

Baldhead over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for
an ad. Still he knows his own business best. There he is, sure enough, my
bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the
aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedalus takes him
off to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do you know what I'm going to tell
you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke? Do you know what? The Russians,
they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese.

Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about
poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke.

Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the
doorway:

--Good day, Mr O'Rourke.

--Good day to you.

--Lovely weather, sir.

--'Tis all that.

Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from
the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo
and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then thin
of the competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin
without passing a pub. Save it they can't. Off the drunks perhaps. Put
down three and carry five. What is that, a bob here and there, dribs and
drabs. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the
town travellers. Square it you with the boss and we'll split the job, see?

How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten
barrels of stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Fifteen. He passed
Saint Joseph's National school. Brats' clamour. Windows open. Fresh air
helps memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee
doubleyou. Boys are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At their
joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.

He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the hanks of sausages,
polonies, black and white. Fifteen multiplied by. The figures whitened in
his mind, unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links, packed
with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm
breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood.

A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He
stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too, calling
the items from a slip in her hand? Chapped: washingsoda. And a pound and a
half of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips. Woods his
name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New blood. No followers
allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the clothesline. She
does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack.

The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off
with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there: like a stallfed
heifer.

He took a page up from the pile of cut sheets: the model farm at
Kinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Can become ideal winter
sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round it,
blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting: read it
nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the page rustling. A young
white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket, the beasts lowing in
their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in
hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a
ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their
hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will,
his soft subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack
by whack.

The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her
prime sausages and made a red grimace.

--Now, my miss, he said.

She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.

--Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you,
please?

Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she
went slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the
morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She stood
outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He sighed
down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted
toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. The
sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For another:
a constable off duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. They like them sizeable.
Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the wood.

--Threepence, please.

His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket.
Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on
the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by
disc, into the till.

--Thank you, sir. Another time.

A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his
gaze after an instant. No: better not: another time.

--Good morning, he said, moving away.

--Good morning, sir.

No sign. Gone. What matter?

He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath
Netaim: planters' company. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish
government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuel and
construction. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. You
pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives,
oranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial
irrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered
for life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the
balance in yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.

Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it.

He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered
olivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Olives are packed in jars,
eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the
taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too.
Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with
the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron's
basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to
the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume.
Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too, Moisel
told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Must be
without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar,
Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap
ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled
dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you? Doesn't see. Chap
you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that Norwegian
captain's. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To provoke the
rain. On earth as it is in heaven.

A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far.

No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead
sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind could lift those
waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it
raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead
names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the
oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a
naggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all
the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born
everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more. Dead: an old
woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world.

Desolation.

Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he
turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his
veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am
here now. Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side
of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down.
Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that?
Valuation is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur:
parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. To smell the
gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample
bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.

Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in
slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a
girl with gold hair on the wind.

Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped and gathered
them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once. Bold hand.
Mrs Marion.

--Poldy!

Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through
warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head.

--Who are the letters for?

He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly.

--A letter for me from Milly, he said carefully, and a card to you. And a
letter for you.

He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of
her knees.

--Do you want the blind up?

Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her
glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.

--That do? he asked, turning.

She was reading the card, propped on her elbow.

--She got the things, she said.

He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back
slowly with a snug sigh.

--Hurry up with that tea, she said. I'm parched.

--The kettle is boiling, he said.

But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled
linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.

As he went down the kitchen stairs she called:

--Poldy!

--What?

--Scald the teapot.

On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the spout. He
scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea,
tilting the kettle then to let the water flow in. Having set it to draw he
took off the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched
the lump of butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat
mewed hungrily against him. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Say
they won't eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to
her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He
sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup.

Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over.
Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes
Boylan's seaside girls.

The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown

Derby, smiling. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Only five she was then. No,
wait: four. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces of
folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring.


    O, MILLY BLOOM, YOU ARE MY DARLING.
    YOU ARE MY LOOKINGGLASS FROM NIGHT TO MORNING.
    I'D RATHER HAVE YOU WITHOUT A FARTHING
    THAN KATEY KEOGH WITH HER ASS AND GARDEN.


Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he was a
courteous old chap. Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the
platform. And the little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought
it into the parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! All
we laughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was.

He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the
teapot on the tray. Its hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on it?
Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it
upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.


Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it
on the chair by the bedhead.

--What a time you were! she said.

She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on
the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft
bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. The warmth of
her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea
she poured.

A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the
act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.

--Who was the letter from? he asked.

Bold hand. Marion.

--O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme.

--What are you singing?

--LA CI DAREM with J. C. Doyle, she said, and LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves
next day. Like foul flowerwater.

--Would you like the window open a little?

She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking:

--What time is the funeral?

--Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn't see the paper.

Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled
drawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a
stocking: rumpled, shiny sole.

--No: that book.

Other stocking. Her petticoat.

--It must have fell down, she said.

He felt here and there. VOGLIO E NON VORREI. Wonder if she pronounces
that right: VOGLIO. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped and
lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the
orangekeyed chamberpot.

--Show here, she said. I put a mark in it. There's a word I wanted to ask
you.

She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and,
having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the
text with the hairpin till she reached the word.

--Met him what? he asked.

--Here, she said. What does that mean?

He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail.

--Metempsychosis?

--Yes. Who's he when he's at home?

--Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It's Greek: from the Greek. That
means the transmigration of souls.

--O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words.

He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. The same young
eyes. The first night after the charades. Dolphin's Barn. He turned over
the smudged pages. RUBY: THE PRIDE OF THE RING. Hello. Illustration.
Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor
naked. Sheet kindly lent. THE MONSTER MAFFEI DESISTED AND FLUNG HIS
VICTIM FROM HIM WITH AN OATH. Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals.
Trapeze at Hengler's. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break your
neck and we'll break our sides. Families of them. Bone them young so they
metamspychosis. That we live after death. Our souls. That a man's soul
after he dies. Dignam's soul ...

--Did you finish it? he asked.

--Yes, she said. There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the
first fellow all the time?

--Never read it. Do you want another?

--Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has.

She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to
Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's the word.

--Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another body
after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all
lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet.
They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives.

The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Bette
remind her of the word: metempsychosis. An example would be better. An
example?

The BATH OF THE NYMPH over the bed. Given away with the Easter
number of PHOTO BITS: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you
put milk in. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Three and six I
gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked
nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people that lived then.

He turned the pages back.

--Metempsychosis, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. They
used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for
instance. What they called nymphs, for example.

Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her,
inhaling through her arched nostrils.

--There's a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire?

--The kidney! he cried suddenly.

He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes
against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping
hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork's legs. Pungent smoke shot
up in an angry jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the fork
under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a
little burnt. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the scanty
brown gravy trickle over it.

Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf. He
shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful
into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Done
to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one
in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about some young
student and a picnic? He creased out the letter at his side, reading it
slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the gravy and raising
it to his mouth.


    Dearest Papli

Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It suits me
splendid. Everyone says I am quite the belle in my new tam. I got mummy's
Iovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I am getting on
swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me and Mrs.
Will send when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair day and all the
beef to the heels were in. We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a
few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to mummy and to yourself
a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano downstairs. There is to be
a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday. There is a young student comes
here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells
and he sings Boylan's (I was on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's) song
about those seaside girls. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. I
must now close with fondest love


Your fond daughter,     MILLY.


P. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Byby.     M.


Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first
birthday away from home. Separation. Remember the summer morning she
was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old
woman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from
the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew
at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived.

His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse bad writing.
Hurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell. Row with her in the XL
Cafe about the bracelet. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look.
Saucebox. He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after
piece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she might do
worse. Music hall stage. Young student. He drank a draught of cooler tea
to wash down his meal. Then he read the letter again: twice.

O, well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not? No, nothing has
happened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A wild piece
of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny. Ripening now.

Vain: very.

He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day I
caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a
little. Was given milk too long. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the
Kish. Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf
loose in the wind with her hair.


    ALL DIMPLED CHEEKS AND CURLS,
    YOUR HEAD IT SIMPLY SWIRLS.


Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers' pockets, jarvey
off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says. Pier with
lamps, summer evening, band,


    THOSE GIRLS, THOSE GIRLS,
    THOSE LOVELY SEASIDE GIRLS.


Milly too. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past. Mrs Marion.
Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling,
braiding.


A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will
happen, yes. Prevent. Useless: can't move. Girl's sweet light lips. Will
happen too. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move
now. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman's lips.

Better where she is down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to
pass the time. Might take a trip down there. August bank holiday, only two
and six return. Six weeks off, however. Might work a press pass. Or
through M'Coy.

The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper,
nosed at it and stalked to the door. She looked back at him, mewing. Wants
to go out. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Let her wait. Has the
fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her ear with her
back to the fire too.

He felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood up,
undoing the waistband of his trousers. The cat mewed to him.

--Miaow! he said in answer. Wait till I'm ready.

Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to
the landing.

A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes knocking just
as I'm.

In the tabledrawer he found an old number of TITBITS. He folded it
under his armpit, went to the door and opened it. The cat went up in soft
bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.

Listening, he heard her voice:

--Come, come, pussy. Come.

He went out through the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen
towards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry.
The maid was in the garden. Fine morning.

He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall.
Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to
manure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur. All
soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is?
The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing.
Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those
oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves.
Dirty cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner
there. Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still gardens have their
drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.

He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back
on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don't remember that.
Hallstand too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters.
Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown
brillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder
have I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox there
got away James Stephens, they say. O'Brien.

Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it? Now, my
miss. Enthusiast.

He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get
these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head under
the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash
and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered
through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was in his
countinghouse. Nobody.

Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages
over on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it
a bit. Our prize titbit: MATEHAM'S MASTERSTROKE. Written by Mr Philip
Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a
column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three.
Three pounds, thirteen and six.

Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but
resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he
allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still
patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not
too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive. One tabloid
of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it
was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read
on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. MATCHAM OFTEN
THINKS OF THE MASTERSTROKE BY WHICH HE WON THE LAUGHING WITCH WHO NOW.
Begins and ends morally. HAND IN HAND. Smart. He glanced back through what
he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly
Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds,
thirteen and six.

Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story
for some proverb. Which? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what
she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving.
Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.l5.
Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What
possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled after that cabbage. A
speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot.

Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf. Morning
after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of
the hours. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then evening coming on,
then night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Her head
dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money.
Why? I noticed he had a good rich smell off his breath dancing. No use
humming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night.
The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her
woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it. Lines in
her eyes. It wouldn't pan out somehow.

Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then: black with
daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then grey, then
black. Still, true to life also. Day: then the night.

He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it.
Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled
back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into
the air.

In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his
black trousers: the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is
the funeral? Better find out in the paper.

A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of George's
church. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron.


    HEIGHO! HEIGHO!
    HEIGHO! HEIGHO!
    HEIGHO! HEIGHO!


Quarter to. There again: the overtone following through the air, third.

Poor Dignam!


    * * * * * * *


By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly,
past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph
office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home.
He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime
street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of
offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of
eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop.
Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed
of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da.
Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed the
frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols'
the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher
bagged the job for O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her
once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and
address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged
it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom,
tooraloom, tooraloom.

In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and
Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice
blend, finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from
Tom Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still
read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his
right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning.
Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather
headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down
into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the
headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.

So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow
and hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice
blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must
be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses,
flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those
Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun IN DOLCE FAR NIENTE, not doing a
hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel.
Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds
most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies.
Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves.
Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that
picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his back, reading a
book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt.
Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water
is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it the volume is equal to the
weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his
fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What
is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per
second. Law of falling bodies: per second per second. They all fall to the
ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.

He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk
with her sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded
FREEMAN from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton
and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless
air: just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every
second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the
door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.

He handed the card through the brass grill.

--Are there any letters for me? he asked.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the
recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of
his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer
probably. Went too far last time.

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a
letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.


Henry Flower Esq,
c/o P. O. Westland Row,
City.


Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket,
reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment?
Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a
grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats.
Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to
enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell
street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the
same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or
halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front.
Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed up
as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.

He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if
that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger
felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks.
Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the
letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something
pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.

M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company
when you.

--Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

--Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.

--How's the body?

--Fine. How are you?

--Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:

--Is there any ... no trouble I hope? I see you're ...

--O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.

--To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?

A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.

--E ... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.

--I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it
last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

--I know.

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the
door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She
stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched
his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm
for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with
her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo
match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and
handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is
an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of her.

--I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do
you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.

Doran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In
came Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from
beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare,
the braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long
sight perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side
will she get up?

--And he said: SAD THING ABOUT OUR POOR FRIEND PADDY! WHAT PADDY? I said.
Poor little Paddy Dignam, he said.

Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with
laces dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change
for? Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two
strings to her bow.

--WHY? I said. WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM? I said.

Proud: rich: silk stockings.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a
minute.

--WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM? He said. HE'S DEAD, he said. And, faith, he
filled up. IS IT PADDY DIGNAM? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard
it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the
Arch. YES, he said. He's gone. HE DIED ON MONDAY, POOR FELLOW. Watch!
Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and
the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace
street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering the
display of. ESPRIT DE CORPS. Well, what are you gaping at?

--Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.

--One of the best, M'Coy said.

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her
rich gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her
hat in the sun: flicker, flick.

--Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.

--O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:


    WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT
    PLUMTREE'S POTTED MEAT?
    INCOMPLETE
    WITH IT AN ABODE OF BLISS.


--My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.

Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks.

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

--My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the
Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth.

--That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?

Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating
bread and. No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens.
Dark lady and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of
envelope.

    LOVE'S
    OLD
    SWEET
    SONG
    COMES LO-OVE'S OLD ...

--It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully.
SWEEEET SONG.  There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.

M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.

--O, well, he said. That's good news.

He moved to go.

--Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said.

--Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral,
will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a
drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself
would have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if
I'm not there, will you?

--I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right.

--Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly
could. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do.

--That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.

Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark.
I'd like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped
corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his
for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it
from that good day to this.

Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has
just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its
way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know: in
the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear
the difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain
somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up
there doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated
again. Your wife and my wife.

Wonder is he pimping after me?

Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the
multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic).
Clery's Summer Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. LEAH tonight. Mrs
Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that. HAMLET she played last
night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia
committed suicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in
that. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in.
Year before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is
this the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene
he was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the
voice and puts his fingers on his face.

Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left
his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of
his father and left the God of his father.

Every word is so deep, Leopold.

Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at
his face. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for
him.

Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the
hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met
that M'Coy fellow.

He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently
champing teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the
sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all
they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags.
Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss.
Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their
haunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they
look. Still their neigh can be very irritating.

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he
carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.

He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies.
All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own.
VOGLIO E NON. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few
flying syllables as they pass. He hummed:


    LA CI DAREM LA MANO
    LA LA LALA LA LA.


He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted
in the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks.
Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court
with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a
squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A
wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb
them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it.
And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked
mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter within the
newspaper.

A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not
annoyed then? What does she say?


    Dear Henry

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry
you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am
awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called
you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me
what is the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in your home you
poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please
tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you
have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no
idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so
bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you
do not I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you
naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do
not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you
all. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I have such a bad headache. today. and
write BY RETURN to your longing


    Martha

P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.


He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell
and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it
because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then
walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there
a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you
don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we
soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having
read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his
sidepocket.

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder
did she wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good
family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the
rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running
round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect.
Narcotic. Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of
course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it.
Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere:
pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses
without thorns.

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in
the Coombe, linked together in the rain.


    O, MAIRY LOST THE PIN OF HER DRAWERS.
    SHE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO
    TO KEEP IT UP
    TO KEEP IT UP.


It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day
typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife
use. Now could you make out a thing like that?

    TO KEEP IT UP.

Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or
faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also
the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.

    TO KEEP IT UP.

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there:
quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been,
strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper:
fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole in
the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the
trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and
more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly
in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away,
sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank.

Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in
the same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure
cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be
made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change
his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A
million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart,
eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter.
One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of
barrels of porter.

What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.

An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach.
Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The
bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together,
winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of
liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the
porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again
behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy
for a pass to Mullingar.

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee
S.J. on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the
conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious.
The protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the
true religion. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the
heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for
them. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy
with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown
of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks?
Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I
didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father
Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's not going
out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is
he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them sitting
round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it
up like milk, I suppose.


The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps,
pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place
to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow
music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the
benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt
at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the
thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a
drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth.
Her hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat sank at once. Then the
next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her
mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and
open your mouth. What? CORPUS: body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin.
Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it:
only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals
cotton to it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by
one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in
its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We
ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here and
there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to
melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of
bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel
happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big
idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First
communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party,
same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not
so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish. Let off
steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of
oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow asleep
near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the arms
of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year.

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel
an instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace
affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what to
do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S.
Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered,
it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up
with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be
here with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on
the sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the
invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion
every morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am
thinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children
at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers,
now that's a good name for them, there's always something shiftylooking
about them. They're not straight men of business either. O, no, she's
not here: the flower: no, no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope?
Yes: under the bridge.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs
smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank
what they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage
Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale
(aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other. Cold
comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser
worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole
atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.

Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music.
Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make
that instrument talk, the VIBRATO: fifty pounds a year they say he had in
Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the STABAT MATER of
Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ,
but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped.
Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner.
I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up:

QUIS EST HOMO.

Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last
words. Mozart's twelfth mass: GLORIA in that. Those old popes keen on
music, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for
example too. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too,
chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green
Chartreuse. Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit
thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own
strong basses. Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after.
Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh, don't they? Gluttons, tall,
long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.

He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about
and bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom
glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up
at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he
sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar,
holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other
in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a card:

--O God, our refuge and our strength ...

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw
them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass?
Glorious and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More
interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful
organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants
to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon in
their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I
schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look
down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears.
Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes.
Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and
Holy Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes.
Salvation army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address
the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be
in Rome: they work the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too?
Bequests also: to the P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion.
Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors.
Monasteries and convents. The priest in that Fermanagh will case in
the witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything.
Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the
church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.

The priest prayed:

--Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our
safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain
him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the
power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked
spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The
women remained behind: thanksgiving.

Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate
perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.

He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all
the time? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a
(whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.
Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me
before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south. He
passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door
into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl
while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the
low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in
her  weeds. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself. How
goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made
up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place.
Chemists rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir.
Hamilton Long's, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard
near there. Visit some day.

He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the
other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral
affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it made
up last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it
must have been or the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions
book.

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he
seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone.
The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then.
Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character.
Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his
alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid.
Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor Whack. He ought
to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that
picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to be
careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus
paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts.
Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the
phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever
of nature.

--About a fortnight ago, sir?

--Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the
dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your
aches and pains.

--Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then
orangeflower water ...

It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.

--And white wax also, he said.

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to
her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my
cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the
teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk.
Skinfood. One of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one
skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it
worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your? PEAU D'ESPAGNE.
That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Pure
curd soap. Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage.
Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I
think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water to water.
Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then
all the day. Funeral be rather glum.

--Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a
bottle?

--No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and
I'll take one of these soaps. How much are they?

--Fourpence, sir.

Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.

--I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.

--Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you
come back.

--Good, Mr Bloom said.

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit,
the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.

At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:

--Hello, Bloom. What's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute.

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To
look younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.

Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants
a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears'
soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.

--I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam
Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar.
Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the
paper and get shut of him.

--You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.

--Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum
the second.

--I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

--What's that? his sharp voice said.

--I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away
that moment.

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread
sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.

--I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.

He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the
soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of
it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large
tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming
embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They
never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.

He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you
of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He
eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled
up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a
wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college.
Something to catch the eye.

There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on
hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr
Hornblower? How do you do, sir?

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.
Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here.
Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare
street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line.
And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor.
Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the
stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.

Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle
tepid stream. This is my body.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of
warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and
limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow:
his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush
floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands,
a languid floating flower.


    * * * * * * *


Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking
carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after
him, curving his height with care.

--Come on, Simon.

--After you, Mr Bloom said.

Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying:

Yes, yes.

--Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.

Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to
after him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. He passed an arm
through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriagewindow at
the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping.
Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she was passed
over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go
we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in
corners. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Then getting it
ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Pull it more
to your side. Our windingsheet. Never know who will touch you dead.
Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and the hair. Keep a bit
in an envelope. Grows all the same after. Unclean job.

All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am
sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap: in my hip pocket. Better shift
it out of that. Wait for an opportunity.

All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning: then
nearer: then horses' hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking
and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds
of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar.
At walking pace.

They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were
passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels
rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook
rattling in the doorframes.

--What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.

--Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.

Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.

--That's a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died out.

All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by
passers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother
road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, clad in
mourning, a wide hat.

--There's a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.

--Who is that?

--Your son and heir.

--Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.

The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup
roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and,
swerving back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels.
Mr Dedalus fell back, saying:

--Was that Mulligan cad with him? His FIDUS ACHATES!

--No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.

--Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding
faction, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of
dung, the wise child that knows her own father.

Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros: the
bottleworks: Dodder bridge.

Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he
calls the firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was.
Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the
landlady's two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night.
Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing
his back. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are.
About six hundred per cent profit.

--He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a
contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks
all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I'll make
it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother or his
aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate. I'll
tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.

He cried above the clatter of the wheels:

--I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper's
son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Not likely.

He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's
mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking.
Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to
hand on. If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the
house. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes.
Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been that
morning in Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two dogs
at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up.
She had that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a
touch, Poldy. God, I'm dying for it. How life begins.

Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside
her. I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent.
Learn German too.

--Are we late? Mr Power asked.

--Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch.

Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping
Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, she's a dear girl. Soon
be a woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman
too. Life, life.

The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying.

--Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said.

--He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Do
you follow me?

He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away
crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

--What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs?

--Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power
said.

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed
buttonless leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned
downward and said:

--Unless I'm greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin?

--It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet
quite clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.

Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.

--After all, he said, it's the most natural thing in the world.

--Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak
of his beard gently.

--Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He's behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes.

--And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.

--At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.

--I met M'Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he'd try to come.

The carriage halted short.

--What's wrong?

--We're stopped.

--Where are we?

Mr Bloom put his head out of the window.

--The grand canal, he said.

Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good job Milly never
got it. Poor children! Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions.
Shame really. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Only measles.
Flaxseed tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don't
miss this chance. Dogs' home over there. Poor old Athos! Be good to Athos,
Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave. A
dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men's dogs
usually are.

A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of
shower spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a
colander. I thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.

--The weather is changing, he said quietly.

--A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said.

--Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There's the sun again coming out.

Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun,
hurled a mute curse at the sky.

--It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said.

--We're off again.

The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed
gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.

--Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking
him off to his face.

--O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear him,
Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of THE CROPPY BOY.

--Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. HIS SINGING OF THAT SIMPLE
BALLAD, MARTIN, IS THE MOST TRENCHANT RENDERING I EVER HEARD IN THE WHOLE
COURSE OF MY EXPERIENCE.

--Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He's dead nuts on that. And the
retrospective arrangement.

--Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Martin Cunningham asked.

--I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?

--In the paper this morning.

Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must
change for her.

--No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on please.

Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the
deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what
Peake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? no, Sexton,
Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper.
Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of
his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Month's mind: Quinlan.
On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.


    IT IS NOW A MONTH SINCE DEAR HENRY FLED
    TO HIS HOME UP ABOVE IN THE SKY
    WHILE HIS FAMILY WEEPS AND MOURNS HIS LOSS
    HOPING SOME DAY TO MEET HIM ON HIGH.


I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it in
the bath? He patted his waistcoatpocket. There all right. Dear Henry fled.
Before my patience are exhausted.

National school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now.
Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting
round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised
their hats.

A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a
tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window. Couldn't they invent something
automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow
would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job
making the new invention?

Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a
crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law
perhaps.

They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the railway
bridge, past the Queen's theatre: in silence. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton,
Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I wonder. I said I.
Or the LILY OF KILLARNEY? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big powerful
change. Wet bright bills for next week. FUN ON THE BRISTOL. Martin
Cunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety. Have to stand a drink or
two. As broad as it's long.

He's coming in the afternoon. Her songs.

Plasto's. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Who was he?

--How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow
in salute.

--He doesn't see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do?

--Who? Mr Dedalus asked.

--Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff.

Just that moment I was thinking.

Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the
white disc of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed.

Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right
hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she sees?
Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes
feel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I am just
looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. Body getting a bit
softy. I would notice that: from remembering. What causes that? I suppose
the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off. But the
shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders. Hips. Plump. Night of
the dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind.

He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant
glance over their faces.

Mr Power asked:

--How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?

--O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It's a good
idea, you see ...

--Are you going yourself?

--Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the
county Clare on some private business. You see the idea is to tour the
chief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.

--Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now.

Have you good artists?

--Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, we'll have all
topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in
fact.

--And MADAME, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not least.

Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and
clasped them. Smith O'Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there.
Woman. Must be his deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage
wheeling by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.

Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his
mouth opening: oot.

--Four bootlaces for a penny.

Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume
street. Same house as Molly's namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for
Waterford. Has that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning
too. Terrible comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at a wake.
O'Callaghan on his last legs.

And MADAME. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean.
Doing her hair, humming. VOGLIO E NON VORREI. No. VORREI E NON. Looking
at the tips of her hairs to see if they are split. MI TREMA UN POCO IL.
Beautiful on that TRE her voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A throstle.
There is a word throstle that expresses that.

His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. Greyish
over the ears. MADAME: smiling. I smiled back. A smile goes a long way.
Only politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the
woman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it told
me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played out pretty
quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of
rumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the Moira, was it?

They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.

Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.

--Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.

A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the corner
of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his spine.

--In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.

Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly:

--The devil break the hasp of your back!

Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as
the carriage passed Gray's statue.

--We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly.

His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. He caressed his beard, adding:

--Well, nearly all of us.

Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces.

--That's an awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J and
the son.

--About the boatman? Mr Power asked.

--Yes. Isn't it awfully good?

--What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn't hear it.

--There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined to send
him to the Isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were both ...

--What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?

--Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he tried
to drown ...

--Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did!

Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.

--No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself ...

Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely:

--Reuben and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on their
way to the Isle of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and
over the wall with him into the Liffey.

--For God's sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is he dead?

--Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A boatman got a pole and
fished him out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the
father on the quay more dead than alive. Half the town was there.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is ...

--And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for
saving his son's life.

A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power's hand.

--O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A silver florin.

--Isn't it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.

--One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily.

Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage.

Nelson's pillar.

--Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!

--We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Dedalus sighed.

--Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a laugh.
Many a good one he told himself.

--The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his
fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week ago when I saw him last and
he was in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this. He's
gone from us.

--As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went
very suddenly.

--Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.

He tapped his chest sadly.

Blazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red
nose. Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent
colouring it.

Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.

--He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said.

--The best death, Mr Bloom said.

Their wide open eyes looked at him.

--No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep.

No-one spoke.

Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents,
temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's,
catholic club, the industrious blind. Why? Some reason. Sun or wind. At
night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the late Father
Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda
corner, galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A
mourning coach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors.
Dun for a nun.

--Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.

A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's
body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society
pays. Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby.
Meant nothing. Mistake of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother.
If not from the man. Better luck next time.

--Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It's well out of it.

The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle
his bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.

--In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.

--But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own life.

Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.

--The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.

--Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We
must take a charitable view of it.

--They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.

--It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham's
large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent.
Like Shakespeare's face. Always a good word to say. They have no
mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They
used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it
wasn't broken already. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in the
riverbed clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a
wife of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the
furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the
damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. Start afresh.
Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight that night
Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and capering with
Martin's umbrella.


    AND THEY CALL ME THE JEWEL OF ASIA,
    OF ASIA,
    THE GEISHA.


He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.

That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The
room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through
the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy.
Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like yellow
streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Verdict:
overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold.

No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.

--We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.

--God grant he doesn't upset us on the road, Mr Power said.

--I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow
in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.

--Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith.

As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent
over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody
here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead March from SAUL. He's as bad
as old Antonio.  He left me on my ownio.  Pirouette!  The MATER
MISERICORDIAE. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for
incurables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady's Hospice for the dying.
Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look
terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the
spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student
that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He's gone over to the lying-in
hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other. The carriage
galloped round a corner: stopped.

--What's wrong now?

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing,
slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted
bony croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating
their fear.

--Emigrants, Mr Power said.

--Huuuh! the drover's voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks.

Huuuh! out of that!

Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold
them about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for
old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter
lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a
year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries,
soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the
train at Clonsilla.

The carriage moved on through the drove.

--I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the
parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in
trucks down to the boats.

--Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite
right. They ought to.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought, is to have
municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line
out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and
all. Don't you see what I mean?

--O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and saloon
diningroom.

--A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.

--Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't it be more
decent than galloping two abreast?

--Well, there's something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.

--And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes like that when
the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road.

--That was terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell
about the road. Terrible!

--First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.

--Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.

Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy
Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too
large for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what's up
now. Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides
decompose quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also.
With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up all.

--Dunphy's, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.

Dunphy's corner. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief.
A pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up
here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation.
Elixir of life.

But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in
the knocking about? He would and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on
where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery. It
would be better to bury them in red: a dark red.

In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse
trotted by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.

Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.

Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his
dropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a
slacktethered horse. Aboard of the BUGABU.

Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated
on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of
reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar,
Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or cycle
down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at the
auction but a lady's. Developing waterways. James M'Cann's hobby to row
me o'er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats. Camping
out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will without writing.
Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by lock to
Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his brown straw
hat, saluting Paddy Dignam.

They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now.

--I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said.

--Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said.

--How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping, I suppose?

--Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear.

The carriage steered left for Finglas road.

The stonecutter's yard on the right. Last lap. Crowded on the spit of
land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands,
knelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white silence:
appealing. The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and
sculptor.

Passed.

On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the sexton's, an old tramp sat,
grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge dustbrown
yawning boot. After life's journey.

Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses.

Mr Power pointed.

--That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house.

--So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him off.
Murdered his brother. Or so they said.

--The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said.

--Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham added. That's the maxim of
the law. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent
person to be wrongfully condemned.

They looked. Murderer's ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered,
tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully
condemned. Murder. The murderer's image in the eye of the murdered.
They love reading about it. Man's head found in a garden. Her clothing
consisted of. How she met her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used.
Murderer is still at large. Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed.
Murder will out.

Cramped in this carriage. She mightn't like me to come that way
without letting her know. Must be careful about women. Catch them once
with their pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.

The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Dark poplars,
rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the
trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain
gestures on the air.

The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin
Cunningham put out his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the
door open with his knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus
followed.

Change that soap now. Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket
swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief
pocket. He stepped out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other
hand still held.

Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. It's all the same.
Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death.
Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit.
Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead. Dogbiscuits.
Who ate them? Mourners coming out.

He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed,
Hynes walking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and
took out the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.

Where is that child's funeral disappeared to?

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread,
dragging through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a
granite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted.

Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at it
with his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck, pressing on
a bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here every
day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then Mount Jerome for
the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute.
Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour.
Too many in the world.

Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed
harpy, hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl's face stained with
dirt and tears, holding the woman's arm, looking up at her for a sign to
cry. Fish's face, bloodless and livid.

The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So
much dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First the
stiff: then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the boy followed
with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law.

All walked after.

Martin Cunningham whispered:

--I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.

--What? Mr Power whispered. How so?

--His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the
Queen's hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he was going to Clare.
Anniversary.

--O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself?

He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes
followed towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Speaking.

--Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.

--I believe so, Mr Kernan answered. But the policy was heavily mortgaged.
Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.

--How many children did he leave?

--Five. Ned Lambert says he'll try to get one of the girls into Todd's.

--A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.

--A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.

--Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.

Has the laugh at him now.

He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had
outlived him. Lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must
outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the
world. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you'll soon follow
him. For Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who
knows after. Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn on
a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But in
the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of hearts.
All for a shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the substance.
Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back, waiting. It
never comes. One must go first: alone, under the ground: and lie no more
in her warm bed.

--How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't
seen you for a month of Sundays.

--Never better. How are all in Cork's own town?

--I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned
Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.

--And how is Dick, the solid man?

--Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.

--By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?

--Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said,
pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the
insurance is cleared up.

--Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front?

--Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is
behind. He put down his name for a quid.

--I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought
to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.

--How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?

--Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.

They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom stood
behind the boy with the wreath looking down at his sleekcombed hair and
at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he
there when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment
and recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three
shillings to O'Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin into
the chapel. Which end is his head?

After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened
light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow
candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a
wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners
knelt here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the font
and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his
pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on
his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.

A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out through
a door. The whitesmocked priest came after him, tidying his stole with one
hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad's belly.
Who'll read the book? I, said the rook.

They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book
with a fluent croak.

Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. DOMINE-NAMINE.
Bully about the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe
betide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter. Burst
sideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on him
like a poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst
sideways.

--NON INTRES IN JUDICIUM CUM SERVO TUO, DOMINE.

Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem
mass. Crape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist.
Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in
the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad
too. What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of
the place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of bad
gas round the place. Butchers, for instance: they get like raw beefsteaks.
Who was telling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults of saint Werburgh's
lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins
sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes: blue. One
whiff of that and you're a goner.

My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That's better.

The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's
bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and
shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you
were before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it.

--ET NE NOS INDUCAS IN TENTATIONEM.

The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be
better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that, of
course ...

Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed
up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up.
What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a
fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in
childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls
with little sparrows' breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing
over them all and shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam now.

--IN PARADISUM.

Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over everybody.
Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.

The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server.
Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted
the coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny
Kelleher gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All
followed them out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came
last folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the
ground till the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels
ground the gravel with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots
followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres.

The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.

--The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.

Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone.

--He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But his
heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon!

--Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I'll soon be stretched
beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.

Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little
in his walk. Mr Power took his arm.

--She's better where she is, he said kindly.

--I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I suppose she is in
heaven if there is a heaven.

Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to
plod by.

--Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.

Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.

--The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can
do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place.

They covered their heads.

--The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think?
Mr Kernan said with reproof.

Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret
eyes, secretsearching. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We are
the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something else.

Mr Kernan added:

--The service of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more
impressive I must say.

Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing.

Mr Kernan said with solemnity:

--I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE. That touches a man's inmost heart.

--It does, Mr Bloom said.

Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two
with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections.
Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood
every day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of
them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn the
thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.
That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth,
Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day! Then every
fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the rest of his
traps. Find damn all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder in
a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure.

Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.

--Everything went off A1, he said. What?

He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman's shoulders. With
your tooraloom tooraloom.

--As it should be, Mr Kernan said.

--What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.

Mr Kernan assured him.

--Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I
know his face.

Ned Lambert glanced back.

--Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the
soprano. She's his wife.

--O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some time.
he was a finelooking woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen seventeen
golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. And a good armful she
was.

He looked behind through the others.

--What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery line?
I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls.

Ned Lambert smiled.

--Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely's. A traveller for blottingpaper.

--In God's name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon like
that for? She had plenty of game in her then.

--Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.

John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead.

The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among
the grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their
caps.

--John O'Connell, Mr Power said pleased. He never forgets a friend.

Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said:

--I am come to pay you another visit.

--My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don't want your
custom at all.

Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin
Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his back.

--Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?

--I did not, Martin Cunningham said.

They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The
caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watchchain and spoke in
a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.

--They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy
evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for
Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried. After traipsing
about in the fog they found the grave sure enough. One of the drunks spelt
out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking up at a statue
of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.

The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He
resumed:

--And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, NOT A BLOODY BIT LIKE THE
MAN, SAYS HE. THAT'S NOT MULCAHY, says he, WHOEVER DONE IT.

Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting
the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked.

--That's all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes.

--I know, Hynes said. I know that.

--To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure goodheartedness:
damn the thing else.

Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on
good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys:
like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No passout checks. HABEAS
CORPUS. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I write
Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing
to Martha? Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office. Be the better
of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That's the first sign when the hairs
come out grey. And temper getting cross. Silver threads among the grey.
Fancy being his wife. Wonder he had the gumption to propose to any girl.
Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that before her. It might
thrill her first. Courting death ... Shades of night hovering here with
all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when churchyards
yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant I suppose who is this used
to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the same like a big
giant in the dark. Will o' the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind
off it to conceive at all. Women especially are so touchy. Tell her a
ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost? Well, I
have. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve.
Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. Whores in Turkish
graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. You might pick up a young
widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of
pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends meet.
Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the
starving. Gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to
do it at the window. Eight children he has anyway.

He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field
after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing. Sitting
or kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His head might come up some day above
ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground
must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too: trim grass and
edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well, so it is.
Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies
growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens
are just over there. It's the blood sinking in the earth gives new life.
Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every man
his price. Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable
for fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor
and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six.
With thanks.

I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh,
nails. Charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink decomposing. Rot
quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy
kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, black treacle oozing out of
them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are
go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to feed
on feed on themselves.

But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply
swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little
seaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of
power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life.
Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about the
bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11 p.m.
(closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men
anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in
fashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out
the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way. Gravediggers
in HAMLET. Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren't joke
about the dead for two years at least. DE MORTUIS NIL NISI PRIUS. Go out
of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral. Seems a sort of a joke.
Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer. Gives you second
wind. New lease of life.

--How many have-you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.

--Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.

The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to
trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping
with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its
nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.

Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June.
He doesn't know who is here nor care.
Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh?
Now who is he I'd like to know? Now I'd give a trifle to know who he is.
Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his
lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to
sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only
man buries. No, ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say
Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every
Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.


    O, POOR ROBINSON CRUSOE!
    HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY DO SO?


Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of
them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could
invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that way.
Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so
particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land.
Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what
it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible even in the earth. The
Irishman's house is his coffin. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same
idea.

Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared
heads. Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen.
Death's number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the
chapel, that I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had
one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was
once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of
mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot he's not
married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.

The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the
gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.

Pause.

If we were all suddenly somebody else.

Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one,
they say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.

Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper.
The boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly
in the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly
caretaker. Wellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will
go next. Well, it is a long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feel.
Must be damned unpleasant. Can't believe it at first. Mistake must be:
someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven't yet.
Then darkened deathchamber. Light they want. Whispering around you. Would
you like to see a priest? Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you
hid all your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not natural. Press his
lower eyelid. Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw sinking are the
soles of his feet yellow. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the
floor since he's doomed. Devil in that picture of sinner's death showing
him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt. Last act of LUCIA.
SHALL I NEVERMORE BEHOLD THEE? Bam! He expires. Gone at last. People
talk about you a bit: forget you. Don't forget to pray for him.
Remember him in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then
they follow: dropping into a hole, one after the other.

We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you're well
and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the fryingpan of life into the
fire of purgatory.

Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do
when you shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Callboy's warning.
Near you. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma,
poor mamma, and little Rudy.

The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay
in on the coffin. Mr Bloom turned away his face. And if he was alive all
the time? Whew! By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of
course. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have
some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or
a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of
distress. Three days. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well
to get shut of them as soon as you are sure there's no.

The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.

The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had
enough of it. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering
themselves without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly
figure make its way deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of
his ground, he traversed the dismal fields.

Hynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he
knows them all. No: coming to me.

--I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his breath. What is your
christian name? I'm not sure.

--L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might put down M'Coy's name too.
He asked me to.

--Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the FREEMAN once.

So he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne.
Good idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they
know. He died of a Tuesday. Got the run. Levanted with the cash of a few
ads. Charley, you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well,
does no harm. I saw to that, M'Coy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged.
Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing.

--And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was
over there in the ...

He looked around.

--Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?

--M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don't know who he is. Is that
his name?

He moved away, looking about him.

--No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!

Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of
all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible. Good
Lord, what became of him?

A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade.

--O, excuse me!

He stepped aside nimbly.

Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over.
A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their
spades. All uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped his wreath
against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The gravediggers put
on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Then
knocked the blades lightly on the turf: clean. One bent to pluck from the
haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with
shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. Silently at the gravehead
another coiled the coffinband. His navelcord. The brother-in-law, turning
away, placed something in his free hand. Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir:
trouble. Headshake. I know that. For yourselves just.

The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths,
staying at whiles to read a name on a tomb.

--Let us go round by the chief's grave, Hynes said. We have time.

--Let us, Mr Power said.

They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr
Power's blank voice spoke:

--Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled
with stones. That one day he will come again.

Hynes shook his head.

--Parnell will never come again, he said. He's there, all that was mortal
of him. Peace to his ashes.

Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels,
crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast
eyes, old Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on
some charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does
anybody really? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot.
Then lump them together to save time. All souls' day. Twentyseventh I'll
be at his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of
weeds. Old man himself. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Near
death's door. Who passed away. Who departed this life. As if they did it
of their own accord. Got the shove, all of them. Who kicked the bucket.
More interesting if they told you what they were. So and So, wheelwright.
I travelled for cork lino. I paid five shillings in the pound. Or a
woman's with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish stew. Eulogy in a country
churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose is it Wordsworth or Thomas
Campbell. Entered into rest the protestants put it. Old Dr Murren's.
The great physician called him home. Well it's God's acre for them.
Nice country residence. Newly plastered and painted. Ideal spot to
have a quiet smoke and read the CHURCH TIMES. Marriage ads they never
try to beautify. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil.
Better value that for the money. Still, the flowers are more poetical.
The other gets rather tiresome, never withering. Expresses nothing.
Immortelles.

A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like stuffed. Like the
wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Hoo! Not a budge out of him.
Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal even sadder.
Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, a
daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.

The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve. Ought to be
sideways and red it should be painted like a real heart. Ireland was
dedicated to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. Why this
infliction? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket of
fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the boy.
Apollo that was.

How many! All these here once walked round Dublin. Faithful departed.
As you are now so once were we.

Besides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well,
the voice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it
in the house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather.
Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain
hellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind you of the voice like the photograph
reminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after
fifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some fellow that died
when I was in Wisdom Hely's.

Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop!

He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait.
There he goes.

An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the crypt, moving the
pebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey
alive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it.
Good hidingplace for treasure.

Who lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. Robert
Emmet was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Making his rounds.

Tail gone now.

One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the
bones clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse is
meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that
VOYAGES IN CHINA that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse.
Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm.
Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the plague. Quicklime
feverpits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea.
Where is that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire, water.
Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See your whole life in a flash. But
being brought back to life no. Can't bury in the air however. Out of a
flying machine. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let
down. Underground communication. We learned that from them. Wouldn't be
surprised. Regular square feed for them. Flies come before he's well dead.
Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn't care about the smell of it. Saltwhite
crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips.

The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world again.
Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I was
here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa too. The love that kills. And
even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case I read
of to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running
gravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after
death. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after
death. There is another world after death named hell. I do not like that
other world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet.
Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They
are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life.

Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.

Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton, John Henry, solicitor,
commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be in his office.
Mat Dillon's long ago. Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings. Cold fowl, cigars,
the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his rag out
that evening on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him. Pure fluke
of mine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate at first
sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree, laughing.
Fellow always like that, mortified if women are by.

Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.

--Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.

They stopped.

--Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said pointing.

John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.

--There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. John Henry Menton took
off his hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care on his
coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.

--It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said.

John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.

--Thank you, he said shortly.

They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew
behind a few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law.
Martin could wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger, without
his seeing it.

Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him.
Get the pull over him that way.

Thank you. How grand we are this morning!


    * * * * * * *


    IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN 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.

--Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to the
TELEGRAPH office.

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.

Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a
stately figure entered between the newsboards of the WEEKLY FREEMAN AND
NATIONAL PRESS and the FREEMAN'S JOURNAL AND NATIONAL PRESS. Dullthudding
Guinness's barrels. It passed statelily up the staircase, steered by an
umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back ascended each
step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus
says. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat,
neck.

--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.

Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his
heart. In MARTHA.


    CO-OME THOU LOST ONE,
    CO-OME THOU DEAR ONE!
    THE CROZIER AND THE PEN


--His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.

They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter
and stepped off posthaste with a word:

--FREEMAN!

Mr Bloom said slowly:

--Well, he is one of our saviours also.

A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted 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.

He hurried on eagerly towards the FREEMAN'S JOURNAL.

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?

I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that voglio. But
then if he didn't know only make it awkward for him. Better not.

--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:

--Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the
TELEGRAPH. Where's what's his name?

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


He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type.
Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice
that. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah book, reading
backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear, O
dear! All that long business about that brought us out of the land of
Egypt and into the house of bondage ALLELUIA. SHEMA ISRAEL ADONAI ELOHENU.
No, that's the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. And then the
lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher.
And then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the
dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well.
Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what life
is after all. How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems
to see with his fingers.

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.

A sudden screech of laughter came from the EVENING TELEGRAPH office. Know
who that is. What's up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is.

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:

--OR AGAIN, NOTE THE MEANDERINGS OF SOME PURLING RILL AS IT BABBLES ON
ITS WAY, THO' QUARRELLING WITH THE STONY OBSTACLES, TO THE TUMBLING WATERS
OF NEPTUNE'S BLUE DOMAIN, 'MID MOSSY BANKS, FANNED BY GENTLEST ZEPHYRS,
PLAYED ON BY THE GLORIOUS SUNLIGHT OR 'NEATH THE SHADOWS CAST O'ER ITS
PENSIVE BOSOM BY THE OVERARCHING LEAFAGE OF THE GIANTS OF THE FOREST. What
about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that
for high?

--Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.

Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating:

--THE PENSIVE BOSOM AND THE OVERARSING LEAFAGE. O boys! O boys!

--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.

--A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh answered
with pomp of tone. OUR LOVELY LAND.


    SHORT BUT TO THE POINT


--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.

--OR AGAIN IF WE BUT CLIMB THE SERRIED MOUNTAIN PEAKS.

--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.

Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts
of honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and
T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Brains on their sleeve
like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work for the
EXPRESS with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford began on
the INDEPENDENT. Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when
they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the same
breath. Wouldn't know which to believe. One story good till you hear the
next. Go for one another baldheaded in the papers and then all blows over.
Hail fellow well met the next moment.

--Ah, listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. OR AGAIN IF WE
BUT CLIMB THE SERRIED MOUNTAIN PEAKS ...

--Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated
windbag!

--Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, TOWERING HIGH ON HIGH, TO BATHE OUR SOULS,
AS IT WERE ...

--Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he
taking anything for it?

--AS 'TWERE, IN THE PEERLESS PANORAMA OF IRELAND'S PORTFOLIO, UNMATCHED,
DESPITE THEIR WELLPRAISED PROTOTYPES IN OTHER VAUNTED PRIZE REGIONS, FOR
VERY BEAUTY, OF BOSKY GROVE AND UNDULATING PLAIN AND LUSCIOUS PASTURELAND
OF VERNAL GREEN, STEEPED IN THE TRANSCENDENT TRANSLUCENT GLOW OF OUR MILD
MYSTERIOUS IRISH TWILIGHT ...


    HIS NATIVE DORIC


--The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.

--THAT MANTLES THE VISTA FAR AND WIDE AND WAIT TILL THE GLOWING ORB OF
THE MOON SHINE FORTH TO IRRADIATE HER SILVER EFFULGENCE ...

--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.

--Yes, EVENING TELEGRAPH here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office. Is
the boss ...? Yes, TELEGRAPH ... To where? Aha! Which auction rooms ?...
Aha! I see ... Right. I'll catch him.


    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.

--PARDON, MONSIEUR, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and making
a grimace.

--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:

--The accumulation of the ANNO DOMINI.

--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:


  --WE ARE THE BOYS OF WEXFORD
    WHO FOUGHT WITH HEART AND HAND.


    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.

--THANKY VOUS, Lenehan said, helping himself.

The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow.
He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:


  --'TWAS RANK AND FAME THAT TEMPTED THEE,
    'TWAS EMPIRE CHARMED THY HEART.


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!

--IMPERIUM ROMANUM, J. J. O'Molloy said gently. It sounds nobler than
British or Brixton. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire.

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:

--What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow: but vile. Cloacae: sewers.
The Jews in the wilderness and on the mountaintop said: IT IS MEET TO BE
HERE. LET US BUILD AN ALTAR TO JEHOVAH. The Roman, like the Englishman who
follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set his
foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal obsession. He gazed
about him in his toga and he said: IT IS MEET TO BE HERE. LET US CONSTRUCT
A WATERCLOSET.

--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.

--ENTREZ, MES ENFANTS! Lenehan cried.

--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?


    ON SWIFT SAIL FLAMING
    FROM STORM AND SOUTH
    HE COMES, PALE VAMPIRE,
    MOUTH TO MY MOUTH.


--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


--We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for us
is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. We were never loyal
to the successful. We serve them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I
speak the tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is the maxim: time
is money. Material domination. DOMINUS! Lord! Where is the spirituality?
Lord Jesus? Lord Salisbury? A sofa in a westend club. But the Greek!


    KYRIE ELEISON!


A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long
lips.

--The Greek! he said again. KYRIOS! Shining word! The vowels the Semite
and the Saxon know not. KYRIE! The radiance of the intellect. I ought to
profess Greek, the language of the mind. KYRIE ELEISON! The closetmaker
and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. We are liege
subjects of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar
and of the empire of the spirit, not an IMPERIUM, that went under with the
Athenian fleets at Aegospotami. Yes, yes. They went under. Pyrrhus, misled
by an oracle, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece.
Loyal to a lost cause.

He strode away from them towards the window.

--They went forth to battle, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but they
always fell.

--Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a brick received in
the latter half of the matinee. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!

He whispered then near Stephen's ear:


    LENEHAN'S LIMERICK

  --THERE'S A PONDEROUS PUNDIT MACHUGH
    WHO WEARS GOGGLES OF EBONY HUE.
    AS HE MOSTLY SEES DOUBLE
    TO WEAR THEM WHY TROUBLE?
    I CAN'T SEE THE JOE MILLER. CAN YOU?


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:


--THE ROSE OF CASTILE. See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel. Gee!

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.

--I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a bite in
it. You can do it. I see it in your face. IN THE LEXICON OF YOUTH ...

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.

--Look at here, he said turning. The NEW YORK WORLD cabled for a special.
Remember that time?

Professor MacHugh nodded.

--NEW YORK WORLD, the editor said, excitedly pushing back his straw hat.
Where it took place. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean. Joe Brady and the
rest of them. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car. Whole route, see?

--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?

--Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Let Gumley mind
the stones, see they don't run away. Look at here. What did Ignatius
Gallaher do? I'll tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled right away. Have
you WEEKLY FREEMAN of 17 March? Right. Have you got that?

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.

--Hello? EVENING TELEGRAPH here ... Hello?... Who's there? ...
Yes ... Yes ... Yes.

--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.

--History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of Prince's street was
there first. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. Out of an
advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it. That gave him the leg
up. Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on to the Star.
Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. That's press. That's talent. Pyatt! He
was all their daddies!

--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.


    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .LA TUA PACE
    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .CHE PARLAR TI PIACE
    . . . . .MENTREM CHE IL VENTO, COME FA, SI TACE.


He saw them three by three, approaching girls, in green, in rose, in
russet, entwining, PER L'AER PERSO, in mauve, in purple, QUELLA PACIFICA
ORIAFIAMMA, gold of oriflamme, DI RIMIRAR FE PIU ARDENTI. But I old men,
penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb.

--Speak up for yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke said.


    SUFFICIENT FOR THE DAY ...


J. J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.

--My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, you put a false
construction on my words. I hold no brief, as at present advised, for the
third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are running away with
you. Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes and
Edmund Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod boss,
Harmsworth of the farthing press, and his American cousin of the Bowery
guttersheet not to mention PADDY KELLY'S BUDGET, PUE'S OCCURRENCES and our
watchful friend THE SKIBBEREEN EAGLE. Why bring in a master of forensic
eloquence like Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof.


    LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE


--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:

--One of the most polished periods I think I ever listened to in my life
fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide,
the Childs murder case. Bushe defended him.


    AND IN THE PORCHES OF MINE EAR DID POUR.


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


--He spoke on the law of evidence, J. J. O'Molloy said, of Roman justice
as contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the LEX TALIONIS. And he cited
the Moses of Michelangelo in the vatican.

--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:

--He said of it: THAT STONY EFFIGY IN FROZEN MUSIC, HORNED AND TERRIBLE,
OF THE HUMAN FORM DIVINE, THAT ETERNAL SYMBOL OF WISDOM AND OF PROPHECY
WHICH, IF AUGHT THAT THE IMAGINATION OR THE HAND OF SCULPTOR HAS WROUGHT
IN MARBLE OF SOULTRANSFIGURED AND OF SOULTRANSFIGURING DESERVES TO LIVE,
DESERVES TO LIVE.

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:

--MR CHAIRMAN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: GREAT WAS MY ADMIRATION IN LISTENING
TO THE REMARKS ADDRESSED TO THE YOUTH OF IRELAND A MOMENT SINCE BY MY
LEARNED FRIEND. IT SEEMED TO ME THAT I HAD BEEN TRANSPORTED INTO A COUNTRY
FAR AWAY FROM THIS COUNTRY, INTO AN AGE REMOTE FROM THIS AGE, THAT I STOOD
IN ANCIENT EGYPT AND THAT I WAS LISTENING TO THE SPEECH OF SOME HIGHPRIEST
OF THAT LAND ADDRESSED TO THE YOUTHFUL MOSES.

His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smokes
ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. And let our
crooked smokes. Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand at
it yourself?

--AND IT SEEMED TO ME THAT I HEARD THE VOICE OF THAT EGYPTIAN HIGHPRIEST
RAISED IN A TONE OF LIKE HAUGHTINESS AND LIKE PRIDE. I HEARD HIS WORDS AND
THEIR MEANING WAS REVEALED TO ME.


    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.

--WHY WILL YOU JEWS NOT ACCEPT OUR CULTURE, OUR RELIGION AND OUR
LANGUAGE? YOU ARE A TRIBE OF NOMAD HERDSMEN: WE ARE A MIGHTY PEOPLE. YOU
HAVE NO CITIES NOR NO WEALTH: OUR CITIES ARE HIVES OF HUMANITY AND OUR
GALLEYS, TRIREME AND  QUADRIREME, LADEN WITH ALL MANNER MERCHANDISE FURROW
THE WATERS OF THE KNOWN GLOBE. YOU HAVE BUT EMERGED FROM PRIMITIVE
CONDITIONS: WE HAVE A LITERATURE, A PRIESTHOOD, AN AGELONG HISTORY AND A
POLITY.

Nile.

Child, man, effigy.

By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man
supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.

--YOU PRAY TO A LOCAL AND OBSCURE IDOL: OUR TEMPLES, MAJESTIC AND
MYSTERIOUS, ARE THE ABODES OF ISIS AND OSIRIS, OF HORUS AND AMMON RA.
YOURS SERFDOM, AWE AND HUMBLENESS: OURS THUNDER AND THE SEAS. ISRAEL IS
WEAK AND FEW ARE HER CHILDREN: EGYPT IS AN HOST AND TERRIBLE ARE HER ARMS.
 VAGRANTS AND DAYLABOURERS ARE YOU CALLED: THE WORLD TREMBLES AT OUR NAME.

A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it
boldly:

--BUT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, HAD THE YOUTHFUL MOSES LISTENED TO AND
ACCEPTED THAT VIEW OF LIFE, HAD HE BOWED HIS HEAD AND BOWED HIS WILL AND
BOWED HIS SPIRIT BEFORE THAT ARROGANT ADMONITION HE WOULD NEVER HAVE
BROUGHT THE CHOSEN PEOPLE OUT OF THEIR HOUSE OF BONDAGE, NOR FOLLOWED THE
PILLAR OF THE CLOUD BY DAY. HE WOULD NEVER HAVE SPOKEN WITH THE ETERNAL
AMID LIGHTNINGS ON SINAI'S MOUNTAINTOP NOR EVER HAVE COME DOWN WITH THE
LIGHT OF INSPIRATION SHINING IN HIS COUNTENANCE AND BEARING IN HIS ARMS
THE TABLES OF THE LAW, GRAVEN IN THE LANGUAGE OF THE OUTLAW.

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.

--Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn't it? It has
the prophetic vision. FUIT ILIUM! The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms of this
world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.

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 Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the
offices of the IRISH CATHOLIC AND DUBLIN PENNY JOURNAL, called:

--Mr Crawford! A moment!

--TELEGRAPH! Racing special!

--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


--Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the steps,
puffing, and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes
just now. He'll give a renewal for two months, he says. After he'll see.
But he wants a par to call attention in the TELEGRAPH too, the Saturday
pink. And he wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor
Nannetti from the KILKENNY PEOPLE. I can have access to it in the national
library. House of keys, don't you see? His name is Keyes. It's a play on
the name. But he practically promised he'd give the renewal. But he wants
just a little puff. What will I tell him, Mr Crawford?



    K.M.A.


--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


--NULLA BONA, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to
here. I've been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to
back a bill for me no later than last week. Sorry, Jack. You must take the
will for the deed. With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind
anyhow.

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.


--Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to
reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: DEUS NOBIS HAEC OTIA FECIT.

--No, Stephen said. I call it A PISGAH SIGHT OF PALESTINE OR THE PARABLE
OF THE PLUMS.

--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.


    * * * * * * *


Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl
shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school treat.
Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty
the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red jujubes white.

A sombre Y.M.C.A. young man, watchful among the warm sweet
fumes of Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom.

Heart to heart talks.

Bloo ... Me? No.

Blood of the Lamb.

His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved? All are
washed in the blood of the lamb. God wants blood victim. Birth, hymen,
martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering,
druids' altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of the
church in Zion is coming.


    IS COMING! IS COMING!! IS COMING!!!
    ALL HEARTILY WELCOME.


Paying game. Torry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. His wife will
put the stopper on that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the
luminous crucifix. Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him
on the wall, hanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran in.

Phosphorus it must be done with. If you leave a bit of codfish for
instance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night I went down to the
pantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells in it waiting to rush
out. What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain. Before
Rudy was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good for the
brain.

From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's
walk. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be
selling off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father.
Lobbing about waiting for him. Home always breaks up when the mother
goes. Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. That's in their
theology or the priest won't give the poor woman the confession, the
absolution. Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat you
out of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on the fat
of the land. Their butteries and larders. I'd like to see them do the
black fast Yom Kippur. Crossbuns. One meal and a collation for fear he'd
collapse on the altar. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you could
pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her. Like getting l.s.d. out of
him. Does himself well. No guests. All for number one. Watching his water.
Bring your own bread and butter. His reverence: mum's the word.

Good Lord, that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks
too. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It's after they feel it.
Proof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution.

As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up
from the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours
it, I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the
brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats get in
too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on
the porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking
that! Rats: vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things.

Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt
quaywalls, gulls. Rough weather outside. If I threw myself down?
Reuben J's son must have swallowed a good bellyful of that sewage. One and
eightpence too much. Hhhhm. It's the droll way he comes out with the
things. Knows how to tell a story too.

They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.

He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo
feet per sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of
swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn fools. Also the
day I threw that stale cake out of the Erin's King picked it up in the
wake fifty yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.

    THE HUNGRY FAMISHED GULL
    FLAPS O'ER THE WATERS DULL.


That is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has
no rhymes: blank verse. The flow of the language it is. The thoughts.
Solemn.


    HAMLET, I AM THY FATHER'S SPIRIT
    DOOMED FOR A CERTAIN TIME TO WALK THE EARTH.


--Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!

His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand.
Australians they must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them up
with a rag or a handkerchief.

Wait. Those poor birds.

He halted again and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury
cakes for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down
into the Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently, two, then all from
their heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.

Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his
hands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fish, fishy flesh
they have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffey swim
down here sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes.
Wonder what kind is swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.

They wheeled flapping weakly. I'm not going to throw any more.
Penny quite enough. Lot of thanks I get. Not even a caw. They spread foot
and mouth disease too. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes
like that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fish are
not salty? How is that?

His eyes sought answer from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor
on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.

KINO'S
11/-
TROUSERS

Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can
you own water really? It's always flowing in a stream, never the same,
which in the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream. All kinds
of places are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used to be
stuck up in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential.
Dr Hy Franks. Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing master self
advertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himself for
that matter on the q. t. running in to loosen a button. Flybynight. Just
the place too. POST NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. Some chap with a dose
burning him.

If he ...?

O!

Eh?

No ... No.

No, no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely?

No, no.

Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about
that. After one. Timeball on the ballastoffice is down. Dunsink time.
Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Parallax. I never
exactly understood. There's a priest. Could ask him. Par it's Greek:
parallel, parallax. Met him pike hoses she called it till I told her about
the transmigration. O rocks!

Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballastoffice. She's
right after all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the
sound. She's not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I was
thinking. Still, I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base
barreltone voice. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing
into a barrel. Now, isn't that wit. They used to call him big Ben. Not
half as witty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross.
Get outside of a baron of beef. Powerful man he was at stowing away number
one Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? It all works out.


 A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards
him along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like
that priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered. He
read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S.
Wisdom Hely's. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his
foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our staple
food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after street.
Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are not Boyl:
no, M Glade's men. Doesn't bring in any business either. I suggested
to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting
inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. I bet that
would have caught on. Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once.
Everyone dying to know what she's writing. Get twenty of them round you
if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Women too. Curiosity.
Pillar of salt. Wouldn't have it of course because he didn't think
of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a false stain
of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under
the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick 'em. What? Our
envelopes. Hello, Jones, where are you going? Can't stop, Robinson,
I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser KANSELL,
sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. Well out of that ruck I am.
Devil of a job it was collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla
convent. That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her
small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes.
Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her
devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world.
Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name
too: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the way she. If she had
married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of
money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for them.
My heart's broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and
out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker's
daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.

He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by.
Rover cycleshop. Those races are on today. How long ago is that? Year
Phil Gilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. Wait: was in Thom's.
Got the job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. Six years. Ten years ago:
ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's. Val Dillon
was lord mayor. The Glencree dinner. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the
port into his soup before the flag fell. Bobbob lapping it for the inner
alderman. Couldn't hear what the band played. For what we have already
received may the Lord make us. Milly was a kiddy then. Molly had that
elephantgrey dress with the braided frogs. Mantailored with selfcovered
buttons. She didn't like it because I sprained my ankle first day she wore
choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. As if that. Old Goodwin's tall hat done up
with some sticky stuff. Flies' picnic too. Never put a dress on her back
like it. Fitted her like a glove, shoulders and hips. Just beginning to
plump it out well. Rabbitpie we had that day. People looking after her.

Happy. Happier then. Snug little room that was with the red
wallpaper. Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen. Milly's tubbing night.
American soap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny
she looked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's
daguerreotype atelier he told me of. Hereditary taste.

He walked along the curbstone.

Stream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking chap was
always squinting in when he passed? Weak eyes, woman. Stopped in
Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is
getting. Pen ...? Of course it's years ago. Noise of the trams probably.
Well, if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day.

Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her home
after practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her that
song WINDS THAT BLOW FROM THE SOUTH.

Windy night that was I went to fetch her there was that lodge meeting
on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supperroom
or oakroom of the Mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of her music blew
out of my hand against the High school railings. Lucky it didn't. Thing
like that spoils the effect of a night for her. Professor Goodwin linking
her in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot. His farewell concerts.
Positively last appearance on any stage. May be for months and may be for
never. Remember her laughing at the wind, her blizzard collar up. Corner
of Harcourt road remember that gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and
her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed in the wind.
Remember when we got home raking up the fire and frying up those pieces
of lap of mutton for her supper with the Chutney sauce she liked. And the
mulled rum. Could see her in the bedroom from the hearth unclamping the
busk of her stays: white.

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always warm from
her. Always liked to let her self out. Sitting there after till near two
taking out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy.
That was the night ...

--O, Mr Bloom, how do you do?

--O, how do you do, Mrs Breen?

--No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't seen her for ages.

--In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily. Milly has a position down in
Mullingar, you know.

--Go away! Isn't that grand for her?

--Yes. In a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How are
all your charges?

--All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.

How many has she? No other in sight.

--You're in black, I see. You have no ...

--No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral.

Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who's dead, when and what did
he die of? Turn up like a bad penny.

--O, dear me, Mrs Breen said. I hope it wasn't any near relation.

May as well get her sympathy.

--Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite suddenly,
poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.


    YOUR FUNERAL'S TOMORROW
    WHILE YOU'RE COMING THROUGH THE RYE.
    DIDDLEDIDDLE DUMDUM
    DIDDLEDIDDLE ...


--Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily.

Now that's quite enough about that. Just: quietly: husband.

--And your lord and master?

Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't lost them anyhow.

--O, don't be talking! she said. He's a caution to rattlesnakes. He's in
there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. He has me
heartscalded. Wait till I show you.

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly
poured out from Harrison's. The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr
Bloom's gullet. Want to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara
sugar, or they'd taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A barefoot
arab stood over the grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw of
hunger that way. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and fork
chained to the table.

Opening her handbag, chipped leather. Hatpin: ought to have a
guard on those things. Stick it in a chap's eye in the tram. Rummaging.
Open. Money. Please take one. Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise Cain.
Husband barging. Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are
you feeding your little brother's family? Soiled handkerchief:
medicinebottle. Pastille that was fell. What is she? ...

--There must be a new moon out, she said. He's always bad then. Do you
know what he did last night?

Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide
in alarm, yet smiling.

--What? Mr Bloom asked.

Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.

--Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.

Indiges.

--Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.

--The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.

She took a folded postcard from her handbag.

--Read that, she said. He got it this morning.

--What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.?

--U.P.: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It's a great shame
for them whoever he is.

--Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.

She took back the card, sighing.

--And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. He's going to take an
action for ten thousand pounds, he says.

She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.

Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen
its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three old
grapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a tasty
dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly.

See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.

He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent.
Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. Flakes of pastry
on the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek.
Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell that
was. In Luke Doyle's long ago. Dolphin's Barn, the charades. U.P.: up.

Change the subject.

--Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Mr Bloom asked.

--Mina Purefoy? she said.

Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers' Club. Matcham often
thinks of the masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.

--Yes.

--I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She's in the lying-in
hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got her in. She's three days bad now.

--O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that.

--Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It's a very stiff
birth, the nurse told me.

---O, Mr Bloom said.

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. His tongue clacked in
compassion. Dth! Dth!

--I'm sorry to hear that, he said. Poor thing! Three days! That's terrible
for her.

Mrs Breen nodded.

--She was taken bad on the Tuesday ...

Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her:

--Mind! Let this man pass.

A bony form strode along the curbstone from the river staring with a
rapt gaze into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass. Tight as a
skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From his arm a folded dustcoat, a
stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.

--Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts. Watch!

--Who is he if it's a fair question? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty?

--His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr
Bloom said smiling. Watch!

--He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these
days.

She broke off suddenly.

--There he is, she said. I must go after him. Goodbye. Remember me to
Molly, won't you?

--I will, Mr Bloom said.

He watched her dodge through passers towards the shopfronts. Denis
Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's
hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old
times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his
dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly.

Meshuggah. Off his chump.

Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the
tight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two days.
Watch him!  Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world. And
that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have with
him.

U.P.: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding.
Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house I bet anything. Round to Menton's
office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods.

He passed the IRISH TIMES. There might be other answers Iying there.
Like to answer them all. Good system for criminals. Code. At their lunch
now. Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know me. O, leave them there to
simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. Wanted, smart
lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called you naughty
darling because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the
meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me who made the
world. The way they spring those questions on you. And the other one
Lizzie Twigg. My literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with
the approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo. Russell). No time to do
her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry.

Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now.
Cook and general, exc. cuisine, housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit
counter. Resp. girl (R.C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop.
James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent dividend. Made a big
deal on Coates's shares. Ca' canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the
toady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the IRISH FIELD
now. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode
out with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at
Rathoath. Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make it
tender enough for them. Riding astride. Sit her horse like a man.
Weightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion for her, not for Joe.
First to the meet and in at the death. Strong as a brood mare some of
those horsey women. Swagger around livery stables. Toss off a glass of
brandy neat while you'd say knife. That one at the Grosvenor this morning.
Up with her on the car: wishswish. Stonewall or fivebarred gate
put her mount to it. Think that pugnosed driver did it out of spite.
Who is this she was like? O yes! Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me
her old wraps and black underclothes in the Shelbourne hotel.
Divorced Spanish American. Didn't take a feather out of her
my handling them. As if I was her clotheshorse. Saw her in the
viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in with Whelan of the
Express. Scavenging what the quality left. High tea. Mayonnaise I poured
on the plums thinking it was custard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a
few weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery
work for her, thanks.

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness.
Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy. Y. M. C. A.
Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. And still his
muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodore's
cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardy annuals
he presents her with. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topers marching along
bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a marketnet. The squallers.
Poor thing! Then having to give the breast year after year all hours of
the night. Selfish those t.t's are. Dog in the manger. Only one lump of
sugar in my tea, if you please.

He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval. A sixpenny at
Rowe's? Must look up that ad in the national library. An eightpenny in the
Burton. Better. On my way.

He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot
to tap Tom Kernan.

Sss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a
vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her belly swollen out. Phew!
Dreadful simply! Child's head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her
trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Kill me that
would. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. They ought to invent something
to stop that. Life with hard labour. Twilight sleep idea: queen Victoria
was given that. Nine she had. A good layer. Old woman that lived in a shoe
she had so many children. Suppose he was consumptive. Time someone thought
about it instead of gassing about the what was it the pensive bosom of the
silver effulgence. Flapdoodle to feed fools on. They could easily have big
establishments whole thing quite painless out of all the taxes give every
child born five quid at compound interest up to twentyone five per cent is
a hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal
system encourage people to put by money save hundred and ten and a bit
twentyone years want to work it out on paper come to a tidy sum more than
you think.

Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for
nothing.

Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs
Moisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then
returns. How flat they look all of a sudden after. Peaceful eyes.
Weight off their mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All
my babies, she said. The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed
them. O, that's nyumnyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son.
His first bow to the public. Head like a prize pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren.
People knocking them up at all hours. For God' sake, doctor. Wife in
her throes. Then keep them waiting months for their fee. To attendance
on your wife. No gratitude in people. Humane doctors, most of them.

Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of
pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it on? I
pick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck. Must be thrilling
from the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees near Goose
green playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me.

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in
Indian file. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their
truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their
belts. Policeman's lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groups and
scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to
attack one in pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of others,
marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the station.
Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive
soup.

He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right to
put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters. Ought to be places for
women. Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. THERE IS NOT IN
THIS WIDE WORLD A VALLEE. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up
to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she?

He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack
Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. If a fellow gave them trouble
being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the bridewell. Can't
blame them after all with the job they have especially the young hornies.
That horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in
Trinity he got a run for his money. My word he did! His horse's hoofs
clattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky I had the presence of mind to
dive into Manning's or I was souped. He did come a wallop, by George.
Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones. I oughtn't to have got
myself swept along with those medicals. And the Trinity jibs in their
mortarboards. Looking for trouble. Still I got to know that young Dixon
who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he's in Holles street
where Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within wheels. Police whistle in my ears still.
All skedaddled. Why he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right here it
began.

--Up the Boers!

--Three cheers for De Wet!

--We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.

Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill.
The Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them magistrates and
civil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows
used to. Whether on the scaffold high.

Never know who you're talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey
Duff in his eye. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the
gaff on the invincibles. Member of the corporation too. Egging raw youths
on to get in the know all the time drawing secret service pay from the
castle. Drop him like a hot potato. Why those plainclothes men are always
courting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to uniform. Squarepushing up
against a backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next thing on the menu. And
who is the gentleman does be visiting there? Was the young master saying
anything? Peeping Tom through the keyhole. Decoy duck. Hotblooded young
student fooling round her fat arms ironing.

--Are those yours, Mary?

--I don't wear such things ... Stop or I'll tell the missus on you.
Out half the night.

--There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you see.

--Ah, gelong with your great times coming.

Barmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls.

James Stephens' idea was the best. He knew them. Circles of ten so
that a fellow couldn't round on more than his own ring. Sinn Fein. Back
out you get the knife. Hidden hand. Stay in. The firing squad. Turnkey's
daughter got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up in the
Buckingham Palace hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi.

You must have a certain fascination: Parnell. Arthur Griffith is a
squareheaded fellow but he has no go in him for the mob. Or gas about our
lovely land. Gammon and spinach. Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom.
Debating societies. That republicanism is the best form of government.
That the language question should take precedence of the economic
question. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house. Stuff them
up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's a good lump of thyme
seasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease
before it gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk with
the band. No grace for the carver. The thought that the other chap pays
best sauce in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show us over
those apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Homerule sun
rising up in the northwest.

His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly,
shadowing Trinity's surly front. Trams passed one another, ingoing,
outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same, day after day:
squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies
mooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed
groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every second
somewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes.
Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing the
blood off, all are washed in the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.

Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other
coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of
pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that.
Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets
his notice to quit. They buy the place up with gold and still they
have all the gold. Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn
away age after age. Pyramids in sand. Built on bread and onions.
Slaves Chinese wall. Babylon. Big stones left. Round towers. Rest rubble,
sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze.
Shelter, for the night.

No-one is anything.

This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate
this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.

Provost's house. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Well
tinned in there. Like a mortuary chapel. Wouldn't live in it if they paid
me. Hope they have liver and bacon today. Nature abhors a vacuum.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware
opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell passed,
unseeing.

There he is: the brother. Image of him. Haunting face. Now that's a
coincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of a person and don't
meet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows him. Must be a
corporation meeting today. They say he never put on the city marshal's
uniform since he got the job. Charley Kavanagh used to come out on his
high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Look at the
woebegone walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a
pain. Great man's brother: his brother's brother. He'd look nice on the
city charger. Drop into the D.B.C. probably for his coffee, play chess
there. His brother used men as pawns. Let them all go to pot. Afraid to
pass a remark on him. Freeze them up with that eye of his. That's the
fascination: the name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and his other sister
Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness. Bolt upright lik
 surgeon M'Ardle. Still David Sheehy beat him for south Meath.
Apply for the Chiltern Hundreds and retire into public life. The patriot's
banquet. Eating orangepeels in the park. Simon Dedalus said when they put
him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the grave and lead
him out of the house of commons by the arm.

--Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is the head upon which
the ends of the world have forgotten to come while the other speaks with a
Scotch accent. The tentacles ...

They passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and
bicycle. Young woman.

And there he is too. Now that's really a coincidence: second time.
Coming events cast their shadows before. With the approval of the eminent
poet, Mr Geo. Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg with him. A. E.: what
does that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund,
Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the world
with a Scotch accent. Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism.
Holding forth. She's taking it all in. Not saying a word. To aid gentleman
in literary work.

His eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a
listening woman at his side. Coming from the vegetarian. Only
weggebobbles and fruit. Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that
cow will pursue you through all eternity. They say it's healthier.
Windandwatery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as a
bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that thing they gave me
nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you are eating
rumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by the
tap all night.

Her stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that: so tasteless.
Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic.
Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind of food you
see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example one of
those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze
a line of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a
certain mood.


    THE DREAMY CLOUDY GULL
    WAVES O'ER THE WATERS DULL.


He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of
Yeates and Son, pricing the fieldglasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's
and have a chat with young Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. Probably at his
lunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Goerz lenses six
guineas. Germans making their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to
capture trade. Undercutting. Might chance on a pair in the railway lost
property office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains
and cloakrooms. What do they be thinking about? Women too. Incredible.
Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up that farmer's daughter's ba
 and hand it to her at Limerick junction. Unclaimed money too. There's a
little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by.

His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't see it. If you
imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it.

He faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right
hand at arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes:
completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Must
be the focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting.
There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were in Lombard
street west. Looking up from the back garden. Terrific explosions they
are. There will be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time.

Now that I come to think of it that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's
the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there
some first Saturday of the month. If I could get an introduction to
professor Joly or learn up something about his family. That would do to:
man always feels complimented. Flattery where least expected. Nobleman
proud to be descended from some king's mistress. His foremother. Lay it on
with a trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt out
what you know you're not to: what's parallax? Show this gentleman the
door.

Ah.

His hand fell to his side again.

Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning
about, crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas: then
solid: then world: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen
rock, like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she
said. I believe there is.

He went on by la maison Claire.

Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly
there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview
moon. She was humming. The young May moon she's beaming, love. He
other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love.
Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.

Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.

Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

With a keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is the street here
middle of the day of Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. On his annual bend,
M Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or CHERCHEZ LA
FEMME. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the
rest of the year sober as a judge.

Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do
him good. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran
the Queen's. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault business with his
harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How
time flies, eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers,
drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More
power, Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that
white hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp
that once did starve us all.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was.
She twentythree. When we left Lombard street west something changed.
Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding
water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then.
Would you? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy?
Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.

Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin
prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing
in the baking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings.
Hope the rain mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon. All the beef
to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of
plumb.

He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers.
Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its
mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots brought
that here. LA CAUSA E SANTA! TARA TARA. Great chorus that. Taree tara.
Must be washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.

Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all
over the place. Needles in window curtains.

He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today
anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps.
Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then she mightn't
like it. Women won't pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.

Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk
stockings.

Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.

High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman,
home and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. Agendath
Netaim. Wealth of the world.

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain
yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh
obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.

Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.

He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds.
Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields,
tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas,
creaking beds.

--Jack, love!

--Darling!

--Kiss me, Reggy!

--My boy!

--Love!

His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink
gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slush of greens. See the
animals feed.

Men, men, men.

Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables
calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy
food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced
young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New
set of microbes. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round
him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his
plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump
chop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten off
more than he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us.
Hungry man is an angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't! O! A bone! That
last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at
Sletty southward of the Boyne. Wonder what he was eating. Something
galoptious. Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity. Couldn't swallow
it all however.

--Roast beef and cabbage.

--One stew.

Smells of men. His gorge rose. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish
cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of
ferment.

Couldn't eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork to eat
all before him, old chap picking his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing
the cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this picture then on
that. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lick it off the
plate, man! Get out of this.

He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of
his nose.

--Two stouts here.

--One corned and cabbage.

That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life
depended on it. Good stroke. Give me the fidgets to look. Safer to eat
from his three hands. Tear it limb from limb. Second nature to him. Born
with a silver knife in his mouth. That's witty, I think. Or no. Silver
means born rich. Born with a knife. But then the allusion is lost.

An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the head
bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown from his tankard. Well
up: it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner, knife and fork upright,
elbows on table, ready for a second helping stared towards the foodlift
across his stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling him something
with his mouth full. Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I munched hum un
thu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?

Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said:

--Not here. Don't see him.

Out. I hate dirty eaters.

He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Stopgap.
Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.

--Roast and mashed here.

--Pint of stout.

Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.

He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street.
Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill!

Suppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting
down with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the
street. John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity every mother's
son don't talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children
cabmen priests parsons fieldmarshals archbishops. From Ailesbury road,
Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor in his
gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. My plate's empty. After you
with our incorporated drinkingcup. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain.
Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief. Next chap rubs on a new
batch with his. Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all. Have rows
all the same. All for number one. Children fighting for the scrapings of
the pot. Want a souppot as big as the Phoenix park. Harpooning flitches
and hindquarters out of it. Hate people all round you. City Arms hotel
TABLE D'HOTE she called it. Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose
thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up all the plates and forks?
Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

After all there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the
earth garlic of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of
onions mushrooms truffles. Pain to the animal too. Pluck and draw fowl.
Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split
their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble
and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. Give us that brisket off the
hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from
their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust.
Top and lashers going out. Don't maul them pieces, young one.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed.
Insidious. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts.

Ah, I'm hungry.

He entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat. Stands a
drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me
once.

What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?

--Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook.

--Hello, Flynn.

--How's things?

--Tiptop ... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and ... let
me see.

Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich?
Ham and his descendants musterred and bred there. Potted meats. What is
home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad!
Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignam's
potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too
salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour.
Ought to be tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect.
THERE WAS A RIGHT ROYAL OLD NIGGER. WHO ATE OR SOMETHING THE SOMETHINGS OF
THE REVEREND MR MACTRIGGER. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what
concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle
find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was what
they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war
depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese.
Slaughter of innocents. Eat drink and be merry. Then casual wards full
after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mity cheese.

--Have you a cheese sandwich?

--Yes, sir.

Like a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of
burgundy take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom
Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that
cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God made food, the
devil the cooks. Devilled crab.

--Wife well?

--Quite well, thanks ... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?

--Yes, sir.

Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.

--Doing any singing those times?

Look at his mouth. Could whistle in his own ear. Flap ears to match.
Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him. Does
no harm. Free ad.

--She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard
perhaps.

--No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?

The curate served.

--How much is that?

--Seven d., sir ... Thank you, sir.

Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. MR MACTRIGGER. Easier
than the dreamy creamy stuff. HIS FIVE HUNDRED WIVES. HAD THE TIME OF
THEIR LIVES.

--Mustard, sir?

--Thank you.

He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. THEIR LIVES. I have it.
IT GREW BIGGER AND BIGGER AND BIGGER.

--Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part
shares and part profits.

--Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket to
scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed
up in it?

A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart.
He raised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock
five minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly,
longingly.

Wine.

He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to
speed it, set his wineglass delicately down.

--Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact.

No fear: no brains.

Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal.

--He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that
boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello
barracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he
was telling me ...

Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it
up.

--For near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs by God till
further orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy
chap.

Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched
shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's
blush. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete.
Too much fat on the parsnips.

--And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give
us a good one for the Gold cup?

--I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a
horse.

--You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.

Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of
disgust pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his
wine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather with
the chill off.

Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed.
Like the way it curves there.

--I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined
many a man, the same horses.

Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits
for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.

--True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's no
straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving
Sceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won at
Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to one against
Saint Amant a fortnight before.

--That so? Davy Byrne said ...

He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned
its pages.

--I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That was a rare bit of
horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm,
Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow cap.
Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it. Ay.

He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes.

--Ay, he said, sighing.

Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey
numbskull. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better
let him forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down
again. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Still they might like. Prickly
beards they like. Dogs' cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling
stomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her
lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment
mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty.
Bath of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can.
Six. Six. Time will be gone then. She ...

Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off
colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters'
claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of shells, periwinkles
with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat, out of the sea
with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand years. If you
didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous berries.
Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns you
off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by the
smell or the look. Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves
for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about
oysters. Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them
too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red
bank oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this
morning. Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no
June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like things high. Tainted
game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years
old, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless
might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it
no yes or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat
the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course aristocrats,
then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw
pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to
keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock
in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The
ELITE. CREME DE LA CREME. They want special dishes to pretend they're.
Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the flesh. Know me
come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey, the butcher, right to
venisons of the forest from his ex. Send him back the half of a cow. Spread
I saw down in the Master of the Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted CHEF like a
rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly cabbage A LA DUCHESSE DE PARME. Just as
well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten. Too
many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards'
desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do
ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips,
evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted
lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot
name I expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember.
DU, DE LA French. Still it's the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of
Moore street ripped the guts out of making money hand over fist finger in
fishes' gills can't write his name on a cheque think he was painting the
landscape with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a kish
of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the
winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch
telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden
under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky.
The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen
towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried
cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub
my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with
ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn
away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum.
Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish
pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy.
Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips.
Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A
goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking
surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed
warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched
neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples
upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she
tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab.
Beauty: it curves: curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno:
curves the world admires. Can see them library museum standing in the
round hall, naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don't care what man
looks. All to see. Never speaking. I mean to say to fellows like Flynn.
Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Mortal!
Put you in your proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden
dishes, all ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton,
carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity:
gods' food. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely.
And we stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung,
earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never
looked. I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something drop
see if she.

Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do
there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to
men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a
youth enjoyed her, to the yard.

When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:

--What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?

--He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the
FREEMAN.

--I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?

--Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?

--I noticed he was in mourning.

--Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at
home. You're right, by God. So he was.

--I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a
gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their minds.

--It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before
yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's
wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home to
his better half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.

--And is he doing for the Freeman? Davy Byrne said.

Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.

---He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of
that.

--How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.

Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He
winked.

--He's in the craft, he said.

---Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.

--Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. He's
an excellent brother. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg up. I
was told that by a--well, I won't say who.

--Is that a fact?

--O, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you're
down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it. But they're as close as damn
it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.

Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:

--Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

--There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find
out what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore
her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the saint Legers of
Doneraile.

Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:

--And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here and I
never once saw him--you know, over the line.

--God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips
off when the fun gets too hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah,
you weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first thing he does he outs
with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to God he does.

--There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say.

--He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He's been known to
put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O, Bloom has
his good points. But there's one thing he'll never do.

His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.

--I know, Davy Byrne said.

--Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.

Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning,
a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.

--Day, Mr Byrne.

--Day, gentlemen.

They paused at the counter.

--Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked.

--I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.

--Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.

--I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.

--How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God' sake? What's
yours, Tom?

--How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.

For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and hiccupped.

--Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.

--Certainly, sir.

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

--Lord love a duck, he said. Look at what I'm standing drinks to! Cold
water and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg.
He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.

--Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.

Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set
before him.

--That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.

--Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.

Tom Rochford nodded and drank.

--Is it Zinfandel?

--Say nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my
own.

--Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard
said. Who gave it to you?

Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.

--So long! Nosey Flynn said.

The others turned.

--That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.

--Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two of
your small Jamesons after that and a ...

--Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.

--Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his
teeth smooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach, say. Then with
those Rontgen rays searchlight you could.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the
cobblestones and lapped it with new zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks
having fully digested the contents. First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom
coasted warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jaw they move.
Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of his?
Wasting time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. Lean people long mouths.
Ought to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in and invent free.
Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering.

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars:


    DON GIOVANNI, A CENAR TECO
    M'INVITASTI.


Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some
chap in the blues. Dutch courage. That KILKENNY PEOPLE in the national
library now I must.

Bare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller,
plumber, turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way
down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour round
the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of
intestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the time
with his insides entrails on show. Science.

--A CENAR TECO.

What does that teco mean? Tonight perhaps.


    DON GIOVANNI, THOU HAST ME INVITED
    TO COME TO SUPPER TONIGHT,
    THE RUM THE RUMDUM.


Doesn't go properly.

Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. That'll be two pounds ten
about two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Prescott's
dyeworks van over there. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. Five
guineas about. On the pig's back.

Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new
garters.

Today. Today. Not think.

Tour the south then. What about English wateringplaces? Brighton,
Margate. Piers by moonlight. Her voice floating out. Those lovely seaside
girls. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought,
gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages. Will eat
anything.

Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts
and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. WHY I LEFT THE
CHURCH OF ROME? BIRDS' NEST. Women run him. They say they used to give
pauper children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato
blight. Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews.
Same bait. Why we left the church of Rome.

A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane.
No tram in sight. Wants to cross.

--Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.

The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He
moved his head uncertainly.

--You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite.
Do you want to cross? There's nothing in the way.

The cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom's eye followed its
line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Where I
saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in John
Long's. Slaking his drouth.

--There's a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you
across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?

--Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.

--Come, Mr Bloom said.

He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to
guide it forward.

Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust
what you tell them. Pass a common remark.

--The rain kept off.

No answer.

Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all different for
him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a child's hand, his hand. Like Milly's
was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. Wonder if he has a
name. Van. Keep his cane clear of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his
doze. That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a horse.

--Thanks, sir.

Knows I'm a man. Voice.

--Right now? First turn to the left.

The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing
his cane back, feeling again.

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone
tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there?
Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense of
volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark. Wonder
would he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of
Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk
in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow
going in to be a priest.

Penrose! That was that chap's name.

Look at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers.
Tune pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains. Why we think a
deformed person or a hunchback clever if he says something we might say.
Of course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait baskets. People
ought to help. Workbasket I could buy for Molly's birthday. Hates sewing.
Might take an objection. Dark men they call them.

Sense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides, bunched
together. Each street different smell. Each person too. Then the spring, the
summer: smells. Tastes? They say you can't taste wines with your eyes shut
or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no pleasure.

And with a woman, for instance. More shameless not seeing. That girl
passing the Stewart institution, head in the air. Look at me. I have them all
on. Must be strange not to see her. Kind of a form in his mind's eye. The
voice, temperatures: when he touches her with his fingers must almost see
the lines, the curves. His hands on her hair, for instance. Say it was black,
for instance. Good. We call it black. Then passing over her white skin.
Different feel perhaps. Feeling of white.

Postoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a postal order two
shillings, half a crown. Accept my little present. Stationer's just here too.
Wait. Think over it.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above
his ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw. Then gently his finger felt the
skin of his right cheek. Downy hair there too. Not smooth enough. The belly is
the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes into Frederick street. Perhaps
to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Might be settling my braces.

Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand between his
waistcoat and trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a slack
fold of his belly. But I know it's whitey yellow. Want to try in the dark
to see.

He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.

Poor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Really terrible. What dreams
would he have, not seeing? Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being
born that way? All those women and children excursion beanfeast burned
and drowned in New York. Holocaust. Karma they call that transmigration
for sins you did in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses.
Dear, dear, dear. Pity, of course: but somehow you can't cotton on to
them someway.

Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons' hall. Solemn as
Troy. After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Old legal cronies
cracking a magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the
bluecoat school. I sentenced him to ten years. I suppose he'd turn up
his nose at that stuff I drank. Vintage wine for them, the year
marked on a dusty bottle. Has his own ideas of justice in the recorder's
court. Wellmeaning old man. Police chargesheets crammed with cases
get their percentage manufacturing crime. Sends them to the rightabout.
The devil on moneylenders. Gave Reuben J. a great strawcalling. Now he's
really what they call a dirty jew. Power those judges have. Crusty
old topers in wigs. Bear with a sore paw. And may the Lord have mercy
on your soul.

Hello, placard. Mirus bazaar. His Excellency the lord lieutenant.
Sixteenth. Today it is. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. THE MESSIAH
was first given for that. Yes. Handel. What about going out there:
Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like a leech. Wear
out my welcome. Sure to know someone on the gate.

Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library.

Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.

His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved
to the right.

Is it? Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too heady.
Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.

Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes.
Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following me?

Didn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.

The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold
statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.

No. Didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate.

My heart!

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir
Thomas Deane was the Greek architecture.

Look for something I.

His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded
Agendath Netaim. Where did I?

Busy looking.

He thrust back quick Agendath.

Afternoon she said.

I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. Freeman.
Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Potato. Purse. Where?

Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.

His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap
lotion have to call tepid paper stuck. Ah soap there I yes. Gate.

Safe!


    * * * * * * *


Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred:

--And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of WILHELM MEISTER. A
great poet on a great brother poet. A hesitating soul taking arms against a
sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as one sees in real life.

He came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a
step backward a sinkapace on the solemn floor.

A noiseless attendant setting open the door but slightly made him a
noiseless beck.

--Directly, said he, creaking to go, albeit lingering. The beautiful
ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts. One always feels
that Goethe's judgments are so true. True in the larger analysis.

Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. Bald, most zealous by the
door he gave his large ear all to the attendant's words: heard them: and was
gone.

Two left.

--Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen sneered, was alive fifteen minutes before
his death.

--Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton asked with
elder's gall, to write PARADISE LOST at your dictation? THE SORROWS
OF SATAN he calls it.

Smile. Smile Cranly's smile.


    FIRST HE TICKLED HER
    THEN HE PATTED HER
    THEN HE PASSED THE FEMALE CATHETER.
    FOR HE WAS A MEDICAL
    JOLLY OLD MEDI ...


--I feel you would need one more for HAMLET. Seven is dear to the mystic
mind. The shining seven W.B. calls them.

Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his greencapped desklamp sought
the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an ollav, holyeyed. He laughed
low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.


    ORCHESTRAL SATAN, WEEPING MANY A ROOD
    TEARS SUCH AS ANGELS WEEP.
    ED EGLI AVEA DEL CUL FATTO TROMBETTA.


He holds my follies hostage.

Cranly's eleven true Wicklowmen to free their sireland. Gaptoothed
Kathleen, her four beautiful green fields, the stranger in her house. And one
more to hail him: AVE, RABBI: the Tinahely twelve. In the shadow of the glen
he cooees for them. My soul's youth I gave him, night by night. God speed.
Good hunting.

Mulligan has my telegram.

Folly. Persist.

--Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured, have yet to create a
figure which the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare's Hamlet though
I admire him, as old Ben did, on this side idolatry.

--All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of his
shadow. I mean, whether Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.
Clergymen's discussions of the historicity of Jesus. Art has to reveal to us
ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art
is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of Gustave Moreau is
the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet
bring our minds into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato's world of
ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.

A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer. Wall, tarnation strike me!

--The schoolmen were schoolboys first, Stephen said superpolitely.
Aristotle was once Plato's schoolboy.

--And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton sedately said. One
can see him, a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm.

He laughed again at the now smiling bearded face.

Formless spiritual. Father, Word and Holy Breath. Allfather, the
heavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful, the Logos who
suffers in us at every moment. This verily is that. I am the fire upon the
altar. I am the sacrificial butter.

Dunlop, Judge, the noblest Roman of them all, A.E., Arval, the Name
Ineffable, in heaven hight: K.H., their master, whose identity is no
secret to adepts. Brothers of the great white lodge always watching to
see if they can help. The Christ with the bridesister, moisture of light,
born of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the plane of
buddhi. The life esoteric is not for ordinary person. O.P. must work off
bad karma first. Mrs Cooper Oakley once glimpsed our very illustrious
sister H.P.B.'s elemental.

O, fie! Out on't! PFUITEUFEL! You naughtn't to look, missus, so you
naughtn't when a lady's ashowing of her elemental.

Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. He bore in his hand with
grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.

--That model schoolboy, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings about
the afterlife of his princely soul, the improbable, insignificant and
undramatic monologue, as shallow as Plato's.

John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth:

--Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle
with Plato.

--Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished me from his
commonwealth?

Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of
allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the
street: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see. Through
spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after
Blake's buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow.
Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague.

--Haines is gone, he said.

--Is he?

--I was showing him Jubainville's book. He's quite enthusiastic, don't you
know, about Hyde's LOVESONGS OF CONNACHT. I couldn't bring him in to
hear the discussion. He's gone to Gill's to buy it.


    BOUND THEE FORTH, MY BOOKLET, QUICK
    TO GREET THE CALLOUS PUBLIC.
    WRIT, I WEEN, 'TWAS NOT MY WISH
    IN LEAN UNLOVELY ENGLISH.


--The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined.

We feel in England. Penitent thief. Gone. I smoked his baccy. Green
twinkling stone. An emerald set in the ring of the sea.

--People do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be, the auric egg of
Russell warned occultly. The movements which work revolutions in the
world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the
hillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable ground but the living
mother. The rarefied air of the academy and the arena produce the
sixshilling novel, the musichall song. France produces the finest flower
of corruption in Mallarme but the desirable life is revealed only to the
poor of heart, the life of Homer's Phaeacians.

From these words Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen.

--Mallarme, don't you know, he said, has written those wonderful prose
poems Stephen MacKenna used to read to me in Paris. The one about
HAMLET. He says: IL SE PROMENE, LISANT AU LIVRE DE LUI-MEME, don't you
know, READING THE BOOK OF HIMSELF. He describes HAMLET given in a French
town, don't you know, a provincial town. They advertised it.

His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air.


    HAMLET
    OU
    LE DISTRAIT
    PIECE DE SHAKESPEARE


 He repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown:

--PIECE DE SHAKESPEARE, don't you know. It's so French. The French point
of view. HAMLET OU ...

--The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended.

 John Eglinton laughed.

--Yes, I suppose it would be, he said. Excellent people, no doubt, but
distressingly shortsighted in some matters.

 Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

--A deathsman of the soul Robert Greene called him, Stephen said. Not for
nothing was he a butcher's son, wielding the sledded poleaxe and spitting
in his palms. Nine lives are taken off for his father's one. Our Father
who art in purgatory. Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot. The
bloodboltered shambles in act five is a forecast of the concentration camp
sung by Mr Swinburne.

Cranly, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar.

    WHELPS AND DAMS OF MURDEROUS FOES WHOM NONE
    BUT WE HAD SPARED ...


Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. The devil and the deep sea.

--He will have it that HAMLET is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said for Mr
Best's behoof. Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make our flesh
creep.


    LIST! LIST! O LIST!


My flesh hears him: creeping, hears.


    IF THOU DIDST EVER ...


--What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded
into impalpability through death, through absence, through change of
manners. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris
lies from virgin Dublin. Who is the ghost from LIMBO PATRUM, returning to
the world that has forgotten him? Who is King Hamlet?

John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge.

Lifted.

--It is this hour of a day in mid June, Stephen said, begging with a swift
glance their hearing. The flag is up on the playhouse by the bankside. The
bear Sackerson growls in the pit near it, Paris garden. Canvasclimbers who
sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings.

Local colour. Work in all you know. Make them accomplices.

--Shakespeare has left the huguenot's house in Silver street and walks by
the swanmews along the riverbank. But he does not stay to feed the pen
chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. The swan of Avon has
other thoughts.

Composition of place. Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me!

--The play begins. A player comes on under the shadow, made up in the
castoff mail of a court buck, a wellset man with a bass voice. It is the
ghost, the king, a king and no king, and the player is Shakespeare who has
studied HAMLET all the years of his life which were not vanity in order to
play the part of the spectre. He speaks the words to Burbage, the young player
who stands before him beyond the rack of cerecloth, calling him by a name:

    HAMLET, I AM THY FATHER'S SPIRIT,

bidding him list. To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince, young
Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has died in
Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.

Is it possible that that player Shakespeare, a ghost by absence, and in the
vesture of buried Denmark, a ghost by death, speaking his own words to
his own son's name (had Hamnet Shakespeare lived he would have been
prince Hamlet's twin), is it possible, I want to know, or probable that he
did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those premises: you are
the dispossessed son: I am the murdered father: your mother is the
guilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway?

--But this prying into the family life of a great man, Russell began
impatiently.

Art thou there, truepenny?

--Interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean, we have the plays. I mean
when we read the poetry of KING LEAR what is it to us how the poet lived?
As for living our servants can do that for us, Villiers de l'Isle has said.
Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the day, the poet's drinking,
the poet's debts. We have KING LEAR: and it is immortal.

Mr Best's face, appealed to, agreed.


    FLOW OVER THEM WITH YOUR WAVES AND WITH YOUR WATERS, MANANAAN,
    MANANAAN MACLIR ...


How now, sirrah, that pound he lent you when you were hungry?

Marry, I wanted it.

Take thou this noble.

Go to! You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's
daughter. Agenbite of inwit.

Do you intend to pay it back?

O, yes.

When? Now?

Well ... No.

When, then?

I paid my way. I paid my way.

Steady on. He's from beyant Boyne water. The northeast corner. You owe it.

Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got
pound.

Buzz. Buzz.

But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I by memory because under
everchanging forms.

I that sinned and prayed and fasted.

A child Conmee saved from pandies.

I, I and I. I.

A.E.I.O.U.

--Do you mean to fly in the face of the tradition of three centuries? John
Eglinton's carping voice asked. Her ghost at least has been laid for ever.
She died, for literature at least, before she was born.

--She died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was born. She saw
him into and out of the world. She took his first embraces. She bore his
children and she laid pennies on his eyes to keep his eyelids closed when he
lay on his deathbed.

Mother's deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me
into this world lies there, bronzelidded, under few cheap flowers. LILIATA
RUTILANTIUM.

I wept alone.

John Eglinton looked in the tangled glowworm of his lamp.

--The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, and got out
of it as quickly and as best he could.

--Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man of genius makes no mistakes. His
errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.

Portals of discovery opened to let in the quaker librarian,
softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous.

--A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is not a useful portal of discovery,
one should imagine. What useful discovery did Socrates learn from
Xanthippe?

--Dialectic, Stephen answered: and from his mother how to bring thoughts
into the world. What he learnt from his other wife Myrto (ABSIT NOMEN!),
Socratididion's Epipsychidion, no man, not a woman, will ever know. But
neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him from the
archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock.

--But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. Yes, we seem
to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.

His look went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to remind, to
chide them not unkindly, then to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless
though maligned.

--He had a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, and no truant memory.
He carried a memory in his wallet as he trudged to Romeville whistling THE
GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. If the earthquake did not time it we should know
where to place poor Wat, sitting in his form, the cry of hounds, the studded
bridle and her blue windows. That memory, VENUS AND ADONIS, lay in the
bedchamber of every light-of-love in London. Is Katharine the shrew
illfavoured? Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. Do you think the
writer of ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, a passionate pilgrim, had his eyes in the
back of his head that he chose the ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to lie
withal? Good: he left her and gained the world of men. But his boywomen
are the women of a boy. Their life, thought, speech are lent them by males.
He chose badly? He was chosen, it seems to me. If others have their will
Ann hath a way. By cock, she was to blame. She put the comether on him,
sweet and twentysix. The greyeyed goddess who bends over the boy Adonis,
stooping to conquer, as prologue to the swelling act, is a boldfaced
Stratford wench who tumbles in a cornfield a lover younger than herself.

And my turn? When?

Come!

--Ryefield, Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly,
brightly.

He murmured then with blond delight for all:


    BETWEEN THE ACRES OF THE RYE
    THESE PRETTY COUNTRYFOLK WOULD LIE.


Paris: the wellpleased pleaser.

A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its
cooperative watch.

--I am afraid I am due at the HOMESTEAD.

Whither away? Exploitable ground.

--Are you going? John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked. Shall we see you
at Moore's tonight? Piper is coming.

--Piper! Mr Best piped. Is Piper back?

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper.

--I don't know if I can. Thursday. We have our meeting. If I can get away
in time.

Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers. ISIS UNVEILED. Their Pali book
we tried to pawn. Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones an
Aztec logos, functioning on astral levels, their oversoul, mahamahatma. The
faithful hermetists await the light, ripe for chelaship, ringroundabout him.
Louis H. Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin. Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, their
pineal glands aglow. Filled with his god, he thrones, Buddh under plantain.
Gulfer of souls, engulfer. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Engulfed with
wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail.


    IN QUINTESSENTIAL TRIVIALITY
    FOR YEARS IN THIS FLESHCASE A SHESOUL DWELT.


--They say we are to have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian said,
friendly and earnest. Mr Russell, rumour has it, is gathering together a
sheaf of our younger poets' verses. We are all looking forward anxiously.

Anxiously he glanced in the cone of lamplight where three faces,
lighted, shone.

See this. Remember.

Stephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his
ashplanthandle over his knee. My casque and sword. Touch lightly with
two index fingers. Aristotle's experiment. One or two? Necessity is that in
virtue of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise. Argal, one hat is
one hat.

Listen.

Young Colum and Starkey. George Roberts is doing the commercial part.
Longworth will give it a good puff in the EXPRESS. O, will he? I liked
Colum's DROVER. Yes, I think he has that queer thing genius. Do you think
he has genius really? Yeats admired his line: AS IN WILD EARTH A GRECIAN
VASE. Did he? I hope you'll be able to come tonight. Malachi Mulligan is
coming too. Moore asked him to bring Haines. Did you hear Miss
Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn? That Moore is Martyn's wild
oats? Awfully clever, isn't it? They remind one of Don Quixote and Sancho
Panza. Our national epic has yet to be written, Dr Sigerson says. Moore is
the man for it. A knight of the rueful countenance here in Dublin. With a
saffron kilt? O'Neill Russell? O, yes, he must speak the grand old tongue.
And his Dulcinea? James Stephens is doing some clever sketches. We are
becoming important, it seems.

Cordelia. CORDOGLIO. Lir's loneliest daughter.

Nookshotten. Now your best French polish.

--Thank you very much, Mr Russell, Stephen said, rising. If you will be so
kind as to give the letter to Mr Norman ...

--O, yes. If he considers it important it will go in. We have so much
correspondence.

--I understand, Stephen said. Thanks.

God ild you. The pigs' paper. Bullockbefriending.

Synge has promised me an article for DANA too. Are we going to be
read? I feel we are. The Gaelic league wants something in Irish. I hope you
will come round tonight. Bring Starkey.

Stephen sat down.

The quaker librarian came from the leavetakers. Blushing, his mask
said:

--Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating.

He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the altitude of a
chopine, and, covered by the noise of outgoing, said low:

--Is it your view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet?

Alarmed face asks me. Why did he come? Courtesy or an inward
light?

--Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said, there must have been first a
sundering.

--Yes.

Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway in blighted treeforks,
from hue and cry. Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the chase. Women
he won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully
tapsters' wives. Fox and geese. And in New Place a slack dishonoured body
that once was comely, once as sweet, as fresh as cinnamon, now her leaves
falling, all, bare, frighted of the narrow grave and unforgiven.

--Yes. So you think ...

The door closed behind the outgoer.

Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of warm and
brooding air.

A vestal's lamp.

Here he ponders things that were not: what Caesar would have lived
to do had he believed the soothsayer: what might have been: possibilities of
the possible as possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore when
he lived among women.

Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of
words. Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the
voice of that Egyptian highpriest. IN PAINTED CHAMBERS LOADED WITH
TILEBOOKS.

They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of
death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their
will.

--Certainly, John Eglinton mused, of all great men he is the most enigmatic.
We know nothing but that he lived and suffered. Not even so much. Others
abide our question. A shadow hangs over all the rest.

--But HAMLET is so personal, isn't it? Mr Best pleaded. I mean, a kind of
private paper, don't you know, of his private life. I mean, I don't care a
button, don't you know, who is killed or who is guilty ...

He rested an innocent book on the edge of the desk, smiling his
defiance. His private papers in the original. TA AN BAD AR AN TIR. TAIM IN MO
SHAGART. Put beurla on it, littlejohn.

Quoth littlejohn Eglinton:

--I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulligan told us but I
may as well warn you that if you want to shake my belief that Shakespeare
is Hamlet you have a stern task before you.

Bear with me.

Stephen withstood the bane of miscreant eyes glinting stern under
wrinkled brows. A basilisk. E QUANDO VEDE L'UOMO L'ATTOSCA. Messer
Brunetto, I thank thee for the word.

--As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said,
from day to day, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the artist
weave and unweave his image. And as the mole on my right breast is where
it was when I was born, though all my body has been woven of new stuff
time after time, so through the ghost of the unquiet father the image of the
unliving son looks forth. In the intense instant of imagination, when the
mind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which I was is that which I am and
that which in possibility I may come to be. So in the future, the sister of
the past, I may see myself as I sit here now but by reflection from that which
then I shall be.

Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at that stile.

--Yes, Mr Best said youngly. I feel Hamlet quite young. The bitterness
might be from the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely from the
son.

Has the wrong sow by the lug. He is in my father. I am in his son.

--That mole is the last to go, Stephen said, laughing.

John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow.

--If that were the birthmark of genius, he said, genius would be a drug in
the market. The plays of Shakespeare's later years which Renan admired so
much breathe another spirit.

--The spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian breathed.

--There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a
sundering.

Said that.

--If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over the
hell of time of KING LEAR, OTHELLO, HAMLET, TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, look to
see when and how the shadow lifts. What softens the heart of a man,
shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of
Tyre?

Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.

--A child, a girl, placed in his arms, Marina.

--The leaning of sophists towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a constant
quantity, John Eglinton detected. The highroads are dreary but they lead to
the town.

Good Bacon: gone musty. Shakespeare Bacon's wild oats.
Cypherjugglers going the highroads. Seekers on the great quest. What
town, good masters? Mummed in names: A. E., eon: Magee, John Eglinton.
East of the sun, west of the moon: TIR NA N-OG. Booted the twain and
staved.


    HOW MANY MILES TO DUBLIN?
    THREE SCORE AND TEN, SIR.
    WILL WE BE THERE BY CANDLELIGHT?


--Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said, as the first play of the closing
period.

--Does he? What does Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver
his name is, say of it?

--Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a wonder, Perdita, that
which was lost. What was lost is given back to him: his daughter's child.
MY DEAREST WIFE, Pericles says, WAS LIKE THIS MAID. Will any man love the
daughter if he has not loved the mother?

--The art of being a grandfather, Mr Best gan murmur. L'ART D'ETRE
GRAND ...

--Will he not see reborn in her, with the memory of his own youth added,
another image?

Do you know what you are talking about? Love, yes. Word known to
all men. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae
concupiscimus ...

--His own image to a man with that queer thing genius is the standard of
all experience, material and moral. Such an appeal will touch him. The
images of other males of his blood will repel him. He will see in them
grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.

The benign forehead of the quaker librarian enkindled rosily with hope.

--I hope Mr Dedalus will work out his theory for the enlightenment of the
public. And we ought to mention another Irish commentator, Mr George
Bernard Shaw. Nor should we forget Mr Frank Harris. His articles on
Shakespeare in the SATURDAY REVIEW were surely brilliant. Oddly enough
he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady of the sonnets.
The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I own that if the
poet must be rejected such a rejection would seem more in harmony
with--what shall I say?--our notions of what ought not to have been.

Felicitously he ceased and held a meek head among them, auk's egg,
prize of their fray.

He thous and thees her with grave husbandwords. Dost love, Miriam?
Dost love thy man?

--That may be too, Stephen said. There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr
Magee likes to quote. Beware of what you wish for in youth because you
will get it in middle life. Why does he send to one who is a BUONAROBA, a
bay where all men ride, a maid of honour with a scandalous girlhood, a
lordling to woo for him? He was himself a lord of language and had made
himself a coistrel gentleman and he had written ROMEO AND JULIET. Why?
Belief in himself has been untimely killed. He was overborne in a
cornfield first (ryefield, I should say) and he will never be a victor
in his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of laugh and lie
down. Assumed dongiovannism will not save him. No later undoing will undo
the first undoing. The tusk of the boar has wounded him there where love
lies ableeding. If the shrew is worsted yet there remains to her woman's
invisible weapon. There is, I feel in the words, some goad of the flesh
driving him into a new passion, a darker shadow of the first, darkening
even his own understanding of himself. A like fate awaits him and the two
rages commingle in a whirlpool.

They list. And in the porches of their ears I pour.

--The soul has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured in the porch
of a sleeping ear. But those who are done to death in sleep cannot know
the manner of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that
knowledge in the life to come. The poisoning and the beast with two backs
that urged it King Hamlet's ghost could not know of were he not endowed
with knowledge by his creator. That is why the speech (his lean unlovely
English) is always turned elsewhere, backward. Ravisher and ravished,
what he would but would not, go with him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory
globes to Imogen's breast, bare, with its mole cinquespotted. He goes
back, weary of the creation he has piled up to hide him from himself, an
old dog licking an old sore. But, because loss is his gain, he passes on
towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the wisdom he
has written or by the laws he has revealed. His beaver is up. He is a
ghost, a shadow now, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you will, the
sea's voice, a voice heard only in the heart of him who is the substance
of his shadow, the son consubstantial with the father.

--Amen! was responded from the doorway.

Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?

ENTR'ACTE.

A ribald face, sullen as a dean's, Buck Mulligan came forward, then
blithe in motley, towards the greeting of their smiles. My telegram.

--You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate, if I mistake not? he asked
of Stephen.

Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a bauble.

They make him welcome. WAS DU VERLACHST WIRST DU NOCH DIENEN.

Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.

He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent
Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put upon by His
fiends, stripped and whipped, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on
crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven
and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the right hand of His
Own Self but yet shall come in the latter day to doom the quick and dead
when all the quick shall be dead already.

Glo--o--ri--a in ex--cel--sis De--o.

He lifts his hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells with bells with bells
aquiring.

--Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most instructive discussion.
Mr Mulligan, I'll be bound, has his theory too of the play and of
Shakespeare. All sides of life should be represented.

He smiled on all sides equally.

Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled:

--Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name.

A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.

--To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like
Synge.

Mr Best turned to him.

--Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He'll see you after at the
D. B. C. He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's LOVESONGS OF CONNACHT.

--I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here?

--The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired
perhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. I hear that an actress played
Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. Vining
held that the prince was a woman. Has no-one made him out to be an
Irishman? Judge Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues. He swears
(His Highness not His Lordship) by saint Patrick.

--The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde's, Mr Best said,
lifting his brilliant notebook. THAT PORTRAIT OF MR W. H. where he proves
that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all hues.

--For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked.

Or Hughie Wills? Mr William Himself. W. H.: who am I?

--I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending his gloss easily. Of
course it's all paradox, don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the
colour, but it's so typical the way he works it out. It's the very essence
of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch.

His glance touched their faces lightly as he smiled, a blond ephebe.
Tame essence of Wilde.

You're darned witty. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasy's
ducats.

How much did I spend? O, a few shillings.

For a plump of pressmen. Humour wet and dry.

Wit. You would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks
in. Lineaments of gratified desire.

There be many mo. Take her for me. In pairing time. Jove, a cool
ruttime send them. Yea, turtledove her.

Eve. Naked wheatbellied sin. A snake coils her, fang in's kiss.

--Do you think it is only a paradox? the quaker librarian was asking. The
mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious.

They talked seriously of mocker's seriousness.

Buck Mulligan's again heavy face eyed Stephen awhile. Then, his
head wagging, he came near, drew a folded telegram from his pocket. His
mobile lips read, smiling with new delight.

--Telegram! he said. Wonderful inspiration! Telegram! A papal bull!

He sat on a corner of the unlit desk, reading aloud joyfully:

--THE SENTIMENTALIST IS HE WHO WOULD ENJOY WITHOUT INCURRING THE IMMENSE
DEBTORSHIP FOR A THING DONE. Signed: Dedalus. Where did you launch it
from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you drunk the four quid? The
aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father. Telegram! Malachi
Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street. O, you peerless mummer! O, you
priestified Kinchite!

Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a pocket but keened in a
querulous brogue:

--It's what I'm telling you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were,
Haines and myself, the time himself brought it in. 'Twas murmur we did for
a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I'm thinking, and he limp with
leching. And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's
sitting civil waiting for pints apiece.

He wailed:

--And we to be there, mavrone, and you to be unbeknownst sending us
your conglomerations the way we to have our tongues out a yard long like
the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful.

Stephen laughed.

Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan bent down.

--The tramper Synge is looking for you, he said, to murder you. He heard
you pissed on his halldoor in Glasthule. He's out in pampooties to murder
you.

--Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contribution to literature.

Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the dark eavesdropping
ceiling.

--Murder you! he laughed.

Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of
lights in rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts. In words of words for words, palabras.
Oisin with Patrick. Faunman he met in Clamart woods, brandishing a
winebottle. C'EST VENDREDI SAINT! Murthering Irish. His image, wandering,
he met. I mine. I met a fool i'the forest.

--Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the door ajar.

-- ... in which everyone can find his own. So Mr Justice Madden in his
DIARY OF MASTER WILLIAM SILENCE has found the hunting terms ... Yes? What
is it?

--There's a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said, coming forward and
offering a card. From the Freeman. He wants to see the files of the
KILKENNY PEOPLE for last year.

--Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman? ...

He took the eager card, glanced, not saw, laid down unglanced,
looked, asked, creaked, asked:

--Is he? ... O, there!

Brisk in a galliard he was off, out. In the daylit corridor he talked
with voluble pains of zeal, in duty bound, most fair, most kind, most
honest broadbrim.

--This gentleman? FREEMAN'S JOURNAL? KILKENNY PEOPLE? To be sure. Good
day, sir. KILKENNY ... We have certainly ...

A patient silhouette waited, listening.

--All the leading provincial ... NORTHERN WHIG, CORK EXAMINER,
ENNISCORTHY GUARDIAN, 1903 ... Will you please? ... Evans,
conduct this gentleman ... If you just follow the atten ... Or, please
allow me ... This way ... Please, sir ...

Voluble, dutiful, he led the way to all the provincial papers, a bowing
dark figure following his hasty heels.

The door closed.

--The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried.

He jumped up and snatched the card.

--What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom.

He rattled on:

--Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him over in the
museum where I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth
that has never been twisted in prayer. Every day we must do homage to her.
LIFE OF LIFE, THY LIPS ENKINDLE.

Suddenly he turned to Stephen:

--He knows you. He knows your old fellow. O, I fear me, he is Greeker
than the Greeks. His pale Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove.
Venus Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those loins! THE GOD PURSUING THE
MAIDEN HID.

--We want to hear more, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best's approval.
We begin to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her, if at
all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope stayathome.

--Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took the palm of beauty
from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare of Troy in
whom a score of heroes slept, and handed it to poor Penelope. Twenty years
he lived in London and, during part of that time, he drew a salary equal
to that of the lord chancellor of Ireland. His life was rich. His art,
more than the art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, is the art of
surfeit. Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses,
marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. Sir Walter Raleigh, when
they arrested him, had half a million francs on his back including a pair
of fancy stays. The gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor had underlinen enough to vie
with her of Sheba. Twenty years he dallied there between conjugial love
and its chaste delights and scortatory love and its foul pleasures.
You know Manningham's story of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage
to her bed after she had seen him in RICHARD III and how Shakespeare,
overhearing, without more ado about nothing, took the cow by the horns
and, when Burbage came knocking at the gate, answered from the capon's
blankets: WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR CAME BEFORE RICHARD III. And the gay
lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry O, and his dainty birdsnies, lady
Penelope Rich, a clean quality woman is suited for a player, and the punks
of the bankside, a penny a time.

Cours la Reine. ENCORE VINGT SOUS. NOUS FERONS DE PETITES COCHONNERIES.
MINETTE? TU VEUX?

--The height of fine society. And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother
with her cup of canary for any cockcanary.

Buck Mulligan, his pious eyes upturned, prayed:

--Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!

--And Harry of six wives' daughter. And other lady friends from
neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. But all those
twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in Stratford was doing
behind the diamond panes?

Do and do. Thing done. In a rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard,
herbalist, he walks, greyedauburn. An azured harebell like her veins. Lids
of Juno's eyes, violets. He walks. One life is all. One body. Do. But do.
Afar, in a reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.

Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply.

--Whom do you suspect? he challenged.

--Say that he is the spurned lover in the sonnets. Once spurned twice
spurned. But the court wanton spurned him for a lord, his dearmylove.

Love that dare not speak its name.

--As an Englishman, you mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he loved
a lord.

Old wall where sudden lizards flash. At Charenton I watched them.

--It seems so, Stephen said, when he wants to do for him, and for all
other and singular uneared wombs, the holy office an ostler does for the
stallion. Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife to mother as he had a
shrew to wife. But she, the giglot wanton, did not break a bedvow. Two
deeds are rank in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the dullbrained
yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother. Sweet
Ann, I take it, was hot in the blood. Once a wooer, twice a wooer.

Stephen turned boldly in his chair.

--The burden of proof is with you not with me, he said frowning. If you
deny that in the fifth scene of HAMLET he has branded her with infamy tell
me why there is no mention of her during the thirtyfour years between the
day she married him and the day she buried him. All those women saw their
men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, her poor dear
Willun, when he went and died on her, raging that he was the first to go,
Joan, her four brothers, Judith, her husband and all her sons, Susan, her
husband too, while Susan's daughter, Elizabeth, to use granddaddy's
words, wed her second, having killed her first.

O, yes, mention there is. In the years when he was living richly in royal
London to pay a debt she had to borrow forty shillings from her father's
shepherd. Explain you then. Explain the swansong too wherein he has
commended her to posterity.

He faced their silence.

To whom thus Eglinton:


        You mean the will.
    But that has been explained, I believe, by jurists.
    She was entitled to her widow's dower
    At common law. His legal knowledge was great
    Our judges tell us.
        Him Satan fleers,
    Mocker:
        And therefore he left out her name
    From the first draft but he did not leave out
    The presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters,
    For his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford
    And in London. And therefore when he was urged,
    As I believe, to name her
    He left her his
    Secondbest
    Bed.
                PUNKT.
    Leftherhis
    Secondbest
    Leftherhis
    Bestabed
    Secabest
    Leftabed.


Woa!

--Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton observed, as
they have still if our peasant plays are true to type.

--He was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, with a coat of arms and
landed estate at Stratford and a house in Ireland yard, a capitalist
shareholder, a bill promoter, a tithefarmer. Why did he not leave her his
best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her nights in peace?

--It is clear that there were two beds, a best and a secondbest,
Mr Secondbest Best said finely.

--SEPARATIO A MENSA ET A THALAMO, bettered Buck Mulligan and was
smiled on.

--Antiquity mentions famous beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling.
Let me think.

--Antiquity mentions that Stagyrite schoolurchin and bald heathen sage,
Stephen said, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays
tribute to his elders, wills to be laid in earth near the bones of his
dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an old mistress (don't forget
Nell Gwynn Herpyllis) and let her live in his villa.

--Do you mean he died so? Mr Best asked with slight concern. I mean ...

--He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan capped. A quart of ale is a dish for a
king. O, I must tell you what Dowden said!

--What? asked Besteglinton.

William Shakespeare and company, limited. The people's William.
For terms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house ...

--Lovely! Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. I asked him what he thought
of the charge of pederasty brought against the bard. He lifted his hands
and said: ALL WE CAN SAY IS THAT LIFE RAN VERY HIGH IN THOSE DAYS. Lovely!

Catamite.

--The sense of beauty leads us astray, said beautifulinsadness Best to
ugling Eglinton.

Steadfast John replied severe:

--The doctor can tell us what those words mean. You cannot eat your cake
and have it.

Sayest thou so? Will they wrest from us, from me, the palm of beauty?

--And the sense of property, Stephen said. He drew Shylock out of his own
long pocket. The son of a maltjobber and moneylender he was himself a
cornjobber and moneylender, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the famine
riots. His borrowers are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by
Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. He sued a
fellowplayer for the price of a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of
flesh in interest for every money lent. How else could Aubrey's ostler and
callboy get rich quick? All events brought grist to his mill. Shylock
chimes with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging and quartering of the
queen's leech Lopez, his jew's heart being plucked forth while the sheeny
was yet alive: HAMLET AND MACBETH with the coming to the throne of a
Scotch philosophaster with a turn for witchroasting. The lost armada is
his jeer in LOVE'S LABOUR LOST. His pageants, the histories, sail
fullbellied on a tide of Mafeking enthusiasm. Warwickshire jesuits are
tried and we have a porter's theory of equivocation. The SEA VENTURE comes
home from Bermudas and the play Renan admired is written with Patsy
Caliban, our American cousin. The sugared sonnets follow Sidney's. As for
fay Elizabeth, otherwise carrotty Bess, the gross virgin who inspired THE
MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life long
for deephid meanings in the depths of the buckbasket.

I think you're getting on very nicely. Just mix up a mixture of
theolologicophilolological. MINGO, MINXI, MICTUM, MINGERE.

--Prove that he was a jew, John Eglinton dared,'expectantly. Your dean of
studies holds he was a holy Roman.

SUFFLAMINANDUS SUM.

--He was made in Germany, Stephen replied, as the champion French
polisher of Italian scandals.

--A myriadminded man, Mr Best reminded. Coleridge called him myriadminded.


AMPLIUS. IN SOCIETATE HUMANA HOC EST MAXIME NECESSARIUM UT SIT AMICITIA
INTER MULTOS.

--Saint Thomas, Stephen began ...

--Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a chair.

There he keened a wailing rune.

--POGUE MAHONE! ACUSHLA MACHREE! It's destroyed we are from this day! It's
destroyed we are surely!

All smiled their smiles.

--Saint Thomas, Stephen smiling said, whose gorbellied works I enjoy
reading in the original, writing of incest from a standpoint different
from that of the new Viennese school Mr Magee spoke of, likens it in his
wise and curious way to an avarice of the emotions. He means that the love
so given to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some
stranger who, it may be, hungers for it. Jews, whom christians tax
with avarice, are of all races the most given to intermarriage.
Accusations are made in anger. The christian laws which built up
the hoards of the jews (for whom, as for the lollards, storm was shelter)
bound their affections too with hoops of steel. Whether these be sins
or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us at doomsday leet. But a man who
holds so tightly to what he calls his rights over what he calls his debts
will hold tightly also to what he calls his rights over her whom he calls
his wife. No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his wife or his
manservant or his maidservant or his jackass.

--Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan antiphoned.

--Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best said gently.

--Which will? gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan. We are getting mixed.

--The will to live, John Eglinton philosophised, for poor Ann, Will's
widow, is the will to die.

--REQUIESCAT! Stephen prayed.


    WHAT OF ALL THE WILL TO DO?
    IT HAS VANISHED LONG AGO ...


--She lies laid out in stark stiffness in that secondbest bed, the mobled
queen, even though you prove that a bed in those days was as rare as a
motorcar is now and that its carvings were the wonder of seven parishes.
In old age she takes up with gospellers (one stayed with her at New Place
and drank a quart of sack the town council paid for but in which bed he
slept it skills not to ask) and heard she had a soul. She read or had read
to her his chapbooks preferring them to the MERRY WIVES and, loosing her
nightly waters on the jordan, she thought over HOOKS AND EYES FOR
BELIEVERS' BREECHES and THE MOST SPIRITUAL SNUFFBOX TO MAKE THE MOST
DEVOUT SOULS SNEEZE. Venus has twisted her lips in prayer. Agenbite of
inwit: remorse of conscience. It is an age of exhausted whoredom groping
for its god.

--History shows that to be true, INQUIT EGLINTONUS CHRONOLOLOGOS. The ages
succeed one another. But we have it on high authority that a man's worst
enemies shall be those of his own house and family. I feel that Russell is
right. What do we care for his wife or father? I should say that only
family poets have family lives. Falstaff was not a family man. I feel that
the fat knight is his supreme creation.

Lean, he lay back. Shy, deny thy kindred, the unco guid. Shy, supping
with the godless, he sneaks the cup. A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it
him. Visits him here on quarter days. Mr Magee, sir, there's a gentleman
to see you. Me? Says he's your father, sir. Give me my Wordsworth. Enter
Magee Mor Matthew, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in strossers with a
buttoned codpiece, his nether stocks bemired with clauber of ten forests,
a wand of wilding in his hand.

Your own? He knows your old fellow. The widower.

Hurrying to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the quayside I
touched his hand. The voice, new warmth, speaking. Dr Bob Kenny is
attending her. The eyes that wish me well. But do not know me.

--A father, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is a necessary
evil. He wrote the play in the months that followed his father's death. If
you hold that he, a greying man with two marriageable daughters, with
thirtyfive years of life, NEL MEZZO DEL CAMMIN DI NOSTRA VITA, with fifty
of experience, is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you
must hold that his seventyyear old mother is the lustful queen. No. The
corpse of John Shakespeare does not walk the night. From hour to hour it
rots and rots. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that
mystical estate upon his son. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first and
last man who felt himself with child. Fatherhood, in the sense of
conscious begetting, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an
apostolic succession, from only begetter to only begotten. On that mystery
and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung
to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably
because founded, like the world, macro and microcosm, upon the void. Upon
incertitude, upon unlikelihood. AMOR MATRIS, subjective and objective
genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal
fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he
any son?

What the hell are you driving at?

I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons.

AMPLIUS. ADHUC. ITERUM. POSTEA.

Are you condemned to do this?

--They are sundered by a bodily shame so steadfast that the criminal
annals of the world, stained with all other incests and bestialities,
hardly record its breach. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, lesbic
sisters, loves that dare not speak their name, nephews with grandmothers,
jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. The son unborn mars
beauty: born, he brings pain, divides affection, increases care. He is a
new male: his growth is his father's decline, his youth his father's envy,
his friend his father's enemy.

In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought it.

--What links them in nature? An instant of blind rut.

Am I a father? If I were?

Shrunken uncertain hand.

--Sabellius, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the beasts of the
field, held that the Father was Himself His Own Son. The bulldog of Aquin,
with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him. Well: if the father
who has not a son be not a father can the son who has not a father be a
son? When Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another poet of the same
name in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was not the father of his own
son merely but, being no more a son, he was and felt himself the father of
all his race, the father of his own grandfather, the father of his unborn
grandson who, by the same token, never was born, for nature, as Mr Magee
understands her, abhors perfection.

Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. Gladly
glancing, a merry puritan, through the twisted eglantine.

Flatter. Rarely. But flatter.

--Himself his own father, Sonmulligan told himself. Wait. I am big with
child. I have an unborn child in my brain. Pallas Athena! A play! The
play's the thing! Let me parturiate!

He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands.

--As for his family, Stephen said, his mother's name lives in the forest
of Arden. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in
CORIOLANUS. His boyson's death is the deathscene of young Arthur in KING
JOHN. Hamlet, the black prince, is Hamnet Shakespeare. Who the girls in
THE TEMPEST, in PERICLES, in WINTER'S TALE are we know. Who Cleopatra,
fleshpot of Egypt, and Cressid and Venus are we may guess. But there is
another member of his family who is recorded.

--The plot thickens, John Eglinton said.

The quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, quake, his mask, quake,
with haste, quake, quack.

Door closed. Cell. Day.

They list. Three. They.

I you he they.

Come, mess.


STEPHEN: He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in his
old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer
one time mass he did and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up
in Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man on's back. The playhouse sausage
filled Gilbert's soul. He is nowhere: but an Edmund and a Richard are
recorded in the works of sweet William.

MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! What's in a name?

BEST: That is my name, Richard, don't you know. I hope you are going to
say a good word for Richard, don't you know, for my sake.

                (Laughter)

BUCKMULLIGAN: (PIANO, DIMINUENDO)
         Then outspoke medical Dick
         To his comrade medical Davy ...

STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the villain shakebags, Iago,
Richard Crookback, Edmund in King Lear, two bear the wicked uncles' names.
Nay, that last play was written or being written while his brother Edmund
lay dying in Southwark.

BEST: I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don't want Richard,
my name ...

                (Laughter)

QUAKERLYSTER: (A TEMPO) But he that filches from me my good name ...

STEPHEN: (STRINGENDO) He has hidden his own name, a fair name, William,
in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as a painter of old Italy set
his face in a dark corner of his canvas. He has revealed it in the sonnets
where there is Will in overplus. Like John o'Gaunt his name is dear to him,
as dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend sable a spear or
steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer than his glory of
greatest shakescene in the country. What's in a name? That is what we ask
ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A
star, a daystar, a firedrake, rose at his birth. It shone by day in the
heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the night, and by night it shone
over delta in Cassiopeia, the recumbent constellation which is the
signature of his initial among the stars. His eyes watched it, lowlying on
the horizon, eastward of the bear, as he walked by the slumberous summer
fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from her arms.


Both satisfied. I too.

Don't tell them he was nine years old when it was quenched.

And from her arms.

Wait to be wooed and won. Ay, meacock. Who will woo you?

Read the skies. AUTONTIMORUMENOS. BOUS STEPHANOUMENOS. Where's
your configuration? Stephen, Stephen, cut the bread even. S. D: SUA DONNA.
GIA: DI LUI. GELINDO RISOLVE DI NON AMARE S. D.

--What is that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a celestial
phenomenon?

--A star by night, Stephen said. A pillar of the cloud by day.

What more's to speak?

Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots.

STEPHANOS, my crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of
my feet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchief too.

--You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name
is strange enough. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.

Me, Magee and Mulligan.

Fabulous artificer. The hawklike man. You flew. Whereto?
Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Paris and back. Lapwing. Icarus.
PATER, AIT. Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. Lapwing you are. Lapwing be.

Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say:

--That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, we
find also in the old Irish myths. Just what you say. The three brothers
Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the fairytales. The third
brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize.

Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best.

The quaker librarian springhalted near.

--I should like to know, he said, which brother you ... I understand you
to suggest there was misconduct with one of the brothers ... But
perhaps I am anticipating?

He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained.

An attendant from the doorway called:

--Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants ...

--O, Father Dineen! Directly.

Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone.

John Eglinton touched the foil.

--Come, he said. Let us hear what you have to say of Richard and
Edmund. You kept them for the last, didn't you?

--In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and
nuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A
brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

Lapwing.

Where is your brother? Apothecaries' hall. My whetstone. Him, then
Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They
mock to try you. Act. Be acted on.

Lapwing.

I am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink.

On.

--You will say those names were already in the chronicles from which he
took the stuff of his plays. Why did he take them rather than others?
Richard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed
Ann (what's in a name?), woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow.
Richard the conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered.
The other four acts of that play hang limply from that first. Of all his
kings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence,
the angel of the world. Why is the underplot of KING LEAR in which Edmund
figures lifted out of Sidney's ARCADIA and spatchcocked on to a Celtic
legend older than history?

--That was Will's way, John Eglinton defended. We should not now
combine a Norse saga with an excerpt from a novel by George Meredith.
QUE VOULEZ-VOUS? Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on the seacoast and
makes Ulysses quote Aristotle.

--Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the false or the
usurping or the adulterous brother or all three in one is to Shakespeare,
what the poor are not, always with him. The note of banishment,
banishment from the heart, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly
from THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA onward till Prospero breaks his staff,
buries it certain fathoms in the earth and drowns his book. It doubles
itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in another, repeats
itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe. It repeats
itself again when he is near the grave, when his married daughter
Susan, chip of the old block, is accused of adultery. But it was
the original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his
will and left in him a strong inclination to evil. The words are
those of my lords bishops of Maynooth. An original sin and, like original
sin, committed by another in whose sin he too has sinned. It is between
the lines of his last written words, it is petrified on his tombstone
under which her four bones are not to be laid. Age has not withered it.
Beauty and peace have not done it away. It is in infinite variety
everywhere in the world he has created, in MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, twice
in AS YOU LIKE IT, in THE TEMPEST, in HAMLET, in MEASURE FOR MEASURE--and
in all the other plays which I have not read.

He laughed to free his mind from his mind's bondage.

Judge Eglinton summed up.

--The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost and the prince. He is
all in all.

--He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is the mature man of act five.
All in all. In CYMBELINE, in OTHELLO he is bawd and cuckold. He acts and
is acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion, like Jose he kills the
real Carmen. His unremitting intellect is the hornmad Iago ceaselessly
willing that the moor in him shall suffer.

--Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly. O word of fear!

Dark dome received, reverbed.

--And what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed.
When all is said Dumas FILS (or is it Dumas PERE?) is right. After God
Shakespeare has created most.

--Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said. He returns after
a life of absence to that spot of earth where he was born, where he has
always been, man and boy, a silent witness and there, his journey of life
ended, he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies. The motion is
ended. Gravediggers bury Hamlet PERE and Hamlet FILS. A king and a
prince at last in death, with incidental music. And, what though murdered
and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for, Dane or Dubliner,
sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whom they refuse to be
divorced. If you like the epilogue look long on it: prosperous Prospero,
the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, and nuncle Richie,
the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the place where the bad niggers
go. Strong curtain. He found in the world without as actual what was in his
world within as possible. Maeterlinck says: IF SOCRATES LEAVE HIS HOUSE
TODAY HE WILL FIND THE SAGE SEATED ON HIS DOORSTEP. IF JUDAS GO FORTH
TONIGHT IT IS TO JUDAS HIS STEPS WILL TEND. Every life is many days,
day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants,
old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting
ourselves. The playwright who wrote the folio of this world and wrote it
badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later), the lord of
things as they are whom the most Roman of catholics call DIO BOIA,
hangman god, is doubtless all in all in all of us, ostler and butcher,
and would be bawd and cuckold too but  that in the economy of heaven,
foretold by Hamlet, there are no more marriages, glorified man, an
androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself.

--EUREKA! Buck Mulligan cried. EUREKA!

Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's
desk.

--May I? he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.

He began to scribble on a slip of paper.

Take some slips from the counter going out.

--Those who are married, Mr Best, douce herald, said, all save one, shall
live. The rest shall keep as they are.

He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.

Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his
variorum edition of THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

--You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have
brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your
own theory?

--No, Stephen said promptly.

--Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a
dialogue, don't you know, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.

John Eclecticon doubly smiled.

--Well, in that case, he said, I don't see why you should expect payment
for it since you don't believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is some
mystery in HAMLET but will say no more. Herr Bleibtreu, the man Piper met
in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the secret
is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to visit the present
duke, Piper says, and prove to him that his ancestor wrote the plays.
It will come as a surprise to his grace. But he believes his theory.

I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help me to believe or help
me to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? EGOMEN. Who to unbelieve? Other
chap.

--You are the only contributor to DANA who asks for pieces of silver. Then
I don't know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants space for an article
on economics.

Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me. Tide you over. Economics.

--For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.

Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and
then gravely said, honeying malice:

--I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper
Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the SUMMA CONTRA
GENTILES in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie,
the coalquay whore.

He broke away.

--Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Aengus of the birds.

Come, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay. I will serve you your orts
and offals.

Stephen rose.

Life is many days. This will end.

--We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. NOTRE AMI Moore says
Malachi Mulligan must be there.

Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.

--Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of
Ireland. I'll be there. Come, Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk
straight?

Laughing, he ...

Swill till eleven. Irish nights entertainment.

Lubber ...

Stephen followed a lubber ...

One day in the national library we had a discussion. Shakes. After.
His lub back: I followed. I gall his kibe.

Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a
wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into a shattering
daylight of no thought.

What have I learned? Of them? Of me?

Walk like Haines now.

The constant readers' room. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle
O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item: was
Hamlet mad? The quaker's pate godlily with a priesteen in booktalk.

--O please do, sir ... I shall be most pleased ...

Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding:

--A pleased bottom.

The turnstile.

Is that? ... Blueribboned hat ... Idly writing ... What? Looked? ...

The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling:


    JOHN EGLINTON, MY JO, JOHN,
    WHY WON'T YOU WED A WIFE?


He spluttered to the air:

--O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. We went over to their
playbox, Haines and I, the plumbers' hall. Our players are creating a new
art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Abbey Theatre! I smell
the pubic sweat of monks.

He spat blank.

Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him.
And left the FEMME DE TRENTE ANS. And why no other children born? And his
first child a girl?

Afterwit. Go back.

The dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling,
minion of pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair.

Eh ... I just eh ... wanted ... I forgot ... he ...

--Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there ...

Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling:

    I HARDLY HEAR THE PURLIEU CRY
    OR A TOMMY TALK AS I PASS ONE BY
    BEFORE MY THOUGHTS BEGIN TO RUN
    ON F. M'CURDY ATKINSON,
    THE SAME THAT HAD THE WOODEN LEG
    AND THAT FILIBUSTERING FILIBEG
    THAT NEVER DARED TO SLAKE HIS DROUTH,
    MAGEE THAT HAD THE CHINLESS MOUTH.
    BEING AFRAID TO MARRY ON EARTH
    THEY MASTURBATED FOR ALL THEY WERE WORTH.

Jest on. Know thyself.

Halted, below me, a quizzer looks at me. I halt.

--Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge has left off wearing
black to be like nature. Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

A laugh tripped over his lips.

--Longworth is awfully sick, he said, after what you wrote about that old
hake Gregory. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! She gets you a job on
the paper and then you go and slate her drivel to Jaysus. Couldn't you do
the Yeats touch?

He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms:

--The most beautiful book that has come out of our country in my time.
One thinks of Homer.

He stopped at the stairfoot.

--I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly.

The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. Gone the nine men's
morrice with caps of indices.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet:


        EVERYMAN HIS OWN WIFE
                OR
        A HONEYMOON IN THE HAND
    (A NATIONAL IMMORALITY IN THREE ORGASMS)
                BY
        BALLOCKY MULLIGAN


He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, saying:

--The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.

He read, MARCATO:

--Characters:


    TODY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole)
    CRAB (a bushranger)
    MEDICAL DICK  )
        and       ) (two birds with one stone)
    MEDICAL DAVY  )
    MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier)
    FRESH NELLY
        and
    ROSALIE (the coalquay whore).


He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen:
and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men:

--O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin had to lift
their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured,
multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!

--The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted
them.

About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside.

Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leave his house
today, if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies in space which I in time
must come to, ineluctably.

My will: his will that fronts me. Seas between.

A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting.

--Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.

The portico.

Here I watched the birds for augury. Aengus of the birds. They go,
they come. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men wondered. Street of harlots
after. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.

--The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. Did you
see his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. I fear thee, ancient
mariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.

Manner of Oxenford.

Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.

A dark back went before them, step of a pard, down, out by the
gateway, under portcullis barbs.

They followed.

Offend me still. Speak on.

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street. No birds. Frail
from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and in a flaw
of softness softly were blown.

Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic:
from wide earth an altar.


    LAUD WE THE GODS
    AND LET OUR CROOKED SMOKES CLIMB TO THEIR NOSTRILS
    FROM OUR BLESS'D ALTARS.


    * * * * * * *


The superior, the very reverend John Conmee S.J. reset his smooth
watch in his interior pocket as he came down the presbytery steps. Five to
three. Just nice time to walk to Artane. What was that boy's name again?
Dignam. Yes. VERE DIGNUM ET IUSTUM EST. Brother Swan was the person to
see. Mr Cunningham's letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible. Good practical
catholic: useful at mission time.

A onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his
crutches, growled some notes. He jerked short before the convent of the
sisters of charity and held out a peaked cap for alms towards the very
reverend John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed him in the sun for his
purse held, he knew, one silver crown.

Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. He thought, but not for
long, of soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot off by
cannonballs, ending their days in some pauper ward, and of cardinal
Wolsey's words: IF I HAD SERVED MY GOD AS I HAVE SERVED MY KING HE WOULD
NOT HAVE ABANDONED ME IN MY OLD DAYS. He walked by the treeshade of
sunnywinking leaves: and towards him came the wife of Mr David Sheehy
M.P.

--Very well, indeed, father. And you, father?

Father Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. He would go to Buxton
probably for the waters. And her boys, were they getting on well at
Belvedere? Was that so? Father Conmee was very glad indeed to hear that.
And Mr Sheehy himself? Still in London. The house was still sitting, to be
sure it was. Beautiful weather it was, delightful indeed. Yes, it was very
probable that Father Bernard Vaughan would come again to preach. O,
yes: a very great success. A wonderful man really.

Father Conmee was very glad to see the wife of Mr David Sheehy
M.P. Iooking so well and he begged to be remembered to Mr David Sheehy
M.P. Yes, he would certainly call.

--Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy.

Father Conmee doffed his silk hat and smiled, as he took leave, at the
jet beads of her mantilla inkshining in the sun. And smiled yet again, in
going. He had cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arecanut paste.

Father Conmee walked and, walking, smiled for he thought on Father
Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice.

--Pilate! Wy don't you old back that owlin mob?

A zealous man, however. Really he was. And really did great good in.
his way. Beyond a doubt. He loved Ireland, he said, and he loved the
Irish. Of good family too would one think it? Welsh, were they not?

O, lest he forget. That letter to father provincial.

Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of
Mountjoy square. Yes: they were from Belvedere. The little house. Aha.
And were they good boys at school? O. That was very good now. And what
was his name? Jack Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher. And the other
little man? His name was Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to
have.

Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast to Master Brunny Lynam
and pointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street.

--But mind you don't post yourself into the box, little man, he said.

The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed:

--O, sir.

--Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said.

Master Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put Father Conmee's
letter to father provincial into the mouth of the bright red letterbox.
Father Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy
square east.

Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, in silk hat, slate
frockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers,
canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave deportment
most respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady Maxwell at the
corner of Dignam's court.

Was that not Mrs M'Guinness?

Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee from
the farther footpath along which she sailed. And Father Conmee smiled and
saluted. How did she do?

A fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something. And to
think that she was a pawnbroker! Well, now! Such a ... what should he
say? ... such a queenly mien.

Father Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the
shutup free church on his left. The reverend T. R. Greene B.A. will(D.V.)
speak. The incumbent they called him. He felt it incumbent on him to say a
few words. But one should be charitable. Invincible ignorance. They acted
according to their lights.

Father Conmee turned the corner and walked along the North
Circular road. It was a wonder that there was not a tramline in such an
important thoroughfare. Surely, there ought to be.

A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. All
raised untidy caps. Father Conmee greeted them more than once benignly.
Christian brother boys.

Father Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he walked. Saint
Joseph's church, Portland row. For aged and virtuous females. Father
Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous: but occasionally
they were also badtempered.

Near Aldborough house Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift
nobleman. And now it was an office or something.

Father Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was
saluted by Mr William Gallagher who stood in the doorway of his shop.
Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours
that came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. He passed
Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a
dreadful catastrophe in New York. In America those things were
continually happening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared.
Still, an act of perfect contrition.

Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the
window of which two unlabouring men lounged. They saluted him and
were saluted.

Father Conmee passed H. J. O'Neill's funeral establishment where
Corny Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed a blade of
hay. A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmee
saluted the constable. In Youkstetter's, the porkbutcher's, Father Conmee
observed pig's puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly curled in
tubes.

Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a
turfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of dirty
straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above
him. It was idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the providence of the
Creator who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and
bring it to town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poor people.

On Newcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S.J. of saint
Francis Xavier's church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward
bound tram.

Off an inward bound tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley
C. C. of saint Agatha's church, north William street, on to Newcomen
bridge.

At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound
tram for he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.

Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked
with care in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a
sixpence and five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm into his
purse. Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector
usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket.
The solemnity of the occupants of the car seemed to Father Conmee
excessive for a journey so short and cheap. Father Conmee liked cheerful
decorum.

It was a peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father
Conmee had finished explaining and looked down. His wife, Father
Conmee supposed. A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife of the gentleman
with the glasses. She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently,
tiptapping  her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinily,
sweetly.

Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the car. He perceived also
that the awkward man at the other side of her was sitting on the edge of
the seat.

Father Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the
mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.

At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an
old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor pulled
the bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her basket and
a marketnet: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and
basket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed
the end of the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who had always
to be told twice BLESS YOU, MY CHILD, that they have been absolved, PRAY
FOR ME. But they had so many worries in life, so many cares, poor
creatures.

From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at
Father Conmee.

Father Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow
men and of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the African mission
and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and brown
and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last
hour came like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian jesuit, LE
NOMBRE DES ELUS, seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable plea. Those were
millions of human souls created by God in His Own likeness to whom the
faith had not (D.V.) been brought. But they were God's souls, created by
God. It seemed to Father Conmee a pity that they should all be lost, a
waste, if one might say.

At the Howth road stop Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the
conductor and saluted in his turn.

The Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee, road and
name. The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide,
immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seas adjoining.
Then came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in one day.
Those were old worldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old times
in the barony.

Father Conmee, walking, thought of his little book OLD TIMES IN THE
BARONY and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of
Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of Belvedere.

A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough
Ennel, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the
evening, not startled when an otter plunged. Who could know the truth?
Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had not
committed adultery fully, EIACULATIO SEMINIS INTER VAS NATURALE MULIERIS,
with her husband's brother? She would half confess if she had not all
sinned as women did. Only God knew and she and he, her husband's brother.

Father Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed
however for man's race on earth, and of the ways of God which were not
our ways.

Don John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was
humane and honoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and he
smiled at smiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full
fruit clusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble to
noble, were impalmed by Don John Conmee.

It was a charming day.

The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages,
curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of
small white clouds going slowly down the wind. MOUTONNER, the French
said. A just and homely word.

Father Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning
clouds over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble
of Clongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening, and heard the
cries of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the quiet evening.
He was their rector: his reign was mild.

Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out.
An ivory bookmark told him the page.

Nones. He should have read that before lunch. But lady Maxwell had come.

Father Conmee read in secret PATER and AVE and crossed his breast.
DEUS IN ADIUTORIUM.

He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till
he came to RES in BEATI IMMACULATI: PRINCIPIUM VERBORUM TUORUM VERITAS:
IN ETERNUM OMNIA INDICIA IUSTITIAE TUAE.

A flushed young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came
a young woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand. The young man
raised his cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care
detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.

Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his
breviary. Sin: PRINCIPES PERSECUTI SUNT ME GRATIS: ET A VERBIS TUIS
FORMIDAVIT COR MEUM.


    * * * * *


Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his
drooping eye at a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He pulled himself
erect, went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass
furnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came to
the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes and
leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out.

Father John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram on
Newcomen bridge.

Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat
downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.

Constable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day.

--That's a fine day, Mr Kelleher.

--Ay, Corny Kelleher said.

--It's very close, the constable said.

Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his mouth
while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a
coin.

--What's the best news? he asked.

--I seen that particular party last evening, the constable said with bated
breath.


    * * * * *


A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner,
skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car, and jerked himself up Eccles street.
Towards Larry O'Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he growled
unamiably:

--For England ...

He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus,
halted and growled:

--HOME AND BEAUTY.

J. J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was
in the warehouse with a visitor.

A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped
it into the cap held out to her. The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced
sourly at the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung himself forward
four strides.

He halted and growled angrily:

--FOR ENGLAND ...

Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him,
gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.

He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head
towards a window and bayed deeply:

--HOME AND BEAUTY.

The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased.
The blind of the window was drawn aside. A card UNFURNISHED APARTMENTS
slipped from the sash and fell. A plump bare generous arm shone, was seen,
held forth from a white petticoatbodice and taut shiftstraps. A woman's
hand flung forth a coin over the area railings. It fell on the path.

One of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the
minstrel's cap, saying:

--There, sir.


    * * * * *


Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming
kitchen.

--Did you put in the books? Boody asked.

Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling
suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.

--They wouldn't give anything on them, she said.

Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked
ankles tickled by stubble.

--Where did you try? Boody asked.

--M'Guinness's.

Boody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table.

--Bad cess to her big face! she cried.

Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes.

--What's in the pot? she asked.

--Shirts, Maggy said.

Boody cried angrily:

--Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked:

--And what's in this?

A heavy fume gushed in answer.

--Peasoup, Maggy said.

--Where did you get it? Katey asked.

--Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.

The lacquey rang his bell.

--Barang!

Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily:

--Give us it here.

Maggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey,
sitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her mouth
random crumbs:

--A good job we have that much. Where's Dilly?

--Gone to meet father, Maggy said.

Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added:

--Our father who art not in heaven.

Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed:

--Boody! For shame!

A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down
the Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed
around the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains,
between the Customhouse old dock and George's quay.

    * * * * *


The blond girl in Thornton's bedded the wicker basket with rustling
fibre. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper
and a small jar.

--Put these in first, will you? he said.

--Yes, sir, the blond girl said. And the fruit on top.

--That'll do, game ball, Blazes Boylan said.

She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe
shamefaced peaches.

Blazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the
fruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled and plump red
tomatoes, sniffing smells.

H. E. L. Y.'S filed before him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane,
plodding towards their goal.

He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch
from his fob and held it at its chain's length.

--Can you send them by tram? Now?

A darkbacked figure under Merchants' arch scanned books on the
hawker's cart.

--Certainly, sir. Is it in the city?

--O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes.

The blond girl handed him a docket and pencil.

--Will you write the address, sir?

Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her.

--Send it at once, will you? he said. It's for an invalid.

--Yes, sir. I will, sir.

Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket.

--What's the damage? he asked.

The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits.

Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He
took a red carnation from the tall stemglass.

--This for me? he asked gallantly.

The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie
a bit crooked, blushing.

--Yes, sir, she said.

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.

Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the
red flower between his smiling teeth.

--May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly.


    * * * * *


--MA! Almidano Artifoni said.

He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.

Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore,
gripping the handrests. Palefaces. Men's arms frankly round their stunted
forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of the bank
of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed.

--ANCH'IO HO AVUTO DI QUESTE IDEE, ALMIDANO ARTIFONI SAID, QUAND' ERO
GIOVINE COME LEI. EPPOI MI SONO CONVINTO CHE IL MONDO E UNA BESTIA.
PECCATO. PERCHE LA SUA VOCE ... SAREBBE UN CESPITE DI RENDITA, VIA.
INVECE, LEI SI SACRIFICA.

--SACRIFIZIO INCRUENTO, Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in slow
swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.

--SPERIAMO, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. MA, DIA RETTA A
ME. CI RIFLETTA.

By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram
unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.

--CI RIFLETTERO, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg.

--MA, SUL SERIO, EH? Almidano Artifoni said.

His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Human eyes. They gazed
curiously an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.

--ECCOLO, Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. Venga a trovarmi e ci
pensi. ADDIO, CARO.

--ARRIVEDERLA, MAESTRO, Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was
freed. E GRAZIE.

--DI CHE? Almidano Artifoni said. Scusi, eh? TANTE BELLE COSE!

Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal,
trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. In vain he trotted,
signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling
implements of music through Trinity gates.


    * * * * *


Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of THE WOMAN IN WHITE
far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her
typewriter.

Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion?
Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.

The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled
them: six.

Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:

--16 June 1904.

Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner and
the slab where Wolfe Tone's statue was not, eeled themselves turning
H. E. L. Y.'S and plodded back as they had come.


Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette,
and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens and capital
esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She's not nicelooking, is she? The
way she's holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that fellow be at the
band tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt
like Susy Nagle's. They kick out grand. Shannon and all the boatclub
swells never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness he won't keep me here
till seven.

The telephone rang rudely by her ear.

--Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up after five. Only
those two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. All right, sir. Then I can go
after six if you're not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven and
six. I'll tell him. Yes: one, seven, six.

She scribbled three figures on an envelope.

--Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from SPORT was in looking for you.
Mr Lenehan, yes. He said he'll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes,
sir. I'll ring them up after five.


    * * * * *


Two pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.

--Who's that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty?

--Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.

--Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his
pliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps there.

The vesta in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a long soft
flame and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died: and mouldy air
closed round them.

--How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.

--Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic
council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed
himself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin.
O'Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days. The
old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and the
original jews' temple was here too before they built their synagogue over
in Adelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were you?

--No, Ned.

--He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my
memory serves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.

--That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's quite right, sir.

--If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to allow
me perhaps ...

--Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever you like. I'll
get those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it from here or
from here.

In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled
seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.

From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.

--I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won't trespass on
your valuable time ...

--You're welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next
week, say. Can you see?

--Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you.

--Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.

He followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away
among the pillars. With J. J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's
abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut
meal, O'Connor, Wexford.

He stood to read the card in his hand.

--The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present address: Saint
Michael's, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. He's writing a book about the
Fitzgeralds he told me. He's well up in history, faith.

The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a
clinging twig.

--I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O'Molloy said.

Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.

--God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare
after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? I'M BLOODY SORRY
I DID IT, says he, BUT I DECLARE TO GOD I THOUGHT THE ARCHBISHOP WAS
INSIDE. He mightn't like it, though. What? God, I'll tell him anyhow.
That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they were all of
them, the Geraldines.

The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He
slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:

--Woa, sonny!

He turned to J. J. O'Molloy and asked:

--Well, Jack. What is it? What's the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard.

With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an
instant, sneezed loudly.

--Chow! he said. Blast you!

--The dust from those sacks, J. J. O'Molloy said politely.

--No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a ... cold night before ... blast
your soul ... night before last ... and there was a hell of a lot of
draught ...

He held his handkerchief ready for the coming ...

--I was ... Glasnevin this morning ... poor little ... what do you call
him ... Chow! ... Mother of Moses!


    * * * * *


Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his
claret waistcoat.

--See? he said. Say it's turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.

He slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove, wobbled
a while, ceased, ogling them: six.

Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the
consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying
the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the
admiralty division of king's bench to the court of appeal an elderly
female with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of
great amplitude.

--See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over.
The impact. Leverage, see?

He showed them the rising column of disks on the right.

--Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late can
see what turn is on and what turns are over.

--See? Tom Rochford said.

He slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop:
four. Turn Now On.

--I'll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound him. One good
turn deserves another.

--Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.

--Goodnight, M'Coy said abruptly. When you two begin

Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.

--But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.

--Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later.

He followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.

--He's a hero, he said simply.

--I know, M'Coy said. The drain, you mean.

--Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.

They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming
soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.

Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall
Lenehan showed M'Coy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes
like a bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck down in it, half
choked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest
and all, with the rope round him. And be damned but he got the rope round
the poor devil and the two were hauled up.

--The act of a hero, he said.

At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past
them for Jervis street.

--This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam's to
see Sceptre's starting price. What's the time by your gold watch and
chain?

M'Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' sombre office, then at
O'Neill's clock.

--After three, he said. Who's riding her?

--O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.

While he waited in Temple bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel with
gentle pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellow might damn
easy get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.

The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal
cavalcade.

--Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against Bantam Lyons in
there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn't an
earthly. Through here.

They went up the steps and under Merchants' arch. A darkbacked
figure scanned books on the hawker's cart.

--There he is, Lenehan said.

--Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said, glancing behind.

--LEOPOLDO OR THE BLOOM IS ON THE RYE, Lenehan said.

--He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy said. I was with him one day and he
bought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob. There were
fine plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the moon and
comets with long tails. Astronomy it was about.

Lenehan laughed.

--I'll tell you a damn good one about comets' tails, he said. Come over in
the sun.

They crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by
the riverwall.

Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late
Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.

--There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said
eagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord mayor
was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson
spoke and there was music. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard ...

--I know, M'Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.

--Did she? Lenehan said.

A card UNFURNISHED APARTMENTS reappeared on the windowsash of
number 7 Eccles street.

He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.

--But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the
catering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were
there. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to
which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came
solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies ...

--I know, M'Coy said. The year the missus was there ...

Lenehan linked his arm warmly.

--But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after all
the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o'clock the
morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter's
night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one
side of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We started singing
glees and duets: LO, THE EARLY BEAM OF MORNING. She was well primed with a
good load of Delahunt's port under her bellyband. Every jolt the bloody
car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hell's delights! She has a fine
pair, God bless her. Like that.


He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning:

--I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time. Know
what I mean?

His hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his eyes tight in
delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.

--The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She's a gamey
mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets
in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear and
Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was
lost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last she
spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. AND WHAT STAR IS THAT, POLDY? says
she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. THAT ONE, IS IT? says Chris Callinan,
SURE THAT'S ONLY WHAT YOU MIGHT CALL A PINPRICK. By God, he wasn't far
wide of the mark.

Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft
laughter.

--I'm weak, he gasped.

M'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave.
Lenehan walked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his
hindhead rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy.

--He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He's not one
of your common or garden ... you know ... There's a touch of the artist
about old Bloom.


    * * * * *


Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of THE AWFUL DISCLOSURES OF MARIA
MONK, then of Aristotle's MASTERPIECE. Crooked botched print. Plates:
infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered
cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All
butting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute
somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.

He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: TALES OF THE GHETTO
by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.

--That I had, he said, pushing it by.

The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.

--Them are two good ones, he said.

Onions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined
mouth. He bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them against
his unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.

On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment
and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c.

Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. FAIR TYRANTS by James Lovebirch.
Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.

He opened it. Thought so.

A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man.

No: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once.

He read the other title: SWEETS OF SIN. More in her line. Let us see.

He read where his finger opened.

--ALL THE DOLLARBILLS HER HUSBAND GAVE HER WERE SPENT IN THE STORES ON
WONDROUS GOWNS AND COSTLIEST FRILLIES. FOR HIM! FOR RAOUL!

Yes. This. Here. Try.

--HER MOUTH GLUED ON HIS IN A LUSCIOUS VOLUPTUOUS KISS WHILE HIS HANDS
FELT FOR THE OPULENT CURVES INSIDE HER DESHABILLE.

Yes. Take this. The end.

--YOU ARE LATE, HE SPOKE HOARSELY, EYING HER WITH A SUSPICIOUS GLARE.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN THREW OFF HER SABLETRIMMED WRAP, DISPLAYING HER
QUEENLY SHOULDERS AND HEAVING EMBONPOINT. AN IMPERCEPTIBLE SMILE PLAYED
ROUND HER PERFECT LIPS AS SHE TURNED TO HIM CALMLY.

Mr Bloom read again: THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yielded
amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils
arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments (FOR HIM! FOR
RAOUL!). Armpits' oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (HER HEAVING EMBONPOINT!).
Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions!

Young! Young!

An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of
chancery, king's bench, exchequer and common pleas, having heard in the
lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the admiralty
division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the Lady Cairns
versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of appeal reservation
of judgment in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee
Corporation.

Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy
curtains. The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven
reddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the
floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along it, and
bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.

Mr Bloom beheld it.

Mastering his troubled breath, he said:

--I'll take this one.

The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.

--SWEETS OF SIN, he said, tapping on it. That's a good one.


    * * * * *


The lacquey by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell
twice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet.

Dilly Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the bell,
the cries of the auctioneer within. Four and nine. Those lovely curtains.
Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at two guineas. Any advance on
five shillings? Going for five shillings.

The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it:

--Barang!

Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint.
J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched
necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library.

Mr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came round from Williams's
row. He halted near his daughter.

--It's time for you, she said.

--Stand up straight for the love of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus said. Are you
trying to imitate your uncle John, the cornetplayer, head upon shoulder?
Melancholy God!

Dilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them
and held them back.

--Stand up straight, girl, he said. You'll get curvature of the spine.
Do you know what you look like?

He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his
shoulders and dropping his underjaw.

--Give it up, father, Dilly said. All the people are looking at you.

Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.

--Did you get any money? Dilly asked.

--Where would I get money? Mr Dedalus said. There is no-one in Dublin
would lend me fourpence.

--You got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes.

--How do you know that? Mr Dedalus asked, his tongue in his cheek.

Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked boldly
along James's street.

--I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you in the Scotch house now?

--I was not, then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling. Was it the little nuns taught
you to be so saucy? Here.

He handed her a shilling.

--See if you can do anything with that, he said.

--I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that.

--Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly. You're like the rest of
them, are you? An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother
died. But wait awhile. You'll all get a short shrift and a long day from
me. Low blackguardism! I'm going to get rid of you. Wouldn't care if I was
stretched out stiff. He's dead. The man upstairs is dead.

He left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat.

--Well, what is it? he said, stopping.

The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.

--Barang!

--Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him.

The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his bell
but feebly:

--Bang!

Mr Dedalus stared at him.

--Watch him, he said. It's instructive. I wonder will he allow us to talk.

--You got more than that, father, Dilly said.

--I'm going to show you a little trick, Mr Dedalus said. I'll leave you
all where Jesus left the jews. Look, there's all I have. I got two
shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave for the
funeral.

He drew forth a handful of copper coins, nervously.

--Can't you look for some money somewhere? Dilly said.

Mr Dedalus thought and nodded.

--I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter in O'Connell
street. I'll try this one now.

--You're very funny, Dilly said, grinning.

--Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of milk for
yourself and a bun or a something. I'll be home shortly.

He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on.

The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out
of Parkgate.

--I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.

The lacquey banged loudly.

Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a
pursing mincing mouth gently:

--The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn't do anything!
O, sure they wouldn't really! Is it little sister Monica!


    * * * * *


From the sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan, pleased
with the order he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along
James's street, past Shackleton's offices. Got round him all right. How do
you do, Mr Crimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in your
other establishment in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping alive.
Lovely weather we're having. Yes, indeed. Good for the country. Those
farmers are always grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best
gin, Mr Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible affair that General
Slocum explosion. Terrible, terrible! A thousand casualties. And
heartrending scenes. Men trampling down women and children. Most brutal
thing. What do they say was the cause? Spontaneous combustion. Most
scandalous revelation. Not a single lifeboat would float and the firehose
all burst. What I can't understand is how the inspectors ever allowed a
boat like that ... Now, you're talking straight, Mr Crimmins. You know
why? Palm oil. Is that a fact? Without a doubt. Well now, look at that.
And America they say is the land of the free. I thought we were bad here.

I smiled at him. AMERICA, I said quietly, just like that. WHAT IS IT? THE
SWEEPINGS OF EVERY COUNTRY INCLUDING OUR OWN. ISN'T THAT TRUE? That's
a fact.

Graft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there's money going there's
always someone to pick it up.

Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a
dressy appearance. Bowls them over.

--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?

--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter
Kennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson
street. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Never built
under three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some Kildare street club
toff had it probably. John Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian bank,
gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he remembered
me.

Aham! Must dress the character for those fellows. Knight of the road.
Gentleman. And now, Mr Crimmins, may we have the honour of your
custom again, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as the old
saying has it.

North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and
anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway,
rocked on the ferrywash, Elijah is coming.

Mr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image. High colour, of course.
Grizzled moustache. Returned Indian officer. Bravely he bore his stumpy
body forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Is that Ned
Lambert's brother over the way, Sam? What? Yes. He's as like it as damn
it. No. The windscreen of that motorcar in the sun there. Just a flash
like that. Damn like him.

Aham! Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath. Good
drop of gin, that was. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his
fat strut.

Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Greasy black
rope. Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant's
wife drove by in her noddy.

Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with. Great topers
too. Fourbottle men.

Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a
midnight burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret door in
the wall. Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well. Better turn
down here. Make a detour.

Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street by
the corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Outside the Dublin
Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood,
the reins knotted to the wheel. Damn dangerous thing. Some Tipperary
bosthoon endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway horse.

Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John
Henry Menton's office, led his wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for the
office of Messrs Collis and Ward.

Mr Kernan approached Island street.

Times of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those reminiscences
of sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on it all now in a kind of
retrospective arrangement. Gaming at Daly's. No cardsharping then.
One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a dagger.
Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr. Stables
behind Moira house.

Damn good gin that was.

Fine dashing young nobleman. Good stock, of course. That ruffian, that
sham squire, with his violet gloves gave him away. Course they were on
the wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. Fine poem that is:
Ingram. They were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does sing that ballad touchingly.
Masterly rendition.


    AT THE SIEGE OF ROSS DID MY FATHER FALL.


A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders
leaping, leaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Cream sunshades.

Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.

His Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that by a hair. Damn it! What a pity!


    * * * * *


Stephen Dedalus watched through the webbed window the lapidary's
fingers prove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed the window and the
showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails.
Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar,
on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.

Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights
shining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their
brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them.

She dances in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. A
sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. A long and
seafed silent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her
hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.

Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem,
turned it and held it at the point of his Moses' beard. Grandfather ape
gloating on a stolen hoard.

And you who wrest old images from the burial earth? The brainsick
words of sophists: Antisthenes. A lore of drugs. Orient and immortal wheat
standing from everlasting to everlasting.

Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through
Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a sanded tired umbrella, one
with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.

The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the
powerhouse urged Stephen to be on. Beingless beings. Stop! Throb always
without you and the throb always within. Your heart you sing of. I between
them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I. Shatter
them, one and both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me you who
can. Bawd and butcher were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. A look
around.

Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. You
say right, sir. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed.

Stephen went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash clacking
against his shoulderblade. In Clohissey's window a faded 186O print of
Heenan boxing Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square hats stood
round the roped prizering. The heavyweights in tight loincloths proposed
gently each to other his bulbous fists. And they are throbbing: heroes'
hearts.

He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.

--Twopence each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence.

Tattered pages. THE IRISH BEEKEEPER. LIFE AND MIRACLES OF THE CURE' OF
ARS. POCKET GUIDE TO KILLARNEY.

I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. STEPHANO DEDALO,
ALUMNO OPTIMO, PALMAM FERENTI.

Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the
hamlet of Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.

Binding too good probably. What is this? Eighth and ninth book of
Moses. Secret of all secrets. Seal of King David. Thumbed pages: read and
read. Who has passed here before me? How to soften chapped hands.
Recipe for white wine vinegar. How to win a woman's love. For me this.
Say the following talisman three times with hands folded:

--SE EL YILO NEBRAKADA FEMININUM! AMOR ME SOLO! SANKTUS! AMEN.

Who wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot
Peter Salanka to all true believers divulged. As good as any other abbot's
charms, as mumbling Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool.

--What are you doing here, Stephen?

Dilly's high shoulders and shabby dress.

Shut the book quick. Don't let see.

--What are you doing? Stephen said.

A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. It
glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. I told her of
Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck
bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. NEBRAKADA FEMININUM.

--What have you there? Stephen asked.

--I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing
nervously. Is it any good?

My eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and
daring. Shadow of my mind.

He took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal's French primer.

--What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French?

She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips.

Show no surprise. Quite natural.

--Here, Stephen said. It's all right. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you. I
suppose all my books are gone.

--Some, Dilly said. We had to.

She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will
drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me,
my heart, my soul. Salt green death.

We.

Agenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite.

Misery! Misery!


    * * * * *


--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?

--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. Father
Cowley brushed his moustache often downward with a scooping hand.

--What's the best news? Mr Dedalus said.

--Why then not much, Father Cowley said. I'm barricaded up, Simon, with
two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance.

--Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it?

--O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance.

--With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedalus asked.

--The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of that ilk. I'm just
waiting for Ben Dollard. He's going to say a word to long John to get him
to take those two men off. All I want is a little time.

He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging
in his neck.

--I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always
doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard!

He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.

--There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.

Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops
crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards them
at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.

As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:

--Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.

--Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.

Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben
Dollard's figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered
sneeringly:

--That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day?

--Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I
threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.

He stood beside them beaming, on them first and on his roomy
clothes from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying:

--They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow.

--Bad luck to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to
God he's not paid yet.

--And how is that BASSO PROFONDO, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked.

Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring,
glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club.

Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth, gave
forth a deep note.

--Aw! he said.

--That's the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone.

--What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty? What?

He turned to both.

--That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also.

The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old chapterhouse of
saint Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended
by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of
hurdles.

Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them forward,
his joyful fingers in the air.

--Come along with me to the subsheriff's office, he said. I want to show
you the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff. He's a cross between Lobengula
and Lynchehaun. He's well worth seeing, mind you. Come along. I saw John
Henry Menton casually in the Bodega just now and it will cost me a fall if
I don't ... Wait awhile ... We're on the right lay, Bob, believe you me.

--For a few days tell him, Father Cowley said anxiously.

Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling
button of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he wiped away
the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.

--What few days? he boomed. Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent?

--He has, Father Cowley said.

--Then our friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed on, Ben Dollard
said. The landlord has the prior claim. I gave him all the particulars. 29
Windsor avenue. Love is the name?

--That's right, Father Cowley said. The reverend Mr Love. He's a minister
in the country somewhere. But are you sure of that?

--You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollard said, that he can put that
writ where Jacko put the nuts.

He led Father Cowley boldly forward, linked to his bulk.

--Filberts I believe they were, Mr Dedalus said, as he dropped his glasses
on his coatfront, following them.


    * * * * *


--The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said, as they passed
out of the Castleyard gate.

The policeman touched his forehead.

--God bless you, Martin Cunningham said, cheerily.

He signed to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the reins and set on
towards Lord Edward street.

Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head,
appeared above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel.

--Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard. I wrote to Father
Conmee and laid the whole case before him.

--You could try our friend, Mr Power suggested backward.

--Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touch me not.

John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them
quickly down Cork hill.

On the steps of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed
Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending.

The castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street.

--Look here, Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at the MAIL
office. I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings.

--Quite right, Martin Cunningham said, taking the list. And put down the
five shillings too.

--Without a second word either, Mr Power said.

--Strange but true, Martin Cunningham added.

John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.

--I'll say there is much kindness in the jew, he quoted, elegantly.

They went down Parliament street.

--There's Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said, just heading for Kavanagh's.

--Righto, Martin Cunningham said. Here goes.

Outside LA MAISON CLAIRE Blazes Boylan waylaid Jack Mooney's
brother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties.

John Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power, while Martin
Cunningham took the elbow of a dapper little man in a shower of hail suit,
who walked uncertainly, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches.

--The assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble, John Wyse
Nolan told Mr Power.

They followed round the corner towards James Kavanagh's
winerooms. The empty castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate. Martin
Cunningham, speaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy Henry
did not glance.

--And long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as large as
life.

The tall form of long John Fanning filled the doorway where he
stood.

--Good day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and
greeted.

Long John Fanning made no way for them. He removed his large Henry Clay
decisively and his large fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all
their faces.

--Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? he said
with rich acrid utterance to the assistant town clerk.

Hell open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly,
about their damned Irish language. Where was the marshal, he wanted to
know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old Barlow the
macebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order, no
quorum even, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little
Lorcan Sherlock doing LOCUM TENENS for him. Damned Irish language,
language of our forefathers.

Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.

Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard, to
the assistant town clerk and the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan held
his peace.

--What Dignam was that? long John Fanning asked.

Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot.

--O, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for goodness' sake till
I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!

Testily he made room for himself beside long John Fanning's flank
and passed in and up the stairs.

--Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don't think
you knew him or perhaps you did, though.

With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.

--Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stalwart back of long
John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning in the mirror.

--Rather lowsized. Dignam of Menton's office that was, Martin
Cunningham said.

 Long John Fanning could not remember him.

 Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.

--What's that? Martin Cunningham said.

All turned where they stood. John Wyse Nolan came down again.
From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament
street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. Gaily they
went past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the
leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders.

--What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the
staircase.

--The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse
Nolan answered from the stairfoot.


    * * * * *


As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind
his Panama to Haines:

--Parnell's brother. There in the corner.

They chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man
whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.

--Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.

--Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard, his brother, our city marshal.

John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey
claw went up again to his forehead whereat it rested. An instant after,
under its screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his foe and
fell once more upon a working corner.

--I'll take a MELANGE, Haines said to the waitress.

--Two MELANGES, Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and butter
and some cakes as well.

When she had gone he said, laughing:

--We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you missed
Dedalus on HAMLET.

Haines opened his newbought book.

--I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds
that have lost their balance.

The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street:

--ENGLAND EXPECTS ...

Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.

--You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance. Wandering
Aengus I call him.

--I am sure he has an IDEE FIXE, Haines said, pinching his chin
thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating what it would
be likely to be. Such persons always have.

Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.

--They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will never
capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white
death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet.
The joy of creation ...

--Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled him
this morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I saw. It's
rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an
interesting point out of that.

Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her
to unload her tray.

--He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said, amid
the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of
retribution. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea. Does he
write anything for your movement?

He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped
cream. Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter
over its smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.

--Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write something
in ten years.

--Seems a long way off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon.
Still, I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.

He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.

--This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance.
I don't want to be imposed on.

Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of
ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping
street past Benson's ferry, and by the threemasted schooner ROSEVEAN from
Bridgwater with bricks.


    * * * * *


Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, past Sewell's yard.
Behind him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, with
stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's
house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind him a
blind stripling tapped his way by the wall of College park.

Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as
Mr Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along
Merrion square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.

At the corner of Wilde's house he halted, frowned at Elijah's name
announced on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the distant pleasance of
duke's lawn. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun. With ratsteeth
bared he muttered:

--COACTUS VOLUI.

He strode on for Clare street, grinding his fierce word.

As he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his
dustcoat brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept
onwards, having buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling turned his
sickly face after the striding form.

--God's curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are! You're blinder nor
I am, you bitch's bastard!


    * * * * *


Opposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam,
pawing the pound and a half of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he
had been sent for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling. It was too
blooming dull sitting in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and
Mrs MacDowell and the blind down and they all at their sniffles and
sipping sups of the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney brought from
Tunney's. And they eating crumbs of the cottage fruitcake, jawing the
whole blooming time and sighing.

After Wicklow lane the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress
milliner, stopped him. He stood looking in at the two puckers stripped to
their pelts and putting up their props. From the sidemirrors two mourning
Masters Dignam gaped silently. Myler Keogh, Dublin's pet lamb, will meet
sergeantmajor Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty
sovereigns. Gob, that'd be a good pucking match to see. Myler Keogh,
that's the chap sparring out to him with the green sash. Two bar entrance,
soldiers half price. I could easy do a bunk on ma. Master Dignam on his
left turned as he turned. That's me in mourning. When is it? May the
twentysecond. Sure, the blooming thing is all over. He turned to the right
and on his right Master Dignam turned, his cap awry, his collar sticking
up. Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he saw the image of Marie Kendall,
charming soubrette, beside the two puckers. One of them mots that do be in
the packets of fags Stoer smokes that his old fellow welted hell out of
him for one time he found out.

Master Dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. The best pucker
going for strength was Fitzsimons. One puck in the wind from that fellow
would knock you into the middle of next week, man. But the best pucker
for science was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of
him, dodging and all.

In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red flower in a toff's mouth
and a swell pair of kicks on him and he listening to what the drunk was
telling him and grinning all the time.

No Sandymount tram.

Master Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to
his other hand. His collar sprang up again and he tugged it down. The
blooming stud was too small for the buttonhole of the shirt, blooming end
to it. He met schoolboys with satchels. I'm not going tomorrow either,
stay away till Monday. He met other schoolboys. Do they notice I'm in
mourning? Uncle Barney said he'd get it into the paper tonight. Then
they'll all see it in the paper and read my name printed and pa's name.

His face got all grey instead of being red like it was and there was a
fly walking over it up to his eye. The scrunch that was when they were
screwing the screws into the coffin: and the bumps when they were bringing
it downstairs.

Pa was inside it and ma crying in the parlour and uncle Barney telling
the men how to get it round the bend. A big coffin it was, and high and
heavylooking. How was that? The last night pa was boosed he was standing
on the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to Tunney's for
to boose more and he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never see him
again. Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He told me to be a
good son to ma. I couldn't hear the other things he said but I saw his
tongue and his teeth trying to say it better. Poor pa. That was Mr Dignam,
my father. I hope he's in purgatory now because he went to confession to
Father Conroy on Saturday night.


    * * * * *


William Humble, earl of Dudley, and lady Dudley, accompanied by
lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, drove out after luncheon from the viceregal
lodge. In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss de
Courcy and the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C. in attendance.

The cavalcade passed out by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted
by obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the
northern quays. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his way through
the metropolis. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river
greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord
Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley
White, B. L., M. A., who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M. E. White's,
the pawnbroker's, at the corner of Arran street west stroking his nose
with his forefinger, undecided whether he should arrive at Phibsborough
more quickly by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot
through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. In the
porch of Four Courts Richie Goulding with the costbag of Goulding,
Collis and Ward saw him with surprise. Past Richmond bridge at the
doorstep of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the
Patriotic Insurance Company, an elderly female about to enter changed
her plan and retracing her steps by King's windows smiled credulously
on the representative of His Majesty. From its sluice in Wood quay
wall under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue
of liquid sewage. Above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel, gold by
bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired.
On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the greenhouse
for the subsheriff's office, stood still in midstreet and brought his
hat low. His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus' greeting. From
Cahill's corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., made obeisance
unperceived, mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant
had held of yore rich advowsons. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M'Coy,
taking leave of each other, watched the carriages go by. Passing by Roger
Greene's office and Dollard's big red printinghouse Gerty MacDowell,
carrying the Catesby's cork lino letters for her father who was laid up,
knew by the style it was the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see
what Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring's big yellow
furniture van had to stop in front of her on account of its being the lord
lieutenant. Beyond Lundy Foot's from the shaded door of Kavanagh's
winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the lord
lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland. The Right Honourable
William Humble, earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed Micky Anderson's
all times ticking watches and Henry and James's wax smartsuited
freshcheeked models, the gentleman Henry, DERNIER CRI James. Over against
Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the
cavalcade. Tom Rochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley fixed on him,
took his thumbs quickly out of the pockets of his claret waistcoat and
doffed his cap to her. A charming SOUBRETTE, great Marie Kendall, with
dauby cheeks and lifted skirt smiled daubily from her poster upon William
Humble, earl of Dudley, and upon lieutenantcolonel H. G. Heseltine, and
also upon the honourable Gerald Ward A. D. C. From the window of the
D. B. C. Buck Mulligan gaily, and Haines gravely, gazed down on the
viceregal equipage over the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms
darkened the chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently. In
Fownes's street Dilly Dedalus, straining her sight upward from
Chardenal's first French primer, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes
spinning in the glare. John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of
Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold
hunter watch not looked at in his fat left hand not feeling it. Where the
foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her
hastening husband back from under the hoofs of the outriders. She shouted
in his ear the tidings. Understanding, he shifted his tomes to his left
breast and saluted the second carriage. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C.,
agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At Ponsonby's corner a jaded
white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind
him, E.L.Y'S, while outriders pranced past and carriages. Opposite
Pigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c,
gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved.
By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes
and socks with skyblue clocks to the refrain of MY GIRL'S A YORKSHIRE
GIRL.

Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high
action a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit
of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets forgot to salute but he
offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and the red
flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency
drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme of music which
was being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen highland laddies
blared and drumthumped after the CORTEGE:


    BUT THOUGH SHE'S A FACTORY LASS
    AND WEARS NO FANCY CLOTHES.
    BARAABUM.
    YET I'VE A SORT OF A
    YORKSHIRE RELISH FOR
    MY LITTLE YORKSHIRE ROSE.
    BARAABUM.


Thither of the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H.
Shrift, T. M. Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson,
C. Adderly and W. C. Huggard, started in pursuit. Striding past Finn's
hotel Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a
fierce eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr M. E. Solomons in
the window of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster street
by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho
cap. As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick
Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent with the
topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased by
porksteak paper. His collar too sprang up. The viceroy, on his way to
inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer's hospital,
drove with his following towards Lower Mount street. He passed a blind
stripling opposite Broadbent's. In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a
brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the
viceroy's path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his hoarding, Mr Eugene
Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke
township. At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted themselves,
an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder
the lord mayor and lady mayoress without his golden chain. On
Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually
salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two small schoolboys at the
garden gate of the house said to have been admired by the late queen when
visiting the Irish capital with her husband, the prince consort, in 1849
and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a
closing door.


    * * * * * * *


Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn.

Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips.

Horrid! And gold flushed more.

A husky fifenote blew.

Blew. Blue bloom is on the.

Goldpinnacled hair.

A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, rose of Castile.

Trilling, trilling: Idolores.

Peep! Who's in the ... peepofgold?

Tink cried to bronze in pity.

And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying call.

Decoy. Soft word. But look: the bright stars fade. Notes chirruping
answer.

O rose! Castile. The morn is breaking.

Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.

Coin rang. Clock clacked.

Avowal. SONNEZ. I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. LA
CLOCHE! Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye!

Jingle. Bloo.

Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs. War! War! The tympanum.

A sail! A veil awave upon the waves.

Lost. Throstle fluted. All is lost now.

Horn. Hawhorn.

When first he saw. Alas!

Full tup. Full throb.

Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring.

Martha! Come!

Clapclap. Clipclap. Clappyclap.

Goodgod henev erheard inall.

Deaf bald Pat brought pad knife took up.

A moonlit nightcall: far, far.

I feel so sad. P. S. So lonely blooming.

Listen!

The spiked and winding cold seahorn. Have you the? Each, and for other,
plash and silent roar.

Pearls: when she. Liszt's rhapsodies. Hissss.

You don't?

Did not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd. With a cock with a carra.

Black. Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.

Wait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while you hee.

But wait!

Low in dark middle earth. Embedded ore.

Naminedamine. Preacher is he:

All gone. All fallen.

Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.

Amen! He gnashed in fury.

Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding.

Bronzelydia by Minagold.

By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow. Bloom. Old Bloom.

One rapped, one tapped, with a carra, with a cock.

Pray for him! Pray, good people!

His gouty fingers nakkering.

Big Benaben. Big Benben.

Last rose Castile of summer left bloom I feel so sad alone.

Pwee! Little wind piped wee.

True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift your
tschink with tschunk.

Fff! Oo!

Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar? Where hoofs?

Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.

Then not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be pfrwritt.

Done.

Begin!

Bronze by gold, miss Douce's head by miss Kennedy's head, over the
crossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing
steel.

--Is that her? asked miss Kennedy.

Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl grey and EAU DE NIL.

--Exquisite contrast, miss Kennedy said.


When all agog miss Douce said eagerly:

--Look at the fellow in the tall silk.

--Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly.

--In the second carriage, miss Douce's wet lips said, laughing in the sun.

He's looking. Mind till I see.

She darted, bronze, to the backmost corner, flattening her face
against the pane in a halo of hurried breath.

Her wet lips tittered:

--He's killed looking back.

She laughed:

--O wept! Aren't men frightful idiots?

With sadness.

Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair
behind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a hair.

Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.

--It's them has the fine times, sadly then she said.

A man.

Bloowho went by by Moulang's pipes bearing in his breast the sweets
of sin, by Wine's antiques, in memory bearing sweet sinful words, by
Carroll's dusky battered plate, for Raoul.

The boots to them, them in the bar, them barmaids came. For them
unheeding him he banged on the counter his tray of chattering china. And

--There's your teas, he said.

Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to an
upturned lithia crate, safe from eyes, low.

--What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.

--Find out, miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.

--Your BEAU, is it?

A haughty bronze replied:

--I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I hear any more of your
impertinent insolence.

--Imperthnthn thnthnthn, bootssnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as she
threatened as he had come.

Bloom.

On her flower frowning miss Douce said:

--Most aggravating that young brat is. If he doesn't conduct himself I'll
wring his ear for him a yard long.

Ladylike in exquisite contrast.

--Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined.

She poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered
under their reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned,
waiting for their teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both of black
satin, two and nine a yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and
seven.

Yes, bronze from anear, by gold from afar, heard steel from anear,
hoofs ring from afar, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel.

--Am I awfully sunburnt?

Miss bronze unbloused her neck.

--No, said miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you try the borax with
the cherry laurel water?

Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin askance in the barmirror
gildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmered and in their midst
a shell.

--And leave it to my hands, she said.

--Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy advised.

Bidding her neck and hands adieu miss Douce

--Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I asked that old
fogey in Boyd's for something for my skin.

Miss Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced and prayed:

--O, don't remind me of him for mercy' sake!

--But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated.

Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two
ears with little fingers.

--No, don't, she cried.

--I won't listen, she cried.

But Bloom?

Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone:

--For your what? says he.

Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but said, but
prayed again:

--Don't let me think of him or I'll expire. The hideous old wretch! That
night in the Antient Concert Rooms.

She sipped distastefully her brew, hot tea, a sip, sipped, sweet tea.

--Here he was, miss Douce said, cocking her bronze head three quarters,
ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa!

Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. Miss
Douce huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like
a snout in quest.

--O! shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget his goggle eye?

Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting:

--And your other eye!

Bloowhose dark eye read Aaron Figatner's name. Why do I always
think Figather? Gathering figs, I think. And Prosper Lore's huguenot name.
By Bassi's blessed virgins Bloom's dark eyes went by. Bluerobed, white
under, come to me. God they believe she is: or goddess. Those today. I
could not see. That fellow spoke. A student. After with Dedalus' son. He
might be Mulligan. All comely virgins. That brings those rakes of fellows
in: her white.

By went his eyes. The sweets of sin. Sweet are the sweets.

Of sin.

In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with
Kennedy your other eye. They threw young heads back, bronze gigglegold,
to let freefly their laughter, screaming, your other, signals to each
other,  high piercing notes.

Ah, panting, sighing, sighing, ah, fordone, their mirth died down.

Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised, drank a sip and
gigglegiggled. Miss Douce, bending over the teatray, ruffled again her
nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping, her
fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered
out of her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter, coughing with
choking, crying:

--O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that! she cried. With
his bit of beard!

Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of full woman,
delight, joy, indignation.

--Married to the greasy nose! she yelled.

Shrill, with deep laughter, after, gold after bronze, they urged each
each to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze,
shrilldeep, to laughter after laughter. And then laughed more. Greasy I
knows. Exhausted, breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braided and
pinnacled by glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!),
panting, sweating (O!), all breathless.

Married to Bloom, to greaseabloom.

--O saints above! miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I wished

I hadn't laughed so much. I feel all wet.

--O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!

And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.

By Cantwell's offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi's virgins, bright
of their oils. Nannetti's father hawked those things about, wheedling at
doors as I. Religion pays. Must see him for that par. Eat first. I want.
Not yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhands turning. On.
Where eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I net five
guineas with those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet. The sweets
of sin.

Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled.

Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off one of his
rocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled.

--O, welcome back, miss Douce.

He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?

--Tiptop.

He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.

--Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am. Lying out on the strand
all day.

Bronze whiteness.

--That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed
her hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.

Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.

--O go away! she said. You're very simple, I don't think.

He was.

--Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they christened
me simple Simon.

--You must have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did the
doctor order today?

--Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I'll trouble you
for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.

Jingle.

--With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed.

With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and
Cochrane's she turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold
whisky from her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus
brought pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two
husky fifenotes.

--By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must be
a great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes at last,
they say. Yes. Yes.

Yes. He fingered shreds of hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid's, into
the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.

None nought said nothing. Yes.

Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling:

--O, IDOLORES, QUEEN OF THE EASTERN SEAS!

--Was Mr Lidwell in today?

In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex bridge.
Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write. Buy paper.
Daly's. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloom is on the rye.

--He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said.

Lenehan came forward.

--Was Mr Boylan looking for me?

He asked. She answered:

--Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs?

She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised,
her gaze upon a page:

--No. He was not.

Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the
sandwichbell wound his round body round.

--Peep! Who's in the corner?

No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind
her stops. To read only the black ones: round o and crooked ess.

Jingle jaunty jingle.

Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take no notice. She took no
notice while he read by rote a solfa fable for her, plappering flatly:

--Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your
bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?

He droned in vain. Miss Douce turned to her tea aside.

He sighed aside:

--Ah me! O my!

He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod.

--Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.

--Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked.

Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who?

--Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard.

Dry.

Mr Dedalus, famous father, laid by his dry filled pipe.

--I see, he said. I didn't recognise him for the moment. I hear he is
keeping very select company. Have you seen him lately?

He had.

--I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this very day, said Lenehan. In
Mooney's EN VILLE and in Mooney's SUR MER. He had received the rhino for
the labour of his muse.

He smiled at bronze's teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes:

--The ELITE of Erin hung upon his lips. The ponderous pundit, Hugh

MacHugh, Dublin's most brilliant scribe and editor and that minstrel boy
of the wild wet west who is known by the euphonious appellation of the
O'Madden Burke.

After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his grog and

--That must have been highly diverting, said he. I see.

He see. He drank. With faraway mourning mountain eye. Set down
his glass.

He looked towards the saloon door.

--I see you have moved the piano.

--The tuner was in today, miss Douce replied, tuning it for the smoking
concert and I never heard such an exquisite player.

--Is that a fact?

--Didn't he, miss Kennedy? The real classical, you know. And blind too,
poor fellow. Not twenty I'm sure he was.

--Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said.

He drank and strayed away.

--So sad to look at his face, miss Douce condoled.

God's curse on bitch's bastard.

Tink to her pity cried a diner's bell. To the door of the bar and
diningroom came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of
Ormond. Lager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served.

With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan with impatience, for
jinglejaunty blazes boy.

Upholding the lid he (who?) gazed in the coffin (coffin?) at the
oblique triple (piano!) wires. He pressed (the same who pressed
indulgently her hand), soft pedalling, a triple of keys to see the
thicknesses of felt advancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall in action.

Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I was
in Wisdom Hely's wise Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower bought. Are you not
happy in your home? Flower to console me and a pin cuts lo. Means
something, language of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is.
Respectable girl meet after mass. Thanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom eyed
on the door a poster, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves. Smoke
mermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming: lovelorn. For some man.
For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a
jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence.

Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond
quay. Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now. Out.

--Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.

--Aha ... I was forgetting ... Excuse ...

--And four.

At four she. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi qui
go. Ternoon. Think you're the only pebble on the beach? Does that to all.

For men.

In drowsy silence gold bent on her page.

From the saloon a call came, long in dying. That was a tuningfork the
tuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A call again. That he now
poised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, softly
and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.

Pat paid for diner's popcorked bottle: and over tumbler, tray and
popcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered, with miss

Douce.

--THE BRIGHT STARS FADE ...

A voiceless song sang from within, singing:

-- ... THE MORN IS BREAKING.

A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive
hands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording,
called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's
leavetaking, life's, love's morn.

--THE DEWDROPS PEARL ...

Lenehan's lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.

--But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.

Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.

She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn,
dreamily rose.

--Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.

She answered, slighting:

--Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.

Like lady, ladylike.

Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where he
strode. Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar. Lenehan heard and knew
and hailed him:

--See the conquering hero comes.

Between the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom,
unconquered hero. See me he might. The seat he sat on: warm. Black wary
hecat walked towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting.

--AND I FROM THEE ...

--I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.

He touched to fair miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw. She
smiled on him. But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her
richer hair, a bosom and a rose.

Smart Boylan bespoke potions.

--What's your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and a sloegin
for me. Wire in yet?

Not yet. At four she. Who said four?

Cowley's red lugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriff's office.

Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting.

Wait.

Hello. Where off to? Something to eat? I too was just. In here. What,
Ormond? Best value in Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom. Sit tight there.
See, not be seen. I think I'll join you. Come on. Richie led on. Bloom
followed bag. Dinner fit for a prince.

Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm,
her bust, that all but burst, so high.

--O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. O!

But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.

--Why don't you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.

Shebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his
lips, looked as it flowed (flower in his coat: who gave him?), and
syrupped with her voice:

--Fine goods in small parcels.

That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.

--Here's fortune, Blazes said.

He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.

--Hold on, said Lenehan, till I ...

--Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.

--Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.

--I plunged a bit, said Boylan winking and drinking. Not on my own, you
know. Fancy of a friend of mine.

Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at miss Douce's
lips that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled.

Idolores. The eastern seas.

Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder who
gave), bearing away teatray. Clock clacked.

Miss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. It
clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt teased and sorted in the till
and hummed and handed coins in change. Look to the west. A clack. For me.

--What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?

O'clock.

Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming,
tugged Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve.

--Let's hear the time, he said.


The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered
tables. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table
near the door. Be near. At four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a trick. Not
come: whet appetite. I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited.

Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes.

--Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one. He never heard.

-- ... TO FLORA'S LIPS DID HIE.

High, a high note pealed in the treble clear.

Bronzedouce communing with her rose that sank and rose sought

Blazes Boylan's flower and eyes.

--Please, please.

He pleaded over returning phrases of avowal.

--I COULD NOT LEAVE THEE ...

--Afterwits, miss Douce promised coyly.

--No, now, urged Lenehan. SONNEZLACLOCHE! O do! There's no-one.

She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two
kindling faces watched her bend.

Quavering the chords strayed from the air, found it again, lost chord,
and lost and found it, faltering.

--Go on! Do! SONNEZ!

Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted
them still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.

--SONNEZ!

Smack. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter
smackwarm against her smackable a woman's warmhosed thigh.

--LA CLOCHE! cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdust there.

She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren't men?), but, lightward
gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.

--You're the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.

Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off his chalice
tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. His spellbound eyes went
after, after her gliding head as it went down the bar by mirrors, gilded
arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a spiky shell,
where it concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze.

Yes, bronze from anearby.

-- ... SWEETHEART, GOODBYE!

--I'm off, said Boylan with impatience.

He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.

--Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell you.

Tom Rochford ...

--Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going.

Lenehan gulped to go.

--Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming.

He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the
threshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender.

--How do you do, Mr Dollard?

--Eh? How do? How do? Ben Dollard's vague bass answered, turning an
instant from Father Cowley's woe. He won't give you any trouble, Bob. Alf
Bergan will speak to the long fellow. We'll put a barleystraw in that
Judas Iscariot's ear this time.

Sighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger soothing an
eyelid.

--Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon. Give us a
ditty. We heard the piano.

Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drink orders. Power for Richie.
And Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice. His corns. Four now.
How warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?) heat. Let
me see. Cider. Yes, bottle of cider.

--What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only vamping, man.

--Come on, come on, Ben Dollard called. Begone dull care. Come, Bob.

He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with
the: hold him now) into the saloon. He plumped him Dollard on the stool.
His gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped, stopped abrupt.

Bald Pat in the doorway met tealess gold returning. Bothered, he
wanted Power and cider. Bronze by the window, watched, bronze from
afar.

Jingle a tinkle jaunted.

Bloom heard a jing, a little sound. He's off. Light sob of breath Bloom
sighed on the silent bluehued flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle. Hear.

--Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times.

Miss Douce's brave eyes, unregarded, turned from the crossblind,
smitten by sunlight. Gone. Pensive (who knows?), smitten (the smiting
light), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord. She drew down
pensive (why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze, over the bar
where bald stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast
inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of shadow,
EAU DE NIL.

--Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded
them. There was a slight difference of opinion between himself and the
Collard grand.

There was.

--A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said. The devil wouldn't stop him.
He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink.

--God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the
punished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment.

They laughed all three. He had no wed. All trio laughed. No wedding
garment.

--Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said. Where's
my pipe, by the way?

He wandered back to the bar to the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried
two diners' drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed again.

--I saved the situation, Ben, I think.

--You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember those tight trousers too. That
was a brilliant idea, Bob.

Father Cowley blushed to his brilliant purply lobes. He saved the
situa. Tight trou. Brilliant ide.

--I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano in
the coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration and who
was it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do you
remember? We had to search all Holles street to find them till the chap in
Keogh's gave us the number. Remember? Ben remembered, his broad visage
wondering.

--By God, she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there.

Mr Dedalus wandered back, pipe in hand.

--Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses. He
wouldn't take any money either. What? Any God's quantity of cocked hats
and boleros and trunkhose. What?

--Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes of all
descriptions.

Jingle jaunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.

Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat.

Mrs Marion. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn. Of Paul de Kock. Nice
name he.

--What's this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion ...

--Tweedy.

--Yes. Is she alive?

--And kicking.

--She was a daughter of ...

--Daughter of the regiment.

--Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.

Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after

--Irish? I don't know, faith. Is she, Simon?

Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.

--Buccinator muscle is ... What? ... Bit rusty ... O, she is ... My
Irish Molly, O.

He puffed a pungent plumy blast.

--From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.

They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the beerpull, bronze by
maraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace,
Drumcondra with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent.

Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he
ate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods' roes while
Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steak then kidney,
bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate.

Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners fit for princes.

By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor, in sun
in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding tyres:
sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn. Have you
the? Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn.

Over their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding
chords:

--WHEN LOVE ABSORBS MY ARDENT SOUL ...

Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roofpanes.

--War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior.

--So I am, Ben Warrior laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love or
money.

He stopped. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge.

--Sure, you'd burst the tympanum of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said
through smoke aroma, with an organ like yours.

In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He
would.

--Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time,
Ben. AMOROSO MA NON TROPPO. Let me there.

Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. She
passed a remark. It was indeed, first gentleman said, beautiful weather.
They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord lieutenant was going?
And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn't say. But it would be
in the paper. O, she need not trouble. No trouble. She waved about her
outspread INDEPENDENT, searching, the lord lieutenant, her pinnacles of
hair slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too much trouble, first gentleman said. O,
not in the least. Way he looked that. Lord lieutenant. Gold by bronze
heard iron steel.

-- ............ MY ARDENT SOUL
    I CARE NOT FOROR THE MORROW.

In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and War
someone is. Ben Dollard's famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a
dress suit for that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical
porkers. Molly did laugh when he went out. Threw herself back across the
bed, screaming, kicking. With all his belongings on show. O saints above,
I'm drenched! O, the women in the front row! O, I never laughed so many!
Well, of course that's what gives him the base barreltone. For instance
eunuchs. Wonder who's playing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley. Musical.
Knows whatever note you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.

Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, George
Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist
(a lady's) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To the
old dingdong again.

--Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.

George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.

Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap in the
Burton, gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding and I. Clean tables,
flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing to do. Best
value in Dub.

Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one together,
mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the
bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long snore.
Night we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus,
between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle.
Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide
them.

Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.

Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of
a lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that
once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their
harps. I. He. Old. Young.

--Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.

Strongly.

--Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits.

--M'APPARI, Simon, Father Cowley said.

Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long
arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he
sang to a dusty seascape there: A LAST FAREWELL. A headland, a ship, a
sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the
wind upon the headland, wind around her.

Cowley sang:


--M'APPARI TUTT'AMOR:
IL MIO SGUARDO L'INCONTR ...


She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to one departing, dear one, to
wind, love, speeding sail, return.

--Go on, Simon.

--Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben ... Well ...

Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting,
touched the obedient keys.

--No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat.

The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.

Up stage strode Father Cowley.

--Here, Simon, I'll accompany you, he said. Get up.

By Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, by Elvery's elephant jingly
jogged. Steak, kidney, liver, mashed, at meat fit for princes sat princes
Bloom and Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank, Power and
cider.

Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie said: SONNAMBULA. He
heard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, what M'Guckin! Yes. In his way.
Choirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if you like.
Never forget it. Never.

Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened features strain.
Backache he. Bright's bright eye. Next item on the programme. Paying the
piper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Stave it off awhile.
Sings too: DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to
the. Not making much hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic of him.
Power. Particular about his drink. Flaw in the glass, fresh Vartry water.
Fecking matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereign in dribs
and drabs. And when he's wanted not a farthing. Screwed refusing to pay
his fare. Curious types.

Never would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived: never. In
the gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note.

Speech paused on Richie's lips.

Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn all.

Believes his own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good
memory.

--Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.

--ALL IS LOST NOW.

Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee murmured:
all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he's
proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two notes in one
there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he
twined and turned them. All most too new call is lost in all. Echo. How
sweet the answer. How is that done? All lost now. Mournful he whistled.
Fall, surrender, lost.

Bloom bent leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the
vase. Order. Yes, I remember. Lovely air. In sleep she went to him.
Innocence in the moon. Brave. Don't know their danger. Still hold her
back. Call name. Touch water. Jingle jaunty. Too late. She longed to go.
That's why. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost.

--A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.

Never in all his life had Richie Goulding.

He knows it well too. Or he feels. Still harping on his daughter. Wise
child that knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?

Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking
Richie once. Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his eye.
Now begging letters he sends his son with. Crosseyed Walter sir I did sir.
Wouldn't trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise.

Piano again. Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably.
Stopped again.

Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it.

--With it, Simon.

--It, Simon.

--Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeply obliged by your kind
solicitations.

--It, Simon.

--I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour
to sing to you of a heart bowed down.

By the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her bronze and rose,
a lady's grace, gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous EAU DE NIL Mina
to tankards two her pinnacles of gold.

The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord, longdrawn, expectant,
drew a voice away.

--WHEN FIRST I SAW THAT FORM ENDEARING ...

Richie turned.

--Si Dedalus' voice, he said.

Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, they listened feeling that flow
endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Bloom signed to
Pat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door of the
bar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting
to hear, for he was hard of hear by the door.

--SORROW FROM ME SEEMED TO DEPART.

Through the hush of air a voice sang to them, low, not rain, not leaves
in murmur, like no voice of strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem
dulcimers touching their still ears with words, still hearts of their each
his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to
from both depart when first they heard. When first they saw, lost Richie
Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the
least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word.

Love that is singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly
the elastic band of his packet. Love's old sweet SONNEZ LA gold. Bloom
wound a skein round four forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, and wound it
round his troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.

--FULL OF HOPE AND ALL DELIGHTED ...

Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at
his feet. When will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. He
can't sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him.
What perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Last look
at mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How do you?
I do well. There? What? Or? Phial of cachous, kissing comfits, in her
satchel. Yes? Hands felt for the opulent.

Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud.

--BUT ALAS, 'TWAS IDLE DREAMING ...

Glorious tone he has still. Cork air softer also their brogue. Silly man!
Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his
wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If he doesn't
break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet sing too.
Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lind soup:
stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.

Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed. That's the chat.
Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect.

Words? Music? No: it's what's behind.

Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.

Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in
music out, in desire, dark to lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her
tapping her topping her. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the
feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush,
flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now! Language of love.

-- ... RAY OF HOPE IS ...

Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse
unsqueaked a ray of hopk.

MARTHA it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song. Lovely
name you have. Can't write. Accept my little pres. Play on her
heartstrings pursestrings too. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still
the name: Martha. How strange! Today.

The voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again to
Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting to
wait. How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrow seemed to part,
how look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.

Wish I could see his face, though. Explain better. Why the barber in
Drago's always looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass. Still
hear it better here than in the bar though farther.

--EACH GRACEFUL LOOK ...

First night when first I saw her at Mat Dillon's in Terenure. Yellow,
black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her.
Fate.

Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Down she
sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.

--CHARMED MY EYE ...

Singing. WAITING she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume
of what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat
warbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy
eyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in
shadow Dolores shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.

--MARTHA! AH, MARTHA!

Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant
to love to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony. In cry
of lionel loneliness that she should know, must martha feel. For only her
he waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where. Somewhere.

--CO-OME, THOU LOST ONE!
  CO-OME, THOU DEAR ONE!

Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return!

--COME!

It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb
it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don't spin it out too long
long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame,
crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the etherial bosom,
high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about
the all, the endlessnessnessness ...

--TO ME!

Siopold!

Consumed.

Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to him, to
her, you too, me, us.

--Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore!
Clapclipclap clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore,
enclap, said, cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, George
Lidwell, Pat, Mina Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley,
first gent with tank and bronze miss Douce and gold MJiss Mina.

Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before.
Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson,
reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before just now. Atrot,
in heat, heatseated. CLOCHE. SONNEZ LA. CLOCHE. SONNEZ LA. Slower the mare
went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too slow for Boylan,
blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.

An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer.

And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider
drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of
two more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving,
coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.

--Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd
sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.

Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina
Kennedy served. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia,
admired, admired. But Bloom sang dumb.

Admiring.

Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He
remembered one night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang 'TWAS
RANK AND FAME: in Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never heard in all his
life a note like that he never did THEN FALSE ONE WE HAD BETTER PART so
clear so God he never heard SINCE LOVE LIVES NOT a clinking voice lives
not ask Lambert he can tell you too.

Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the
night, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus house, sang 'TWAS RANK AND FAME.

He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr
Bloom, of the night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK AND
FAME in his, Ned Lambert's, house.

Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the
lute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more. The
night Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more
than all others.

That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence after
you feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.

Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked
the slender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged. While
Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan,
harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to listening
Father Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While
big Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he
smoked, who smoked.

Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his
string. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on.
Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head. Outtohelloutofthat.
Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave.
CORPUS PARADISUM. Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup. Gone.
They sing. Forgotten. I too; And one day she with. Leave her: get tired.
Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Her
wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:'d.

Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not
happy in your? Twang. It snapped.

Jingle into Dorset street.

Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.

--Don't make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.

George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.

First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so.
And second tankard told her so. That that was so.

Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: miss Kennedy, Mina, did not
believe: George Lidwell, no: miss Dou did not: the first, the first: gent
with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the
tank.

Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.

Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He
went. A pad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curling catgut line. It certainly is.
Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid music is. Who is
this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper,
envelope: unconcerned. It's so characteristic.

--Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding said.

--It is, Bloom said.

Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two
divided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two
plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always find
out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall. He doesn't see my
mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you think
you're listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it like: Martha,
seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite flat. It's on
account of the sounds it is.

Instance he's playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like, till
you hear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then hear
chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, over barrels,
through wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune. Question of mood
you're in. Still always nice to hear. Except scales up and down, girls
learning. Two together nextdoor neighbours. Ought to invent dummy pianos
for that. BLUMENLIED I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow, a girl,
night I came home, the girl. Door of the stables near Cecilia street.
Milly no taste. Queer because we both, I mean.

Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite
flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.

It was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a
boy in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles.
Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in the
moonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God, such
music, Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.

Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed
a moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.

Down the edge of his FREEMAN baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye,
scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick.
Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking ...

Hope he's not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his FREEMAN.
Can't see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear
sir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Hell did I put?
Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline IMPOSS. To write today.

Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am just reflecting
fingers on flat pad Pat brought.

On. Know what I mean. No, change that ee. Accep my poor litt pres
enclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the
gulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne's. Is eight about. Say half a
crown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Do you
despise? Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught?
You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today. Yes, yes,
will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Other world she
wrote. My patience are exhaust. To keep it up. You must believe. Believe.
The tank. It. Is. True.

Folly am I writing? Husbands don't. That's marriage does, their
wives. Because I'm away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young.
If she found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless
pain. If they don't see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.

A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James of
number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a young
gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by
George Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay, and
wearing a straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one
Great Brunswick street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled and
jingled. By Dlugacz' porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a
gallantbuttocked mare.

--Answering an ad? keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.

Bloom mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You
know how. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is he
playing now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum tum. How will
you pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I want
to. Know. O. Course if I didn't I wouldn't ask. La la la ree. Trails off
there sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sad tail at end.
P. P. S. La la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely. Dee.

He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address. Just copy out of
paper. Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. Henry wrote:


        Miss Martha Clifford
            c/o P. O.
        Dolphin's Barn Lane
                Dublin


Blot over the other so he can't read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit.
Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea
per col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U. P:
up.

Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms.
Shakespeare said. Quotations every day in the year. To be or not to be.
Wisdom while you wait.

In Gerard's rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyedauburn. One life is
all. One body. Do. But do.

Done anyhow. Postal order, stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk
now. Enough. Barney Kiernan's I promised to meet them. Dislike that job.

House of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear. Deaf beetle he is.

Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn't. Settling those napkins.
Lot of ground he must cover in the day. Paint face behind on him then he'd
be two. Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off.

Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of
his hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He
waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He waits
while you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you wait.
Hee hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.

Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.

She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the lovely
shell she brought.

To the end of the bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and winding
seahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.

--Listen! she bade him.

Under Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.
Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the husband
took him by the throat. SCOUNDREL, said he, YOU'LL SING NO MORE LOVESONGS.
He did, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom. Cowley lay back.

Ah, now he heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard.

Wonderful. She held it to her own. And through the sifted light pale gold
in contrast glided. To hear.

Tap.

Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. He heard
more faintly that that they heard, each for herself alone, then each for
other, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar.

Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, they listened.

Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside.
Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have put on coldcream first
make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn't forget. Fever
near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell with
seaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks the
mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. A cave. No
admittance except on business.

The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood it is. Souse
in the ear sometimes. Well, it's a sea. Corpuscle islands.

Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur,
hearing: then laid it by, gently.

--What are the wild waves saying? he asked her, smiled.

Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.

Tap.

By Larry O'Rourke's, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and
Boylan turned.

From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting.
No, she was not so lonely archly miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know.
Walks in the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With whom? She nobly
answered: with a gentleman friend.

Bob Cowley's twinkling fingers in the treble played again. The
landlord has the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben. Lightly he
played a light bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and
smiling, and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one,
one, one: two, one, three, four.

Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattlemarket,
cocks, hens don't crow, snakes hissss. There's music everywhere.
Ruttledge's door: ee creaking. No, that's noise. Minuet of DON GIOVANNI
he's playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle chambers
dancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating
dockleaves. Nice that is. Look: look, look, look, look, look: you
look at us.

That's joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is other
joy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be. Mere fact of music shows you
are. Often thought she was in the dumps till she began to lilt. Then
know.

M'Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing cat. Like tearing silk.
Tongue when she talks like the clapper of a bellows. They can't manage
men's intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me. I'm warm, dark, open.
Molly IN QUIS EST HOMO: Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear. Want
a woman who can deliver the goods.

Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks
skyblue clocks came light to earth.

O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on
that. It is a kind of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is.
Tinkling. Empty vessels make most noise. Because the acoustics, the
resonance changes according as the weight of the water is equal to the law
of falling water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed.
Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle. Hissss. Now.
Maybe now. Before.

One rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul
de Kock with a loud proud knocker with a cock carracarracarra cock.
Cockcock.

Tap.

--QUI SDEGNO, Ben, said Father Cowley.

--No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. The Croppy Boy. Our native Doric.

--Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true.

--Do, do, they begged in one.

I'll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay.
To me. How much?

--What key? Six sharps?

--F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.

Bob Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords.

Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must.
Got money somewhere. He's on for a razzle backache spree. Much? He
seehears lipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give him
twopence tip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family waiting,
waiting Patty come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait.

But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of
the dark middle earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic.

The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach
and painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good men
and true. The priest he sought. With him would he speak a word.

Tap.

Ben Dollard's voice. Base barreltone. Doing his level best to say it.
Croak of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Big
ships' chandler's business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships'
lanterns. Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh
home. Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him.

The priest's at home. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. Step
in. The holy father. With bows a traitor servant. Curlycues of chords.

Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end their
days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.

The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had
entered a lonely hall, told them how solemn fell his footsteps there, told
them the gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive.

Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he'll win in ANSWERS, poets'
picture puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note. Bird sitting hatching
in a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. See blank tee what
domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. Good voice he has
still. No eunuch yet with all his belongings.

Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door
deaf Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened. The chords harped slower.

The voice of penance and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous.
Ben's contrite beard confessed. IN NOMINE DOMINI, in God's name he knelt.
He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: MEA CULPA.

Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with the
communion corpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin or
coffey, CORPUSNOMINE. Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape.

Tap.

They listened. Tankards and miss Kennedy. George Lidwell, eyelid
well expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si.

The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since Easter he had
cursed three times. You bitch's bast. And once at masstime he had gone to
play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother's rest he
had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.

Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn't
half know I'm. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.

Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face?
They always know. Knock at the door. Last tip to titivate.

Cockcarracarra.

What do they think when they hear music? Way to catch rattlesnakes.
Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked that
best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain too.
Custom his country perhaps. That's music too. Not as bad as it sounds.
Tootling. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasses helpless,
gashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand open crocodile
music hath jaws. Woodwind like Goodwin's name.

She looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on
show. Clove her breath was always in theatre when she bent to ask a
question. Told her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papa's.
Hypnotised, listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle
staring down into her with his operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty
of music you must hear twice. Nature woman half a look. God made the
country man the tune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!

All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his
brothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last of
his name and race.

I too. Last of my race. Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps.
No son. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still?

He bore no hate.

Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old. Big Ben his voice
unfolded. Great voice Richie Goulding said, a flush struggling in his
pale, to Bloom soon old. But when was young?

Ireland comes now. My country above the king. She listens. Who
fears to speak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving. Looked enough.

--BLESS ME, FATHER, Dollard the croppy cried. BLESS ME AND LET ME GO.

Tap.

Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a
week. Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Those
girls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl's romance. Letters
read out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy's owny Mumpsypum.
Laughter in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name you.

Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priest
rustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain. They know it all by
heart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap.

Tap. Tap.

Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear.

Blank face. Virgin should say: or fingered only. Write something on
it: page. If not what becomes of them? Decline, despair. Keeps them young.
Even admire themselves. See. Play on her. Lip blow. Body of white woman,
a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes, all women. Goddess I didn't
see. They want it. Not too much polite. That's why he gets them. Gold in
your pocket, brass in your face. Say something. Make her hear. With look
to look. Songs without words. Molly, that hurdygurdy boy. She knew he
meant the monkey was sick. Or because so like the Spanish. Understand
animals too that way. Solomon did. Gift of nature.

Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom. What?

Will? You? I. Want. You. To.

With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplectic
bitch's bastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour's your time to
live, your last.

Tap. Tap.

Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for martyrs that want
to, dying to, die. For all things dying, for all things born. Poor Mrs
Purefoy. Hope she's over. Because their wombs.

A liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes,
calmly, hearing. See real beauty of the eye when she not speaks. On yonder
river. At each slow satiny heaving bosom's wave (her heaving embon) red
rose rose slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats: her breath: breath that is
life. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair.

But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castile. The morn. Ha.
Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? See her
from here though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.

On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave
it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over the
polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger
passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then slid so
smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding through
their sliding ring.

With a cock with a carra.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing.

The chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be. Get out before
the end. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where's my hat. Pass by her. Can
leave that Freeman. Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No. Walk,
walk, walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall
Farrell. Waaaaaaalk.

Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O'er ryehigh blue.
Ow. Bloom stood up. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Must have
sweated: music. That lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade. Card
inside. Yes.

By deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed.

At Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage was his body
laid. Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the mournful chanter called to
dolorous prayer.

By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties,
by popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and
faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so lonely
Bloom.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear in peace. Breathe
a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppy boy.

Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond
hallway heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots
all treading, boots not the boots the boy. General chorus off for a swill
to wash it down. Glad I avoided.

--Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried. By God, you're as good as ever you
were.

--Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad,
upon my soul and honour It is.

--Lablache, said Father Cowley.

Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the bar, mightily praisefed and all
big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes
in the air.

Big Benaben Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.

Rrr.

And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose,
all laughing they brought him forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer.

--You're looking rubicund, George Lidwell said.

Miss Douce composed her rose to wait.

--Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben's fat back shoulderblade.
Fit as a fiddle only he has a lot of adipose tissue concealed about his
person.

Rrrrrrrsss.

--Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled.

Richie rift in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly
he waited. Unpaid Pat too.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankard one.

--Mr Dollard, they murmured low.

--Dollard, murmured tankard.

Tank one believed: miss Kenn when she: that doll he was: she doll:
the tank.

He murmured that he knew the name. The name was familiar to him,
that is to say. That was to say he had heard the name of. Dollard, was it?
Dollard, yes.

Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that song lovely,
murmured Mina. Mr Dollard. And THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER was a lovely
song. Mina loved that song. Tankard loved the song that Mina.

'Tis the last rose of summer dollard left bloom felt wind wound round
inside.

Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J's
one and eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street. Wish
I hadn't promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on your nerves.
Beerpull. Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth. That rules
the world.

Far. Far. Far. Far.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for
Mady, with sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses
went Poldy on.

Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone tapping, tap by tap.

Cowley, he stuns himself with it: kind of drunkenness. Better give
way only half way the way of a man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts. All
ears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding in time. Dotty.
You daren't budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Always talking shop.
Fiddlefaddle about notes.

All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because you
never know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid a year.
Queer up there in the cockloft, alone, with stops and locks and keys.
Seated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself or
the other fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriek cursing
(want to have wadding or something in his no don't she cried), then all of
a soft sudden wee little wee little pipy wind.

Pwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. In Bloom's little wee.

--Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning with fetched pipe. I was with him
this morning at poor little Paddy Dignam's ...

--Ay, the Lord have mercy on him.

--By the bye there's a tuningfork in there on the ...

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

--The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What? Lidwell asked.

--O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw, forgot
it when he was here.

Blind he was she told George Lidwell second I saw. And played so
exquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid, minagold.

--Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out!

--'lldo! cried Father Cowley.

Rrrrrr.

I feel I want ...

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap

--Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine.

Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely, last
sardine of summer. Bloom alone.

--Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Bloom went by Barry's. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if I
had. Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. Counted them. Litigation.
Love one another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power
of attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward.

But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation:
Mickey Rooney's band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home
after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing his
band part. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses' skins. Welt them
through life, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what you
call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.

Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tapping cane came taptaptapping
by Daly's window where a mermaid hair all streaming (but he couldn't see)
blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't), mermaid, coolest whiff of all.

Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even
comb and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in her shift in
Lombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade made its own,
don't you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? CLOCHE. SONNEZ LA.
Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle. Locks and keys!
Sweep! Four o'clock's all's well! Sleep! All is lost now. Drum? Pompedy.
Wait. I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff. Long John. Waken the dead. Pom.
Dignam. Poor little NOMINEDOMINE. Pom. It is music. I mean of course it's
all pom pom pom very much what they call DA CAPO. Still you can hear. As
we march, we march along, march along. Pom.

I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of
custom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same he must
have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap. Muffled up.
Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown macin. O, the whore
of the lane!

A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the
day along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form
endearing? Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn. Who
had the? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst!
Any chance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be
with you in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke, that. Appointment
we made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to home
sweet home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip.
Damn her. O, well, she has to live like the rest. Look in here.

In Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel
Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged
battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain: six bob.
Might learn to play. Cheap. Let her pass. Course everything is dear if
you don't want it. That's what good salesman is. Make you buy what he
wants to sell. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Wanted
to charge me for the edge he gave it. She's passing now. Six bob.

Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.

Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked their clinking
glasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting
last rose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a
fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard.

Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.

Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert
Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is.

--True men like you men.

--Ay, ay, Ben.

--Will lift your glass with us.

They lifted.

Tschink. Tschunk.

Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He
saw not gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor
Richie nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.

Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Softly. WHEN MY COUNTRY
TAKES HER PLACE AMONG.

Prrprr.

Must be the bur.

Fff! Oo. Rrpr.

NATIONS OF THE EARTH. No-one behind. She's passed. THEN AND NOT TILL
THEN. Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I'm
sure it's the burgund. Yes. One, two. LET MY EPITAPH BE. Kraaaaaa.
WRITTEN. I HAVE.

Pprrpffrrppffff.

DONE.


    * * * * * * *


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.

--Ay, says I. How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and doubtful
debts. But that's the most notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a day's
walk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain. TELL
HIM, says he, I DARE HIM, says he, AND I DOUBLEDARE HIM TO SEND YOU ROUND
HERE AGAIN OR IF HE DOES, says he, I'LL HAVE HIM SUMMONSED UP BEFORE THE
COURT, SO I WILL, FOR TRADING WITHOUT A LICENCE. And he after stuffing
himself till he's fit to burst. Jesus, I had to laugh at the little jewy
getting his shirt out. HE DRINK ME MY TEAS. HE EAT ME MY SUGARS. BECAUSE
HE NO PAY ME MY MONEYS?

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.

--Never better, A CHARA, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?

And with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck
and, by Jesus, he near throttled him.

The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower
was that of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed
redhaired freelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed
longheaded deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced
sinewyarmed hero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and
his rocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of
his body wherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair in
hue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse (ULEX EUROPEUS). The
widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hue projected,
were of such capaciousness that within their cavernous obscurity the
fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes in which a tear and
a smile strove ever for the mastery were of the dimensions of a goodsized
cauliflower. A powerful current of warm breath issued at regular intervals
from the profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic resonance the
loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered
rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still
loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble.

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.

--For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen, the subsidised
organ. The pledgebound party on the floor of the house. And look at this
blasted rag, says he. Look at this, says he. THE IRISH INDEPENDENT, if you
please, founded by Parnell to be the workingman's friend. Listen to the
births and deaths in the IRISH ALL FOR IRELAND INDEPENDENT, and I'll thank
you and the marriages.

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.

--BI I DHO HUSHT, says he.

--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.

In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer by
tantras had been directed to the proper quarter a faint but increasing
luminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition of the
etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge of jivic
rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication was effected
through the pituitary body and also by means of the orangefiery and
scarlet rays emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus. Questioned
by his earthname as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld he stated that
he was now on the path of pr l ya or return but was still submitted to
trial at the hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the lower astral
levels. In reply to a question as to his first sensations in the great
divide beyond he stated that previously he had seen as in a glass darkly
but that those who had passed over had summit possibilities of atmic
development opened up to them. Interrogated as to whether life there
resembled our experience in the flesh he stated that he had heard from
more favoured beings now in the spirit that their abodes were equipped
with every modern home comfort such as talafana, alavatar, hatakalda,
wataklasat and that the highest adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy
of the very purest nature. Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was
brought and evidently afforded relief. Asked if he had any message
for the living he exhorted all who were still at the wrong side of Maya
to acknowledge the true path for it was reported in devanic circles that
Mars and Jupiter were out for mischief on the eastern angle where the
ram has power. It was then queried whether there were any special
desires on the part of the defunct and the reply was: WE GREET YOU,
FRIENDS OF EARTH, WHO ARE STILL IN THE BODY. MIND C. K. DOESN'T PILE IT
ON. It was ascertained that the reference was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher,
manager of Messrs H. J. O'Neill's popular funeral establishment, a
personal friend of the defunct, who had been responsible for the carrying
out of the interment arrangements. Before departing he requested that it
should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been
looking for was at present under the commode in the return room and that
the pair should be sent to Cullen's to be soled only as the heels were
still good. He stated that this had greatly perturbed his peace of mind in
the other region and earnestly requested that his desire should be made
known.

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.


                7 HUNTER STREET, LIVERPOOL.
        TO THE HIGH SHERIFF OF DUBLIN, DUBLIN.

    HONOURED SIR I BEG TO OFFER MY SERVICES IN THE ABOVEMENTIONED PAINFUL
CASE I HANGED JOE GANN IN BOOTLE JAIL ON THE 12 OF FEBUARY 1900 AND I
HANGED ...

--Show us, Joe, says I.

-- ... PRIVATE ARTHUR CHACE FOR FOWL MURDER OF JESSIE TILSIT IN
PENTONVILLE PRISON AND I WAS ASSISTANT WHEN ...

--Jesus, says I.

-- ... BILLINGTON EXECUTED THE AWFUL MURDERER TOAD SMITH ...

The citizen made a grab at the letter.

--Hold hard, says Joe, I HAVE A SPECIAL NACK OF PUTTING THE NOOSE ONCE IN
HE CAN'T GET OUT HOPING TO BE FAVOURED I REMAIN, HONOURED SIR, MY TERMS IS
FIVE GINNEES.

            H. RUMBOLD,
                MASTER BARBER.


--And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen.

--And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. Here, says he, take 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.

The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft
tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of
the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would,
according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be calculated
to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus
of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus, thereby causing the elastic
pores of the CORPORA CAVERNOSA to rapidly dilate in such a way as to
instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the human
anatomy known as the penis or male organ resulting in the phenomenon which
has been denominated by the faculty a morbid upwards and outwards
philoprogenitive erection IN ARTICULO MORTIS PER DIMINUTIONEM CAPITIS.

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.

And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the
brothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert
Emmet and die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara
Curran and she's far from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his
knockmedown cigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon!
The fat heap he married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a
ballalley. Time they were stopping up in the CITY ARMS pisser Burke told
me there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and
Bloom trying to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playing
bezique to come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat
of a Friday because the old one was always thumping her craw and taking
the lout out for a walk. And one time he led him the rounds of Dublin and,
by the holy farmer, he never cried crack till he brought him home as drunk
as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils of alcohol
and by herrings, if the three women didn't near roast him, it's a queer
story, the old one, Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that kept the hotel.
Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking them off chewing the fat.
And Bloom with his BUT DON'T YOU SEE? and BUT ON THE OTHER HAND. And sure,
more be token, the lout I'm told was in Power's after, the blender's,
round in Cope street going home footless in a cab five times in the week
after drinking his way through all the samples in the bloody
establishment. Phenomenon!

--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 ...

--SINN FEIN! says the citizen. SINN FEIN AMHAIN! The friends we love are
by our side and the foes we hate before us.

The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries far
and near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around the
gloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drums
punctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafening
claps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the
ghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its
supernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle. A torrential rain
poured down from the floodgates of the angry heavens upon the bared heads
of the assembled multitude which numbered at the lowest computation five
hundred thousand persons. A posse of Dublin Metropolitan police
superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person maintained order in
the vast throng for whom the York street brass and reed band whiled away
the intervening time by admirably rendering on their blackdraped
instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by
Speranza's plaintive muse. Special quick excursion trains and upholstered
charabancs had been provided for the comfort of our country cousins of
whom there were large contingents. Considerable amusement was caused
by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang The
NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED in their usual mirth-provoking fashion.
Our two inimitable drolls did a roaring trade with their broadsheets among
lovers of the comedy element and nobody who has a corner in his heart for
real Irish fun without vulgarity will grudge them their hardearned
pennies. The children of the Male and Female Foundling Hospital who
thronged the windows overlooking the scene were delighted with this
unexpected addition to the day's entertainment and a word of praise is due
to the Little Sisters of the Poor for their excellent idea of affording
the poor fatherless and motherless children a genuinely instructive treat.
The viceregal houseparty which included many wellknown ladies was
chaperoned by Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the
grandstand while the picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends
of the Emerald Isle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite.
The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore
Bacibaci Beninobenone (the semiparalysed DOYEN of the party who had
to be assisted to his seat by the aid of a powerful steam crane),
Monsieur Pierrepaul Petitepatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire
Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von
Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Viraga Kisaszony Putrapesthi,
Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh
Rahat Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pecadillo y
Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri,
Hi Hung Chang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps,
Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchisitch,
Borus Hupinkoff, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli,
Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocent-
generalhistoryspecialprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein.
All the delegates without exception expressed themselves in the
strongest possible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless
barbarity which they had been called upon to witness. An animated
altercation (in which all took part) ensued among the F. O. T. E. I.
as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March was the correct
date of the birth of Ireland's patron saint. In the course of the
argument cannonballs, scimitars, boomerangs, blunderbusses, stinkpots,
meatchoppers, umbrellas, catapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of pig
iron were resorted to and blows were freely exchanged. The baby
policeman, Constable MacFadden, summoned by special courier from
Booterstown, quickly restored order and with lightning promptitude
proposed the seventeenth of the month as a solution equally honourable for
both contending parties. The readywitted ninefooter's suggestion at once
appealed to all and was unanimously accepted. Constable MacFadden was
heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were
bleeding profusely. Commendatore Beninobenone having been extricated
from underneath the presidential armchair, it was explained by his legal
adviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the various articles secreted in his
thirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by him during the affray from the
pockets of his junior colleagues in the hope of bringing them to their
senses. The objects (which included several hundred ladies' and
gentlemen's gold and silver watches) were promptly restored to their
rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.

Quietly, unassumingly Rumbold stepped on to the scaffold in faultless
morning dress and wearing his favourite flower, the GLADIOLUS CRUENTUS.
He announced his presence by that gentle Rumboldian cough which so
many have tried (unsuccessfully) to imitate--short, painstaking yet withal
so characteristic of the man. The arrival of the worldrenowned headsman
was greeted by a roar of acclamation from the huge concourse, the
viceregal ladies waving their handkerchiefs in their excitement while the
even more excitable foreign delegates cheered vociferously in a medley of
cries, HOCH, BANZAI, ELJEN, ZIVIO, CHINCHIN, POLLA KRONIA, HIPHIP, VIVE,
ALLAH, amid which the ringing evviva of the delegate of the land of song
(a high double F recalling those piercingly lovely notes with which the
eunuch Catalani beglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers) was easily
distinguishable. It was exactly seventeen o'clock. The signal for prayer
was then promptly given by megaphone and in an instant all heads were
bared, the commendatore's patriarchal sombrero, which has been in the
possession of his family since the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by
his medical adviser in attendance, Dr Pippi. The learned prelate who
administered the last comforts of holy religion to the hero martyr when
about to pay the death penalty knelt in a most christian spirit in a pool
of rainwater, his cassock above his hoary head, and offered up to the
throne of grace fervent prayers of supplication. Hand by the block stood
the grim figure of the executioner, his visage being concealed in a
tengallon pot with two circular perforated apertures through which
his eyes glowered furiously. As he awaited the fatal signal he
tested the edge of his horrible weapon by honing it upon his
brawny forearm or decapitated in rapid succession a flock of
sheep which had been provided by the admirers of his fell but necessary
office. On a handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the
quartering knife, the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances
(specially supplied by the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round
and Sons, Sheffield), a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the
duodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully
extracted and two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the most
precious blood of the most precious victim. The housesteward of the
amalgamated cats' and dogs' home was in attendance to convey these
vessels when replenished to that beneficent institution. Quite an
excellent repast consisting of rashers and eggs, fried steak and onions,
done to a nicety, delicious hot breakfast rolls and invigorating tea had
been considerately provided by the authorities for the consumption
of the central figure of the tragedy who was in capital spirits
when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in the
proceedings from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare
in these our times, rose nobly to the occasion and expressed the
dying wish (immediately acceded to) that the meal should be
divided in aliquot parts among the members of the sick and indigent
roomkeepers' association as a token of his regard and esteem. The NEC and
NON PLUS ULTRA of emotion were reached when the blushing bride elect burst
her way through the serried ranks of the bystanders and flung herself upon
the muscular bosom of him who was about to be launched into eternity for
her sake. The hero folded her willowy form in a loving embrace murmuring
fondly SHEILA, MY OWN. Encouraged by this use of her christian name she
kissed passionately all the various suitable areas of his person which the
decencies of prison garb permitted her ardour to reach. She swore to him
as they mingled the salt streams of their tears that she would ever
cherish his memory, that she would never forget her hero boy who went to
his death with a song on his lips as if he were but going to a hurling
match in Clonturk park. She brought back to his recollection the happy
days of blissful childhood together on the banks of Anna Liffey when they
had indulged in the innocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the
dreadful present, they both laughed heartily, all the spectators,
including the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment. That
monster audience simply rocked with delight. But anon they were overcome
with grief and clasped their hands for the last time. A fresh torrent of
tears burst from their lachrymal ducts and the vast concourse of people,
touched to the inmost core, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least
affected being the aged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of
the peace and genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary,
were making frank use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say
that there was not a dry eye in that record assemblage. A most
romantic incident occurred when a handsome young Oxford graduate,
noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex, stepped forward and,
presenting his visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree,
solicited the hand of the hapless young lady, requesting her to
name the day, and was accepted on the spot. Every lady in the
audience was presented with a tasteful souvenir of the occasion
in the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a timely and generous
act which evoked a fresh outburst of emotion: and when the gallant
young Oxonian (the bearer, by the way, of one of the most timehonoured
names in Albion's history) placed on the finger of his blushing FIANCEE
an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a
fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. Nay, even the ster
 provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan Tomlinson,
who presided on the sad occasion, he who had blown a considerable number
of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not now restrain
his natural emotion. With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a furtive
tear and was overheard, by those privileged burghers who happened to be
in his immediate ENTOURAGE, to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone:

--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.

Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and
the old towser growling, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera.
Such growling you never heard as they let off between them. Someone that
has nothing better to do ought to write a letter PRO BONO PUBLICO to the
papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of that. Growling and
grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the
hydrophobia dropping out of his jaws.

All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among
the lower animals (and their name is legion) should make a point of not
missing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the
famous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the SOBRIQUET of
Garryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and
acquaintances Owen Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of years of
training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system, comprises,
among other achievements, the recitation of verse. Our greatest living
phonetic expert (wild horses shall not drag it from us!) has left no stone
unturned in his efforts to delucidate and compare the verse recited and has
found it bears a STRIKING resemblance (the italics are ours) to the ranns
of ancient Celtic bards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful
lovesongs with which the writer who conceals his identity under the
graceful pseudonym of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the
bookloving world but rather (as a contributor D. O. C. points out in an
interesting communication published by an evening contemporary) of the
harsher and more personal note which is found in the satirical effusions
of the famous Raftery and of Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a more
modern lyrist at present very much in the public eye. We subjoin a
specimen which has been rendered into English by an eminent scholar
whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though
we believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather
more than an indication. The metrical system of the canine original,
which recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of
the Welsh englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our
readers will agree that the spirit has been well caught. Perhaps
it should be added that the effect is greatly increased if Owen's
verse be spoken somewhat slowly and indistinctly in a tone suggestive
of suppressed rancour.


    THE CURSE OF MY CURSES
    SEVEN DAYS EVERY DAY
    AND SEVEN DRY THURSDAYS
    ON YOU, BARNEY KIERNAN,
    HAS NO SUP OF WATER
    TO COOL MY COURAGE,
    AND MY GUTS RED ROARING
    AFTER LOWRY'S LIGHTS.


So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could
hear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have
another.

--I will, says he, A CHARA, to show there's no ill feeling.

Gob, he's not as green as he's cabbagelooking. Arsing around from
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.

And off with him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at five
o'clock. Night he was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the bobby,
14A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street after closing
time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking porter
out of teacups. And calling himself a Frenchy for the shawls, Joseph
Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and he serving mass in
Adam and Eve's when he was young with his eyes shut, who wrote the new
testament, and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. And the two
shawls killed with the laughing, picking his pockets, the bloody
fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawls
screeching laughing at one another. HOW IS YOUR TESTAMENT? HAVE YOU
GOT AN OLD TESTAMENT? Only Paddy was passing there, I tell you what.
Then see him of a Sunday with his little concubine of a wife, and
she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots
on her, no less, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady.
Jack Mooney's sister. And the old prostitute of a mother
procuring rooms to street couples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told
him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him.

So Terry brought the three pints.

--Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen.

--SLAN LEAT, says he.

--Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.

Gob, he had his mouth half way down 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?

--Nannan's going too, says Joe. The league told him to ask a question
tomorrow about the commissioner of police forbidding Irish games in the
park. What do you think of that, citizen? THE SLUAGH NA H-EIREANN.

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?

--NA BACLEIS , says the citizen, letting on to be modest. There was a time
I was as good as the next fellow anyhow.

--Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody sight better.

--Is that really a fact? says Alf.

--Yes, says Bloom. That's well known. Did you not know that?

So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of lawn
tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soil and
building up a nation once again and all to that. And of course Bloom had
to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower's heart violent
exercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up a
straw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: LOOK AT, BLOOM.
DO YOU SEE THAT STRAW? THAT'S A STRAW. Declare to my aunt he'd talk
about it for an hour so he would and talk steady.

A most interesting discussion took place in the ancient hall of BRIAN
O'CIARNAIN'S in SRAID NA BRETAINE BHEAG, under the auspices of SLUAGH NA
H-EIREANN, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports and the importance of
physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and ancient Rome and
ancient Ireland, for the development of the race. The venerable president
of the noble order was in the chair and the attendance was of large
dimensions. After an instructive discourse by the chairman, a magnificent
oration eloquently and forcibly expressed, a most interesting and
instructive discussion of the usual high standard of excellence
ensued as to the desirability of the revivability of the ancient
games and sports of our ancient Panceltic forefathers. The
wellknown and highly respected worker in the cause of our old
tongue, Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for
the resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes,
practised morning and evening by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the
best traditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to us from
ancient ages. L. Bloom, who met with a mixed reception of applause and
hisses, having espoused the negative the vocalist chairman brought the
discussion to a close, in response to repeated requests and hearty
plaudits from all parts of a bumper house, by a remarkably noteworthy
rendering of the immortal Thomas Osborne Davis' evergreen verses (happily
too familiar to need recalling here) A NATION ONCE AGAIN in the execution
of which the veteran patriot champion may be said without fear of
contradiction to have fairly excelled himself. The Irish Caruso-Garibaldi
was in superlative form and his stentorian notes were heard to the
greatest advantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as only our citizen
can sing it. His superb highclass vocalism, which by its superquality
greatly enhanced his already international reputation, was vociferously
applauded by the large audience among which were to be noticed many
prominent members of the clergy as well as representatives of the press
and the bar and the other learned professions. The proceedings then
terminated.

Amongst the clergy present were the very rev. William Delany, S. J.,
L. L. D.; the rt rev. Gerald Molloy, D. D.; the rev. P. J. Kavanagh,
C. S. Sp.; the rev. T. Waters, C. C.; the rev. John M. Ivers, P. P.; the
rev. P. J. Cleary, O. S. F.; the rev. L. J. Hickey, O. P.; the very rev.
Fr. Nicholas, O. S. F. C.; the very rev. B. Gorman, O. D. C.; the rev. T.
Maher, S. J.; the very rev. James Murphy, S. J.; the rev. John Lavery,
V. F.; the very rev. William Doherty, D. D.; the rev. Peter 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.

--Of course an action would lie, says J. J. It implies that he is not
COMPOS MENTIS. U. p: up.

--COMPOS your eye! says Alf, laughing. Do you know that he's balmy?
Look at his head. Do you know that some mornings he has to get his hat on
with a shoehorn.

--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.

And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month of the oxeyed goddess and in
the third week after the feastday of the Holy and Undivided Trinity,
the daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in her first
quarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them to the
halls of law. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber,
gave his rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury
in the probate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the
first chargeant upon the property in the matter of the will
propounded and final testamentary disposition IN RE the real and
personal estate of the late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased,
versus Livingstone, an infant, of unsound mind, and another. And to the
solemn court of Green street there came sir Frederick the Falconer. And he
sat him there about the hour of five o'clock to administer the law of the
brehons at the commission for all that and those parts to be holden in
and for the county of the city of Dublin. And there sat with him the high
sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the
tribe of Patrick and of the tribe of Hugh and of the tribe of Owen and of
the tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of
Fergus and of the tribe of Finn and of the tribe of Dermot and of
the tribe of Cormac and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of
Caolte and of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good
men and true. And he conjured them by Him who died on rood that
they should well and truly try and true deliverance make in the
issue joined between their sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at
the bar and true verdict give according to the evidence so help them God
and kiss the book. And they rose in their seats, those twelve of Iar, and
they swore by the name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do
His rightwiseness. And straightway the minions of the law led forth from
their donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended in
consequence of information received. And they shackled him hand and foot
and would take of him ne bail ne mainprise but preferred a charge against
him for he was a malefactor.

--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.

--Decree NISI, says J. J.

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.

--And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling over the POLICE GAZETTE
with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint.

--Give us a squint at her, says I.

And what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry
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.

--It's on the march, says the citizen. To hell with the bloody brutal
Sassenachs and their PATOIS.

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. ...

--They're not European, says the citizen. I was in Europe with Kevin Egan
of Paris. You wouldn't see a trace of them or their language anywhere in
Europe except in a CABINET D'AISANCE.

And says John Wyse:

--Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo:

--CONSPUEZ LES ANGLAIS! PERFIDE ALBION!

He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands
the medher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal slogan LAMH
DEARG ABU, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mighty valorous
heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster silent as the
deathless gods.

--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.

--THROWAWAY, says he, at twenty to one. A rank outsider. And the rest
nowhere.

--And Bass's mare? says Terry.

--Still running, says he. We're all in a cart. Boylan plunged two quid on
my tip SCEPTRE for himself and a lady friend.

--I had half a crown myself, says Terry, on ZINFANDEL that Mr Flynn gave
me. Lord Howard de Walden's.

--Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse. THROWAWAY,
says he. Takes the biscuit, and talking about bunions. Frailty, thy name
is SCEPTRE.

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.

--RAIMEIS, says the citizen. There's no-one as blind as the fellow that
won't see, if you know what that means. Where are our missing
twenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four,
our lost tribes? And our potteries and textiles, the finest in
the whole world! And our wool that was sold in Rome in the time
of Juvenal and our flax and our damask from the looms of Antrim
and our Limerick lace, our tanneries and our white flint glass
down there by Ballybough and our Huguenot poplin that we have since
Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk and our Foxford tweeds and ivory
raised point from the Carmelite convent in New Ross, nothing like it in
the whole wide world. Where are the Greek merchants that came through the
pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with
gold and Tyrian purple to sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? Read
Tacitus and Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis. Wine, peltries,
Connemara marble, silver from Tipperary, second to none, our farfamed
horses even today, the Irish hobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering
to pay customs duties for the right to fish in our waters. What do the
yellowjohns of Anglia owe us for our ruined trade and our ruined hearths?
And the beds of the Barrow and Shannon they won't deepen with millions
of acres of marsh and bog to make us all die of consumption?

--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.

The fashionable international world attended EN MASSE this afternoon
at the wedding of the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief
ranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of Pine
Valley. Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash,
Mrs Holly Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs
Clyde Twelvetrees, Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss
Virginia Creeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss Blanche
Maple, Mrs Maud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla
Elderflower, Miss Bee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa
San, Miss Rachel Cedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss
Timidity Aspenall, Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs
Gloriana Palme, Mrs Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs
Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their
presence. The bride who was given away by her father, the M'Conifer of
the Glands, looked exquisitely charming in a creation carried out in green
mercerised silk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a
yoke of broad emerald and finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued
fringe, the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acorn
bronze. The maids of honour, Miss Larch Conifer and Miss Spruce Conifer,
sisters of the bride, wore very becoming costumes in the same tone, a
dainty MOTIF of plume rose being worked into the pleats in a pinstripe and
repeated capriciously in the jadegreen toques in the form of heron
feathers of paletinted coral. Senhor Enrique Flor presided at the
organ with his wellknown ability and, in addition to the prescribed
numbers of the nuptial mass, played a new and striking arrangement
of WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE at the conclusion of the service. On
leaving the church of Saint Fiacre IN HORTO after the papal
blessing the happy pair were subjected to a playful crossfire
of hazelnuts, beechmast, bayleaves, catkins of willow, ivytod,
hollyberries, mistletoe sprigs and quicken shoots. Mr and Mrs Wyse
Conifer Neaulan will spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest.

--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.

 Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead
of attending to the general public. Picture of a butting match, trying to
crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with his head down
like a bull at a gate. And another one: BLACK BEAST BURNED IN OMAHA, GA.
A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a Sambo strung
up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under him. Gob, they ought
to drown him in the sea after and electrocute and crucify him to make sure
of their job.

--But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay?

--I'll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Hell upon earth it is.
Read the revelations that's going on in the papers about flogging on the
training ships at Portsmouth. A fellow writes that calls himself DISGUSTED
ONE.

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.

--We'll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our greater
Ireland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house and home in the
black 47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laid
low by the batteringram and the TIMES rubbed its hands and told the
whitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as
redskins in America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But the
Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of
crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay, they
drove out the peasants in hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in the
coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free remember the land
of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no cravens, the
sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan.

--Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was ...

--We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. Since 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?

--The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do you know what
it is? They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Aren't they trying
to make an ENTENTE CORDIALE now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with perfidious
Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were.

--CONSPUEZ LES FRANCAIS, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.

--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?

Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old one
with the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal palace every night of
God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman carting
her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by the whiskers
and singing him old bits of songs about EHREN ON THE RHINE and come
where the boose is cheaper.

--Well, says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.

--Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. There's a bloody sight more 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.

--We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket.
What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women
and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text GOD IS LOVE
pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did you read that skit in
the UNITED IRISHMAN today about that Zulu chief that's visiting England?

--What's that? says Joe.

So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts
reading out:

--A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented
yesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in Waiting,
Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty the heartfelt
thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in his
dominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion
of which the dusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech,
freely translated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias
Praisegod Barebones, tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and
emphasised the cordial relations existing between Abeakuta and the
British empire, stating that he treasured as one of his dearest
possessions an illuminated bible, the volume of the word of God
and the secret of England's greatness, graciously presented to him by
the white chief woman, the great squaw Victoria, with a personal
dedication from the august hand of the Royal Donor. The Alaki then drank a
lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh to the toast BLACK AND WHITE from the
skull of his immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak,
surnamed Forty Warts, after which he visited the chief factory of
Cottonopolis and signed his mark in the visitors' book, subsequently
executing a charming old Abeakutic wardance, in the course of which he
swallowed several knives and forks, amid hilarious applause from the girl
hands.

--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.

--Bloom, says he. The courthouse is a blind. He had a few bob on
THROWAWAY and he's gone to gather in the shekels.

--Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed 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.

Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort. So I just went round the back of
the yard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings to five) while I was
letting off my (THROWAWAY twenty to) letting off my load gob says I to
myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and one in
Slattery's off) in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillings is
five quid) and when they were in the (dark horse) pisser Burke
was telling me card party and letting on the child was sick (gob, must
have done about a gallon) flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube
SHE'S BETTER or SHE'S (ow!) all a plan so he could vamoose with the
pool if he won or (Jesus, full up I was) trading without a licence (ow!)
Ireland my nation says he (hoik! phthook!) never be up to those
bloody (there's the last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) cuckoos.

So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse
saying 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.

--EN VENTRE SA MERE, says J. J.

--Do you call that a man? says the citizen.

--I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe.

--Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power.

--And who does he suspect? says the citizen.

Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. One of those 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 at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with acolytes,
thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons,
the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and guardians
and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and
Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans,
and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines, Premonstratensians, Servi,
Trinitarians, and the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel
mount the children of Elijah prophet led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of
Avila, calced and other: and friars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis,
capuchins, cordeliers, minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara:
and the sons of Dominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of Vincent:
and the monks of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the
confraternity of the christian brothers led by the reverend brother
Edmund Ignatius Rice. And after came all saints and martyrs,
virgins and confessors: S. Cyr and S. Isidore Arator and S. James the
Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix
de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen Protomartyr and
S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S.
Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi
and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S.
Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and
S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous
and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S.
Synonymous