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. Dominenamine. 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.


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.


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.


—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.


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. She 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?


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 Cæsar. 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.


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.


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.


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.


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!


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.


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.


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.


Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:


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.


—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!


—His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.


They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.


A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a word:


Mr Bloom said slowly:


—Well, he is one of our saviours also.


A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed in through a sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation? Thumping. Thumping.


He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper. Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards Nannetti's reading closet.


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.


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.


—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.


—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.


—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.


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.


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?


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


—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?


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.


—Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.


—Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With an accent on the whose.


—Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked.


—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.


—Come in. Come in.


—Well. And yourself?


J. J. O'Molloy shook his head.


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...


—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.


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.


—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:


—Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face. My Ohio!


—A perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.


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.


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.


—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.


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.


—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.


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.


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.


—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.


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?


He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J. J. O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it.


The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:


'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.


—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.


—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.


—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...?


—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...


—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!


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 matinée. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!


He whispered then near Stephen's ear:


—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?


—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.


—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.


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.


—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.


—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?


—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:


—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.


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?


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.


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 fè più ardenti. But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb.


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.


—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.


—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.


—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.


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.


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.


—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.


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.


—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.


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.


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.


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.


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:


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:


—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.


—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.


—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!


—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?


—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...


—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.


—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.


—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...


—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.


—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.


—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.


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.


—But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the plums?


—Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: deus nobis hæc 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.


J. J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue and held his peace.


He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the meshes of his wry smile.


—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.


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 £. 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...?


No, no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely?


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...


—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.


—Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.


—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.


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.


—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.


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.


—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?