Ulysses: Chapter 12 Cyclops

Description

• Author: James Joyce

　

I WAS JUST PASSING THE TIME OF DAY WITH OLD TROY O THE D.M.P. at the corner of Arbour hill

there and be damned but a bloody sweep came along and he near drove his gear into my eye.

I turned around to let him have the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging

along Stony Batter only Joe Hynes.


-- Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that bloody chimneysweep near shove

my eye out with his brush?

-- Soot's luck, says Joe. Who's the old ballocks you were talking to?

-- Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I'm on two minds not to give that fellow in

charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and ladders.

-- What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.

-- Devil a much, says I. There is a bloody big foxy thief beyond by the garrison church

at the corner of Chicken Lane - old Troy was just giving me a wrinkle about him - lifted

any God's quantity of tea and sugar to pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the

county Down off a hop of my thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury

street.

-- Circumcised! says Joe.

-- Ay, says I. A bit off the top. An old plumber named Geraghty. I'm hanging on to his

taw now for the past fortnight and I can't get a penny out of him.

-- That the lay you're on now? says Joe.

-- Ay, says I . How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and doubtful debts. But

that's the most notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a day's walk and the face on him all

pockmarks would hold a shower of rain. Tell him, says he, I dare him, says he, and I

doubledare him to send you round here again or if he does, says he, I'll have him

summonsed up before the court, so will I, for trading without a licence. And he after

stuffing himself till he's fit to burst! Jesus, I had to laugh at the little jewy getting

his shirt out. He drink me my teas. He eat me my sugars. Because he no pay me my moneys?

For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's parade, Wood quay

ward, merchant, hereinafter called the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E.

Geraghty, Esquire, of 29 Arbour Hill in the city of Dublin, Arran quay ward, gentleman,

hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds avoirdupois of first choice tea

at three shillings per pound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed

crystal, at three pence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the said

vendor of one pound five shillings and six pence sterling for value received which amount

shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in weekly instalments every seven calendar

days of three shillings and no pence sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall not

be pawned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall be and

remain and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the said vendor to be disposed

of at his good will and pleasure until the said amount shall have been duly paid by the

said purchaser to the said vendor in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed

between the said vendor his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the one part and

the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part.

-- Are you a strict t. t.? says Joe.

-- Not taking anything between drinks, says I.

-- What about paying our respects to our friend? says foe.

-- Who? says I. Sure, he's in John of God's off his head, poor man.

-- Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.

-- Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.

-- Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe. I want to see the citizen.

-- Barney mavourneen's be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe?

-- Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.

-- What was that, Joe? says I.

-- Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to give the

citizen the hard word about it.

So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the courthouse talking of

one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it.

Jesus, I couldn't get over that bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading

without a licence, says he.

In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There rises a

watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in life they slept, warriors

and princes of high renown. A pleasant land it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful

streams where sport the gunnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock,

the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the mixed coarse fish generally and other

denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be enumerated. In the mild breezes of the

west and of the east the lofty trees wave in different directions their first class

foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic

eucalyptus and other ornaments of the arboreal world with which that region is thoroughly

well supplied. Lovely maidens sit in close proximity to the roots of the lovely trees

singing the most lovely songs while they play with all kinds of lovely objects as for

example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, creels

of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And heroes voyage from afar to woo

them, from Elbana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of unfettered Munster and of

Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and of Cruachan's land and of Armagh the

splendid and of the noble district of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings.

And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by mariners who

traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for that purpose and thither come all

herds and fatlings and first fruits of that land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of

them, a chieftain descended from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring

foison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, pineapple chunks,

Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes

and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth,

and punnets of mushrooms and custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red

green yellow brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and chips of

strawberries and sieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious, and strawberries fit for

princes and raspberries from their canes.

-- I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him. Come out here, Geraghty, you notorious

bloody hill and dale robber!

And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and

shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares and polled

calves and longwools and storesheep and Cuffe's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and

baconhogs and the various different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus

heifers and polly bullocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime premiated milchcows

and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling, cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating,

bellowing, rumbling, grunting, champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine

from pasturelands of Lush and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy vales of Thomond,

from M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from

the gentle declivities of the place of the race of Kiar, their udders distended with

superabundance of milk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer's firkins and

targets of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs, in great hundreds, various in size,

the agate with the dun.

So we turned into Barney Kiernan's and there sure enough was the citizen up in the

corner having a great confab with himself and that bloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he

waiting for what the sky would drop in the way of drink.

There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his load of papers,

working for the cause.

The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him would give you the creeps. Be a corporal

work of mercy if someone would take the life of that bloody dog. I'm told for a fact he

ate a good part of the breeches off a constabulary man in Santry that came round one time

with a blue paper about a licence.

-- Stand and deliver, says he.

-- That's all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here.

-- Pass, friends, says he.

Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he:

-- What's your opinion of the times?

Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal to the occasion.

-- I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his hand down his fork.

So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says:

-- Foreign wars is the cause of it.

And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:

-- It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.

-- Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I, I've a thirst on me I wouldn't

sell for half a crown.

-- Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.

-- Wine of the country, says he.

-- What's yours? says Joe.

-- Ditto MacAnaspey, says I...

-- Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how's the old heart, citizen? says he.

-- Never better, a chara, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?

And with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck and, by Jesus, he

near throttled him.

The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was that of a

broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired freely freckled shaggybearded

wide-mouthed largenosed longheaded deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged

ruddyfaced sinewyarmed hero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and his

rocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of his body wherever

visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair in hue and toughness similar to the

mountain gorse (Ulex Europeus). The widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the same

tawny hue projected, were of such capaciousness that within their cavernous obscurity the

field-lark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes in which a tear and a smile strove

ever for the mastery were of the dimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful current

of warm breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth while in

rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered

rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls

of the cave to vibrate and tremble.

He wore a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching to the knees in a

loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by a girdle of plaited straw and rushes.

Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. His nether extremities

were encased in high Balbriggan buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feet being shod with

brogues of salted cowhide laced with the windpipe of the same beast. From his girdle hung

a row of seastones which dangled at every movement of his portentous frame and on these

were graven with rude yet striking art the tribal images of many Irish heroes and heroines

of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niall of nine hostages, Brian of Kincora,

the Ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, Shane O'Neill, Father John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick

Sarsfield, Red Hugh O'Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan O'Growney, Michael

Dwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M'Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas Conneff, Peg

Woffington, the Village Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain Boycott, Dante Alighieri,

Christopher Columbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan, Marshal Mac-Mahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe

Tone, the Mother of the Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of Castille, the Man

for Galway, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who

Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen

Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo, Hayes,

Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen,

Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain

Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold Soldier

Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus

the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve,

Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady

Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe

Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. A couched

spear of acuminated granite rested by him while at his feet reposed a savage animal of the

canine tribe whose stertorous gasps announced that he was sunk in uneasy slumber, a

supposition confirmed by hoarse growls and spasmodic movements which his master repressed

from time to time by tranquillising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of

paleolithic stone.

So anyhow Terry brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob the sight nearly

left my eyes when I saw him land out a quid. O, as true as I'm telling you. A goodlooking

sovereign.

-- And there's more where that came from, says he.

-- Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I.

-- Sweat of my brow, says Joe. 'Twas the prudent member gave me the wheeze.

-- I saw him before I met you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and Greek street

with his cod's eye counting up all the guts of the fish.

Who comes through Michan's land, bedight in sable armour? O'Bloom, the son of Rory: it

is he. Impervious to fear is Rory's son: he of the prudent soul.

-- For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen, the subsidised organ. The

pledgebound party on the floor of the house. And look at this blasted rag, says he. Look

at this, says he. The Irish Independent, if you please, founded by Parnell to be the

workingman's friend. Listen to the births and deaths in the Irish all for Ireland

Independent and I'll thank you and the marriages.

And he starts reading them out:

-- Gordon, Barnfield Crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne's on Sea, the

wife of William T. Redmayne, of a son. How's that, eh? Wright and Flint, Vincent and

Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the late George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham

Road, Stockwell, Playwood and Ridsdale at Saint Jude's Kensington by the very reverend Dr

Forrest, Dean of Worcester, eh? Deaths. Bristow, at Whitehall lane, London: Carr, Stoke

Newington, of gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the Moat house, Chepstow.

-- I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience.

-- Cockburn. Dimsey, wife of Davie Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller, Tottenham,

aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning Street, Liverpool, Isabella Helen. How's

that for a national press, eh, my brown son? How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry

jobber?

-- Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose. Thanks be to God they had the start of

us. Drink that, citizen.

-- I will, says he, honourable person.

-- Health, Joe, says I. And all down the form.

Ah! Owl! Don't be talking! I was blue mouldy for the want of that pint. Declare to God

I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click.

And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant

as the eye of heaven, a comely youth, and behind him there passed an elder of noble gait

and countenance, bearing the sacred scrolls of law, and with him his lady wife, a dame of

peerless lineage, fairest of her race.

Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney's snug, squeezed up

with the laughing, and who was sitting up there in the corner that I hadn't seen snoring

drunk, blind to the world, only Bob Doran. I didn't know what was up and Alf kept making

signs out of the door. And begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen in

his bath slippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxter and the wife hotfoot

after him, unfortunate wretched woman trotting like a poodle. I thought Alf would split.

-- Look at him, says he. Breen. He's traipsing all round Dublin with a postcard someone

sent him with u. p.: up on it to take a li...

And he doubled up.

-- Take a what? says I.

-- Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.

-- O hell! says I.

The bloody mongrel began to growl that'd put the fear of God in you seeing something

was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.

-- Bi i dho husht, says he.

-- Who? says Joe.

-- Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry Menton's and then he went round to Collis and

Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round to the subsheriff's for a lark. O

God, I've a pain laughing. U. p.: up. The long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process

and now the bloody old lunatic is gone round to Green Street to look for a G. man.

-- When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.

Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan?

-- Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a pony. That

bloody old fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen long John's eye. U. p...

And he started laughing.

-- Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that Bergan?

-- Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.

Terence O'Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup full of the foaming

ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and Bungardilaun brew ever in their

divine alevats, cunning as the sons of deathless Leda. For they garner the succulent

berries of the hop and mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour

juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day from their toil,

those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.

Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner born, that nectarous

beverage and you offered the crystal cup to him that thirsted, the soul of chivalry, in

beauty akin to the immortals.

But he, the young chief of the O'Bergan's, could ill brook to be outdone in generous

deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture a testoon of costliest bronze. Thereon

embossed in excellent smithwork was seen the image of a queen of regal port, scion of the

house of Brunswick, Victoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of God of the

United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British dominions beyond the sea,

queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even she, who bore rule, a victress over

many peoples, the well-beloved, for they knew and loved her from the rising of the sun to

the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.

-- What's that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up and down outside?

-- What's that? says Joe.

-- Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging. I'll show you

something you never saw. Hangmen's letters. Look at here.

So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his pocket.

-- Are you codding? says I.

-- Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.

So Joe took up the letters.

-- Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran.

So I saw there was going to be bit of a dust. Bob's a queer chap when the porter's up

in him so says I just to make talk:

-- How's Willy Murray those times, Alf?

-- I don't know, says Alf. I saw him just now in Capel Street with Paddy Dignam. Only I

was running after that.

-- You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?

-- With Dignam, says Alf.

-- Is it Paddy? says Joe.

-- Yes, says Alf. Why?

-- Don't you know he's dead? says Joe.

-- Paddy Dignam dead? says Alf.

-- Ay, says Joe.

-- Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain as a pikestaff.

-- Who's dead? says Bob Doran.

-- You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm.

-- What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five... What?... and Willie Murray with him, the

two of them there near what-doyoucallhim's... What? Dignam dead?

-- What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who's talking about... ?

-- Dead! says Alf. He is no more dead than you are.

-- Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning anyhow.

-- Paddy? says Alf.

-- Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him.

-- Good Christ! says Alf.

Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.

In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer by tantras had been

directed to the proper quarter a faint but increasing luminosity of ruby light became

gradually visible, the apparition of the etheric double being particularly lifelike owing

to the discharge of jivic rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication was

effected through the pituitary body and also by means of the orangefiery and scarlet rays

emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus. Questioned by his earthname as to his

whereabouts in the heaven-world he stated that he was now on the path of pralaya or return

but was still submitted to trial at the hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the

lower astral levels. In reply to a question as to his first sensations in the great divide

beyond he stated that previously he had seen as in a glass darkly but that those who had

passed over had summit possibilities of atmic development opened up to them. Interrogated

as to whether life there resembled our experience in the flesh he stated that he had heard

from more favoured beings now in the spirit that their abodes were equipped with every

modern home comfort such as talafana, alavatar, hatakalda, wataklasat and that the highest

adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very purest nature. Having requested a

quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief. Asked if he had any

message for the living he exhorted all who were still at the wrong side of Maya to

acknowledge the true path for it was reported in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter

were out for mischief on the eastern angle where the ram has power. It was then queried

whether there were any special desires on the part of the defunct and the reply was: We

greet you, friends of earth, who are still in the body. Mind C.K. doesn't pile it on. It

was ascertained that the reference was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, manager of Messrs H.J.

O'Neill's popular funeral establishment, a personal friend of the defunct, who had been

responsible for the carrying out of the interment arrangements. Before departing he

requested that it should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had

been looking for was at present under the commode in the return room and that the pair

should be sent to Cullen's to be soled only as the heels were still good. He stated that

this had greatly perturbed his peace of mind in the other region and earnestly requested

that his desire should be made known.

Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was intimated that

this had given satisfaction.

He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was his foot on the

bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with

your whirlwind.

-- There he is again, says the citizen, staring out.

-- Who? says I.

-- Bloom, says he. He's on point duty up and down there for the last ten minutes.

And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.

Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was.

-- Good Christ! says he. I could have sworn it was him.

And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest blackguard in Dublin

when he's under the influence:

-- Who said Christ is good?

-- I beg your parsnips, says Alf.

-- Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy Dignam?

-- Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He's over all his troubles.

But Bob Doran shouts out of him.

-- He's a bloody ruffian I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.

Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they didn't want that kind

of talk in a respectable licensed premises. And Bob Doran starts doing the weeps about

Paddy Dignam, true as you're there.

-- The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character.

The tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat. Fitter for him to go

home to the little sleepwalking bitch he married, Mooney, the bumbailiff's daughter.

Mother kept a kip in Hardwicke street that used to be stravaging about the landings Bantam

Lyons told me that was stopping there at two in the morning without a stitch on her,

exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.

-- The noblest, the truest, says he. And he's gone, poor little Willy, poor little

Paddy Dignam.

And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that beam of heaven.

Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door.

-- Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says the citizen.

So Bloom slopes in with his cod's eye on the dog and he asks Terry was Martin

Cunningham there.

-- O, Christ M'Keown, says Joe, reading one of the letters. Listen to this, will you?

And he starts reading out one.

7, Hunter Street, Liverpool.


To the High Sheriff of Dublin, Dublin.


Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the above-mentioned painful case i hanged Joe

Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 of February 1900 and i hanged...


-- Show us, Joe, says I.

-- ... private Arthur Chace for fowl murder of Jessie Tilsit in Pentonville prison and

i was assistant when...

-- Jesus, says I.

-- ... Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith...

The citizen made a grab at the letter.

-- Hold hard, says Joe, i have a special nack of putting the noose once in he can't get

out hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir' my teas is five ginnese.

H. Rumbold,

Master Barber.

-- And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen.


-- And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. Here, says he, take them to hell out of

my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, says he, what will you have?

So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and couldn't and

excuse him no offence and all to that and then he said well he'd just take a cigar. Gob,

he's a prudent member and no mistake.

-- Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.

And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a mourning card with a black border

round it.

-- They're all barbers, says he, from the black country that would hang their own

fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.

And he was telling us there's two fellows waiting below to pull his heels down when he

gets the drop and choke him properly and then they chop up the rope after and sell the

bits for a few bob a skull.

In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Their deadly coil they

grasp: yea, and therein they lead to Erebus whatsoever wight hath done a deed of blood for

I will on nowise suffer it even so saith the Lord.

So they started talking about capital punishment and of course Bloom comes out with the

why and the wherefore and all the codology of the business and the old dog smelling him

all the time I'm told those Jewies does have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for

dogs about I don't know what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on.

-- There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, says Alf.

-- What's that? says Joe.

-- The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf.

-- That so? says Joe.

-- God's truth, says Alf. I heard that from the head warder that was in Kilmainham when

they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. He told me when they cut him down after the drop it

was standing up in their faces like a poker.

-- Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe, as someone said.

-- That can be explained by science, says Bloom. It's only a natural phenomenon, don't

you see, because on account of the...

And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this

phenomenon and the other phenomenon.

The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered medical

evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae and

consequent scission of the spinal cord would, according to the best approved traditions of

medical science, be calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent

ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres, causing the pores of the cobra cavernosa to

rapidly dilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that

part of the human anatomy known as the penis or male organ resulting in the phenomenon

which has been dominated by the faculty a morbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitive

erection in articulo mortis per diminutionem capitis.

So of course the citizen was only waiting for the wink of the word and he starts

gassing out of him about the invincibles and the old guard and the men of sixtyseven and

who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe with him about all the fellows that were hanged,

drawn and transported for the cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new

this, that and the other. Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a new dog so he

ought. Mangy ravenous brute sniffling and sneezing all round the place and scratching his

scabs and round he goes to Bob Doran that was standing Alf a half one sucking up for what

he could get. So of course Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him:

-- Give us the paw! Give the paw, doggy! Good old doggy. Give us the paw here! Give us

the paw!

Arrah! bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him from tumbling off the

bloody stool atop of the bloody old dog and he talking all kinds of drivel about training

by kindness and thoroughbred dog and intelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. Then he

starts scraping a few bits of old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacob's tin he told Terry

to bring. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging out of him a yard

long for more. Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody mongrel.

And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the brothers Sheares and

Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet and die for your country, the Tommy

Moore touch about Sara Curran and she's far from the land. And Bloom, of course, with his

knockmedown cigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon! The fat heap he

married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley. Time they were

stopping up in the City Arms Pisser Burke told me there was an old one there with a

cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom trying to get the soft side of her doing the

mollycoddle playing b

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1. Ebooks list page : 86
2. Ulysses: Chapter 13 Nausicca
3. Ulysses: Chapter 16 Eumaeus
4. Ulysses: Chapter 18 Penelope
5. Ulysses: Chapter 4 Calypso
6. Ulysses: Chapter 14 Oxen of the Sun
7. Ulysses: Chapter 7 Aeolus
8. Ulysses: Chapter 1 Telemachus
9. Ulysses: Chapter 6 Hades
10. Ulysses: Chapter 17 Ithaca
11. Ulysses: Chapter 11 Sirens
12. Ulysses: Chapter 2 Nestor
13. Ulysses: Chapter 15 Circe
14. Ulysses: Chapter 8 Lestrygonians
15. Ulysses: Chapter 3 Proteus
16. Ulysses: Chapter 9 Scylla and Charybdis