 Section 47 of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Karen. Ulysses by James Joyce, Part 3, The Nostos. Episode 16, Eumaeus, Part 2. Adjacent to the men's public urinal, they perceive an ice-cream car round which a group of presumably Italians in heated altercation were getting rid of valuable expressions in their vivacious language in a particularly animated way, there being some little differences between the parties. Puttana Madonna, c'è si dia i quattrini o raggiano col rotto? Intendi a mocci, me c'i sofrano piu, ti c'è lui pero, mezzo, farabutto, mortacci sui, ma ascolta, cinca la testa piu. Mr. Bloom and Stephen entered the cabin's shelter, an unpretentious wooden structure, where prior to then he had rarely ever been before, the former having previously whispered to the latter a few hints. And then to the keeper of it, said to be the one's famous skin-the-goat Fitzharris, the Invincible, though he could not vouch for the actual facts, which quite possibly there was not one vestige of truth in. A few months later saw our two Noctambulists safely seated in a discreet corner, only to be greeted by stairs from the decidedly miscellaneous collection of waifs and strays and other nondescript specimens of the genus Homo, already there, engaged in eating and drinking, diversified by conversation, for whom they singly formed an object of marked curiosity. Now, touching a cup of coffee, Mr. Bloom ventured to plausibly suggest to break the ice. It occurs to me you ought to sample something in the shape of solid food, say, a roll of some description. Accordingly, his first act was with characteristic sang-fois to order these commodities quietly. The hoi-polo of jarvies or stevedores, or whatever they were, after cursory examination, turned their eyes apparently dissatisfied away, though one red-bearded, bibulous individual portion of whose hair was grayish. A sailor, probably, still stared for some appreciable time before transferring his wrapped attention to the floor. Mr. Bloom, availing himself of the right of free speech, he having just a bowing acquaintance with the language in dispute, though, to be sure, rather in a quandary over voilio, remarked to his protégé in an audible tone of voice, apropos of the battle royale in the street, which was still raging fast and furious. A beautiful language, I mean, for singing purposes. Why do you not write your poetry in that language? Be la poetria, it is so melodious and full, be la dona, voilio. Stephen, who was trying his dead best to yawn if he could, suffering from lassitude generally, replied, to fill the ear of a cow-elephant, they were haggling over money. Is that so, Mr. Bloom asked? Of course, he subjoined pensively at the inward reflection of there being more languages to start with than were absolutely necessary. It may be only the southern glamour that surrounds it. The keeper of the shelter in the middle of this tetatet put a boiling swimming-cup of a choice concoction-labeled coffee on the table, and a rather antediluvian specimen of a bun, or so it seemed. After which he beat a retreat to his counter, Mr. Bloom determined to have a good square look at him later on, so as not to appear to. For which reason he encouraged Stephen to proceed with his eyes, while he did the honors by sceptically pushing the cup of what was temporarily supposed to be called coffee, gradually nearer him. Sounds are imposters, Stephen said, after a pause of some little time, like names. Cicero, Podmore, Napoleon, Mr. Goodbody, Jesus, Mr. Doyle. Shakespeare's words common as Murphy's, what's in a name? Yes, to be sure, Mr. Bloom unaffectedly concurred, of course. Our name was changed, too, he added, pushing the so-called roll across. The red-bearded sailor, who had his weather eye on the newcomers, boarded Stephen, whom he had singled out for attention in particular, squarely, by asking, And what might your name be? Just in the nick of time Mr. Bloom touched his companion's boot, but Stephen apparently disregarding the warm pressure from an unexpected quarter answered. Deadless. The sailor stared at him heavily from a pair of drowsy, baggy eyes, rather bunged up from excessive use of booze, preferably good old Hollins and water. You know Simon deadless? He asked at length. I've heard of him, Stephen said. Mr. Bloom was all at sea for a moment, seeing the others evidently eavesdropping, too. He's Irish. The seamen bold affirmed, staring still in much the same way and nodding. All Irish. All too Irish, Stephen rejoined. As for Mr. Bloom he could neither make head or tail of the whole business, and he was just asking himself what possible connection when the sailor of his own accord turned to the other occupants of the shelter with a remark, I seen him shoot two eggs off two bottles at fifty yards over his shoulder, the left hand deadshot. Though he was slightly hampered by an occasional stammer and his gestures being also clumsy as it was, still he did his best to explain. Bottles out there, say. Fifty yards measured, eggs on the bottles, cocks his gun over his shoulder, aims. He turned his body half round, shot up his right eye completely, then he screwed his features up some way sideways and glared out into the night with an unprepossessing cast of countenance. PUM! he then shouted once. The entire audience waited, anticipating an additional detonation there being still a further egg. PUM! he shouted twice. Egg two evidently demolished he nodded and winked, adding blood thirstily. Buffalo Bill shoots to kill. Never missed, nor he never will. A silence ensued till Mr. Bloom for agreeableness's sake just felt like asking him whether it was for a markmanship competition like the Bisley. Big pardon, the sailor said. Long ago, Mr. Bloom pursued without flinching a hair's breadth. Why? The sailor replied, relaxing to a certain extent, unto the magic influence of diamond-cut diamond. It might be a matter of ten years. He toured the wide world with Hangler's royal circus. I seen him do that in Stockholm. Curious coincidence, Mr. Bloom confided to Stephen unobtrusively. Murphy's my name, the sailor continued. D. B. Murphy of Carrigaloe. Know where that is? Queenstown Harbor, Stephen replied. That's right, the sailor said. Fort Camden and Fort Carlisle. That's where I hails from. I belong there. That's where I hails from. My little woman's down there. She's waiting for me, I know. For England, home and beauty. She is my own true wife I haven't seen for seven years now, sailing about. Mr. Bloom could easily picture his advent on the scene. The homecoming to the Mariner's roadside shealing after having diddled Davy Jones a rainy night with a blind moon. Across the world, for a wife. Quite a number of stories there were on that particular Alice Benbolt topic. Enoch Arden and Rip Van Winkle and—does anybody hear about, to remember—Kalko Leary, a favorite. A most trying declamation piece, by the way, of poor John Casey. And a bit of perfect poetry in its own small way. Never about the runaway wife coming back, however much devoted to the absentee. The face at the window. Judge of his astonishment when he finally did breast the tape, and the awful truth dawned upon him and meant his better half. Wrecked in his affections. You little expected me, but I've come to stay and make a fresh start. There she sits. A grass widow at the self-same fireside. Believes me dead. Rocked in the cradle of the deep. And there sits Uncle Chubb or Tomkin as the case might be. The publican of the crown and anchor. In shirt sleeves eating rump steak and onions. No chair for father. Brr, the wind. Her brand new arrival is on her knee. Postmortem child. With a high row and a randy row. Am I galloping, tearing dandy-o? Bow to the inevitable. Grin and bear it. I remain with much love, your broken-hearted husband, D.B. Murphy. The sailor, who scarcely seemed to be a Dublin resident, turned to one of the Jarvis with a request. You don't happen to have such a thing as a spare chaw about you. The Jarvis address, as it happened, had not but the keeper, took a die of plug from his good jacket hanging on a nail, and the desired object was passed. From hand to hand. Thank you, sailor said. He deposited the quid in his gob, and chewing, and with some slow-stammers, proceeded. We come up this morning at eleven o'clock. The three-meister rose fiend from bridge-water with bricks I shipped to get over. Paid off this afternoon. There's my discharge, C. D.B. Murphy, A.B.S. In confirmation of which statement he extricated from an inside pocket and handed to his neighbor a not very clean-looking folded document. You must have seen a fair share of the world, the keeper remarked, leaning on the counter. Why, the sailor answered, upon reflection upon it, I've circumnavigated a bit since I first joined on. I was in the Red Sea. I was in China, and North America, and South America. We was chased by pirates, one voyage. I seen icebergs, plenty, growlers. I was in Stockholm and the Black Sea, the Dardanelles under Captain Dalton, the best bloody man that every scuttled a ship. I seen Russia. Goss potty, palmyryu, that's how the Russians praise. You seen queer sights, don't be talking, put in a jarvy. Why, the sailor said, shifting his partially chewed plug. I seen queer things, too, ups and downs. I seen a crocodile bite the fluke of an anchor, same as I chew that quid. He took out of his mouth the pulpy quid and lodging it between his teeth, bit ferociously. Ah! Like that. And I seen man-eaters in Peru that eats corpses and the livers of horses. Look here. Here they are, a friend of mine sent me. He fumbled out a picture postcard from his inside pocket, which seemed to be in its way a species of repository, and pushed it along the table. The printed matter on it stated, Chosa de Endeus, Bene Bolivia. All focused their attention, the saint exhibited. A group of savage women in striped loincloths, squatted, blinking, suckling, frowning. Sleeping amid a swarm of infants, there must have been quite a score of them. Outside some primitive shanties osier. Choose cocoa all day, the communicative tarpolin added. Stomachs, like bread-graders, cuts off their ditties when they can't bear no more children. See them sitting there, stark, balock naked, eating a dead horse's liver raw. His postcard proved a center of attraction for messieurs the greenhorns for several minutes, if not more. Know how to keep them off, he inquired generally. Nobody volunteering a statement, he winked, saying, glass. That boggles them. Glass. Mr. Bloom, without evincing surprise, unaustentationsly, turned over the card to peruse the partially obliterated address and postmark. It ran as follows, Tarjeta Postal Senor E. Boudin, Galleria Beche, Santiago Chile. There was no message, evidently, as he took particular notice. Though not an implicit believer in the lurid story narrated, or the egg-sniping transaction for that matter, despite William Tell and the Lazario Don César de Bazin incident depicted in Maritana, on which occasion the former's ball passed through the latter's hat. Having detected a discrepancy between his name, assuming he was the person he represented himself to be, and not sailing under false colors after having boxed the compass on the strict QT somewhere, and the fictitious addressee of the missive, which made him nourish some suspicion of our friend's bona fides, nevertheless, it reminded him away of a long cherished plan he meant to one day realize some Wednesday or Saturday of traveling to London via Long Sea, not to say that he had ever traveled extensively to any great extent, but he was at heart a born adventurer, though by a trick of fate he had consistently remained a landlubber, except you call going to Holly Head, which was his longest. Martin Cunningham frequently said he would work a pass through Egan, but some deuce-titcher rather eternally cropped up, with the net result that the scheme fell through. But even suppose it did come to planking down the needful, and breaking Boyd's heart, it was not so dear, purse permitting, a few guineas at the outside considering the fare to Mullingar, where he figured on going was five and six there and back. The trip would benefit health, on account of the bracing ozone, and be in every way thoroughly pleasurable, except for a chap whose liver was out of order, seeing the different places along the route, Plymouth, Falmouth, Southampton, and so on, culminating in an instructive tour of the sights of the great metropolis. The spectacle of our modern Babylon, where doubtless he would see the greatest improvement, Tower, Abbey, Wealth of Park Lane, to renew acquaintance with. Another thing just struck him as a by no means bad notion was, he might have a gaze around on the spot to see about trying to make arrangements about a concert tour of summer music, embracing the most prominent pleasure resorts, Margate, with mixed bathing and first-rate hydros and spas, Eastbourne, Scarborough, Margate, and so on, beautiful Bormouth, the Channel Islands, and similar Bijoux spots, which might prove highly remunerative. Not of course with a whole and corner scratch company or local ladies on the job, witness Mrs. C. P. McCoy's type, let me your release, and I'll post you the ticket. No, something top-notch. An all-star Irish cast, the Tweety Flower Grand Opera Company, with his own legal consort as leading lady, as a sort of counterblast to the Elstergrimes and Moody Manors. Perfectly simple manner, and he was quite sanguine of success, providing puffs in the local papers could be managed by some fellow with a bit of bounce, who could pull the indispensable wires, and thus combine business with pleasure. But who? That was the rub. Also, without being actually positive, it struck him a great feel was to be opened up in the line of opening up new routes to keep pace with the times. Apropos of the fish-guard Rosslair route, which, it was mooted, was once more on the tapas in the circumlocution departments, with the usual quantity of red tape and dilly-dallying of a feet-fogiedom and dunderheads, generally. A great opportunity there certainly was for push and enterprise to meet the travelling needs of the public at large, the average man, i.e. Brown, Robinson and Co. It was a subject of regret, and absurd as well in the face of it, and no small blame to our vaunted society that the man in the street, when the system really needed toning up, for the matter of a couple of paltry pounds, was debarred from seeing more of the world they lived in, instead of being always and ever cooped up since my old stick in the mud took me for a wife. After all, hang it, they had their eleven and more humdrum months of it, and married it a radical change of venue after the grind of sea life in the summertime for choice, when dame nature is at her spectacular best, constituting nothing short of a new lease of life. There were equally excellent opportunities for vacationists in the home island, delightful sylvan spots for rejuvenation, offering a plethora of attractions, as well as a bracing tonic for the system in and around Dublin, and its picturesque environs, even, Pulafuka, to which there was a stream tram, but also farther away from the madding crowd in Wicklow, rightly termed the Garden of Ireland, an ideal neighbourhood for elderly wheelmen, so long as it didn't come down, and in the wilds of Donegal, where if reports spoke true the Kudoi was exceedingly grand, though the last name locality was not easily gettable, so that the influx of visitors was not as yet all that it might be, considering the signal benefits to be derived from it, while health, with its historic associations and otherwise, Silkin, Thomas, Grace O'Malley, George IV, rode a dendron seven hundred feet above sea level, was a favourite haunt with all sorts and conditions of men, especially in the spring, when young men's fancy though it had its own toll of deaths falling off the cliffs by design or accidentally, usually by the way on their left leg, it being only about three quarters of an hour's run from the pillar. Because, of course, up-to-date tourist travelling was yet merely in its infancy, so to speak, and the accommodation left much to be desired. Interesting to Fathom, it seemed to him for a motive of curiosity pure and simple, was whether it was the traffic that created the route, or vice versa, or the two sides, in fact. He turned back the other side of the card, picture, and passed it along to Stephen. I've seen a Chinese one time, related to the doughy narrator, that had little pills like putty, and he put them in the water and they opened, and every pill was something different. One was a ship, another was a house, another was a flower. Cook's rats in your soup, he appetizingly added, that shink does, possibly perceiving an expression of dubiosity on their faces, the globetrotter went on, adhering to his adventures. And I've seen a man killed and triassed by an Italian chap, knife in his back, knife like that. Well, speaking, he produced a dangerous-looking clasp-knife, quite in keeping with his character, and held it in the striking position. In a knocking-shop it was count of a triumph between two smugglers. Fellow hid behind a door, come up behind him, like that. Prepare to meet your gods, as he, chup! It went into his back up to the butt. His heavy glance, drowsily roaming about, kind of defied their further questions, even if they should by any chance want to. That's a good bit of steel, repeated he, examining his formidable celletto. After which harrowing Danumal, sufficient to appall the Stoutis, he snapped the blade to instill the weapon in question away, as before, in his chamber of horrors, otherwise pocket. They're great for the cold steel, somebody who was evidently quite in the dark, said for the benefit of them all. That was why they thought the park-murders of the Invincibles was done by foreigners and accounted them using knives. At this remark passed, obviously, in the spirit of where ignorance is bliss, Mr. B. and Stephen, each in his own particular way, both instinctively exchanged meaning-glances. In a religious silence of the strictly entrant new variety, however, towards where, skin the goat, alias the keeper, not turning a hair was drawing spurts of liquid from his boiler affair. His inscrutable face, which was really a work of art, a perfect study in itself, beggaring description, conveyed the impression that he didn't understand one jot of what was going on. Funny, very. They're in suit of somewhat lengthy pause. One man was reading in fits and starts a stained-by-coffee evening journal, another the card with a native's choza-day, another the seaman's discharge. Mr. Bloom, so far as he was personally concerned, was just pondering in pensive mood. He vividly recollected when the occurrence alluded to take place, as well as yesterday, roughly some scores of years previously in the days of the land troubles, when it took the civilized world by storm, roughly speaking, early in the eighties. Eighty-one, to be correct, when he was just turned fifteen. Aye, boss, the sailor broke in. Give us back them papers! The request being complied with he clawed them up with a scrape. Have you seen the rock of Gibraltar, Mr. Bloom inquired? The sailor grimaced, chewing in a way that might be read as yes, aye, or no. Aye, you've touched there too, Mr. Bloom said. He wrote a point, thinking he had, in the hope the rover might possibly buy some reminiscences, but he failed to do so, simply letting Spurt a jet of spew into the sawdust and shook his head with a sort of lazy scorn. What year would that be about, Mr. B. interrogated? Can you recall the boats? Our swad-distant sailor munched heavily a while hungrily before answering, I'm tired of all them rocks in the sea, he said, and boats and ships. Salt junk all the time. Tired seemingly, he ceased. His questioner, perceiving that he was not likely to get a great deal of change out of such a wily old customer, fell to wool-gathering on the enormous dimensions of the water about the globe. Suffice it to say that, as a casual glance at the map revealed, it covered fully three-fourths of it, and he fully realized accordingly what it meant to rule the waves. A more than one occasion, a dozen at the lowest, near the North Bowl at Dollymount, he had remarked a superannuated old salt, evidently derelict, seated habitually near the not particularly redolent sea on the wall, staring quite obliviously at it and it at him, dreaming of fresh woods and pastures new as someone somewhere sings, and it left him wondering why. Possibly he had tried to find out the secret for himself, floundering up and down the antipodes and all that sort of thing and over and under, well not exactly under, tempting the fates. And the odds were twenty-two nil there was really no secret about it at all. Nevertheless, without going into the minutiae of the business, the eloquent fact remained that the sea was there in all its glory, and in the natural course of things somebody or other had to sail on it and fly in the face of Providence, though it merely went to show how people usually contrived to load that sort of onus onto the other fellow, like the hell idea and the lottery and insurance, which were run on identically the same lines, so that for that very reason, if no other lifeboat Sunday, was a highly laudable institution to which the public at large, no matter where living, inland or seaside, as the case might be, having it brought home to them like that, should extend its gratitude also to the harbormasters and Coast Guard service who had to man the rigging and push off and out amid the elements whatever the season. When duty called, Ireland expects that every man, and so on, and sometimes had a terrible time of it in the wintertime, not forgetting the Irish lights, kish and the others, liable to capsize at any moment, rounding which he once with his daughter had experienced some remarkably choppy, not to say stormy, weather. End of section 47, recording by Karen. Section 48 of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Karen. Ulysses by James Joyce. Part 3, The Nostos. Episode 16, Umeas. Part 3. There was a fellow sailed with me in the rover. The old sea dog himself a rover proceeded, went ashore and took up a soft job as gentlemen's valid at six quid a month. Them are his trousers I've on me, and he gave me an oil skin and that jackknife. I'm game for that job, shaving and brush up, I hate roaming about. There's my son now, Danny, run off to sea, and his mother got him took in a draper's in quirk, where he could be drawing easy money. What age is he, queried one hearer, who by the way, seen from the sideboard, distant resemblance to Henry Campbell, the town clerk, away from the carking cares of office, unwashed, of course, and in a seedy get-up and a strong suspicion of nose paint about the nasal appendage? Why? The sailor answered with a slow, puzzled utterance. My son, Danny, he'd be about eighteen now, way I figure it. The skibbering father hereupon tore open his grey, or unclean anyhow, shirt with his two hands, and scratched away at his chest, on which was to be seen an image tattooed in blue Chinese ink, intended to represent an anchor. There was lice in that bunk in bridge-water, he remarked, sure as nuts. I must get a wash tomorrow or next day. It's them black lads I object to. I hate those buggers. Suck your blood dry, they does. Seeing they were all looking at his chest, he accommodatingly dragged his shirt more open, so that on top of the time-honored symbol of the mariner's hope and rest, they had a full view of the figure sixteen, and a young man's side-face looking frowningly rather. Tattoo, the exhibitor explained. That was done when we were lying becombed off Odessa in the Black Sea under Captain Dalton. Fellow, the name of Antonio, done that. There he is himself, a Greek. Did it hurt much doing it, when asked the sailor? That worthy, however, was busily engaged in collecting round the someway in his, squeezing, or... See here, he said, showing Antonio. There he is, cursing the mate. And there he is now, he added. The same fellow, pulling the skin with his fingers. Some special knack evidently, and he laughing at a yarn. And, in point of fact, the young man named Antonio's livid face did actually look like force-smiling. And the curious effect excited the unreserved admiration of everybody, including Skin the Goat, who this time stretched over. Uh-huh, sighed the sailor, looking down on his manly chest. He is gone, too, ate by sharks after. Aye-aye. He let go of the skin, so that the profile resumed the normal expression of before. Neat bit of work, one longshoreman said. And what's the number for, loafer number two queried? Eatin' alive? A third asked the sailor. Aye-aye, sighed again the latter personage. More cheerily, this time, with some sort of a half-smile for a brief duration only, in the direction of the questioner about the number. Eight, a Greek he was. And then he added with rather gallows-bird humor, considering his alleged end. As bad as old Antonio, for he left me on my own. The face of a street-walker glazed and haggard under a black straw hat, peered a skew round the door of the shelter, palpably reconituring on her own, with the object of bringing more grist to her mill. Mr. Bloom, scarcely knowing which way to look, turned away on the moment, flustered but outwardly calm. And picking up from the table the pink sheet of the Abbey Street organ, which the jarby, if such he was, had laid aside, he picked it up and looked at the pink of the paper, though why pink? His reason for so doing was he recognized on the moment, round the door, the same face he had caught a fleeting glimpse of that afternoon on Armand Quay, the partially idiotic female, namely, of the Lane, who knew the lady in the brown costume, does be with you, Mrs. B, and beg the chance of his washing. Also, why washing, which seemed rather vague than not? You're washing. Still, Candor compelled him to admit he had washed his wife's undergarments when soiled in Hall Street, and women would, and did too, a man's similar garments. Initialed with Beaulieu and Draper's marking ink, hers were, that is, if they really loved him, that is to say, love me, love my dirty shirt. Still, just then, being on tenderhooks, he desired the female's room more than her company, so it came as a genuine relief when the keeper made her a rude sign to take herself off. Round the side of the evening telegraph he'd just caught a fleeting glimpse of her face round the side of the door with a kind of demented, glassy grin showing that she was not exactly all there, viewing with evident amusement the group of gazers round Skipper Murphy's nautical chest. And then there was no more of her. The gunboat, the keeper said. It beats me, Mr. Bloom confided to Stephen. Medically, I'm speaking. A wretched creature like that from the lock hospital, reeking with disease, can be barefaced enough to solicit. Or how any man in his sober senses if he values his health in the least. Unfortunate creature? Of course, I suppose some man is ultimately responsible for her condition. Still, no matter what the cause is from, Stephen had not noticed her and shrugged his shoulders, merely remarking, in this country people sell much more than she ever had and do a roaring trade. Fair not them that sell the body but have not power to buy the soul. She is a bad merchant. She buys dear and sells cheap. The elder man, though not by any manner of means an old maid or a prude, said it was nothing short of a crying scandal that ought to be put a stop to instant her to say that women of that stamp, apart from any old maidish squeamishness on the subject, a necessary evil, were not licensed and medically inspected by the proper authorities. A thing he could truthfully state he, as a patra familias, was a stalwart adept kid of from the very first start. Whoever embarked on a policy of the sort, he said, and ventilated the matter thoroughly would confer a lasting boon on everybody concerned. You, as a good Catholic, he observed, talking of body and soul, believe in the soul. Or do you mean the intelligence, the brain power such as distinct from any outside object? The table let us say that cup. I believe in that myself because it has been explained by competent men as a convolutions of the gray matter. Otherwise we would never had such inventions as X-rays, for instance. Do you, thus cornered, Stephen had to make a superhuman effort of memory to try and concentrate and remember before he could say. They tell me on the best authority it is a simple substance and therefore incorruptible. It would be immortal, I understand, but for the possibility of its annihilation by its first cause. Who, from all I can hear, is quite capable of adding that to the number of his other practical jokes. Corruptio per se and corruptio per accidents both being excluded by court etiquette. Mr. Bloom thoroughly acquiesced and the general justed this, though the mystical finesse involved was a bit out of his sublunary depth. Still he fell bound to enter a demur on the head of Simple, promptly rejoining. Simple. I shouldn't think that is the proper word. Of course I grant you to concede a point. You do knock across a simple soul once in a blue moon, but what I am anxious to arrive at is it is one thing, for instance, to invent those rays Wrenchen did, or the telescope-like Edison. Though I believe it was before his time, Galileo was the man, I mean, and the same applies to the laws, for example, of a far-reaching natural phenomenon such as electricity. But it's a horse of quite another color to say you believe in the existence of a supernatural god. Oh, that! Stephen, expostulated, has been proved conclusively by several of the best-known passages in Holy Writ, apart from circumstantial evidence. On this naughty point, however, the views of the pair pulls apart as they were both in schooling and everything else, with a marked difference in the respective ages clashed. Husband! The more experienced the two objected, sticking to his original point with a smile of unbelief. I'm not so sure about that. That's a matter for every man's opinion. And without dragging in the sectarian side of the business, I beg to differ with you in total there. My belief is to tell you the candid truth that those bits were genuine forgeries, all of them put in by monks most probably, or it's the big question of our national poet over again. Who precisely wrote them, like Hamlet and Bacon? As you who know your Shakespeare infinitely better than I, of course I needn't tell you. Can't you drink that coffee, by the way? Let me stir it, and take a piece of that bun. It's like one of our skipper's bricks disguised. Still, no one can give what he hasn't got. Try a bit. Couldn't. Stephen contrived to get out his mental organs for the moment refusing to dictate further. Fault finding being a proverbially bad hat, Mr. Bloom thought well to stir, or try to, the clotted sugar from the bottom, and reflected with something approaching acrimony in the coffee palace and its temperance and lucrative work. To be sure it was a legitimate object, and beyond yay or nay, did a world of good. Shelters such as the present one they were in run on teetotal lions for vagrants at night, concerts, dramatic evenings, and useful lectures, admittance free, by qualified men for the lower orders. On the other hand he had a distinct and painful recollection they paid his wife, Madame Mary and Tweety, who had been promptly associated with it at one time, a very modest remuneration indeed for her piano playing. The idea he was strongly inclined to believe was to do good and net a profit, there being no competition to speak of. Sulfate of copper poison, sulfate or something and some dried peas he remembered reading of in a cheap eating-house somewhere. But he couldn't remember when it was, or where. Anyhow, inspection, medical inspection, of all eatables seemed to him more than ever necessary, which possibly accounted for the vogue of Dr. Tybald's Vycoco, an account of the medical analysis involved. Have a shot at it now, he ventured to say at the coffee after being stirred. Thus prevailed on to at any rate taste it, Stephen lifted the heavy mug from the brown puddle it clopped out of when taken up by the handle and took a sip of the offending beverage. Still, it's solid food, his good genius urged. I'm a stickler for solid food. His one and only reason being not gormandizing in the least, but regular meals as a cinnain aqua known for any kind of proper work, mental or manual. You ought to eat more solid food, you would feel a different man. Liquids I can eat, Stephen said. But, oh, oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history. Mr. Boulou properly did as suggested and removed the incriminated article, a blunt horn-handled ordinary knife, with nothing particularly Roman or antique about it to the lay eye, observing that the point was the least conspicuous point about it. Our mutual friend's stories are like himself. Mr. Bloom, apropos of knives, remarked to his confidant, Sotovoce. Do you think they're genuine? He could spin those yarns for hours on end, all night long, and lie like old boots, look at him. Yet, still though his eyes were thick with sleep and sea air life was full of a host of things and coincidences of a terrible nature. And it was quite within the bounds of possibility that it was not an entire fabrication. Though at first blotch there was not much inherent probability in all the spoof he got off his chest being strictly accurate gospel, he had been meantime taking stock of the individual in front of him and Sherlock Holmesing him up ever since he clapped eyes on him. Though a well-preserved man of no little stamina, if a trifle prone to baldness, there was something spurious in the cut of his jib that suggested a jail delivery. And it required no violent stretch of imagination to associate such a weird-looking specimen with the Oakham and Treadmill fraternity. He might even have done for his man supposing it was his own case, he told, as people often did about others, namely that he killed him himself, and had served his four or five good-looking years in Durant's vile, to say nothing of Antonio personage, no relation to the Germanic personage of a denical name who sprang from the pen of our national poet, who expiated his crimes in the melodramatic manner above described. On the other hand, he might be only bluffing. A pardonable weakness, because meeting unmistakable mugs, Dublin residents like those Jarvis waiting news from broad, would tempt any ancient mariner who sailed the ocean seas to draw the longbow about the schooner Hesperus and et cetera. And when all was said and done, the lies a fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him. Mind you, I'm not saying that it's all a pure invention, he resumed. Analogous scenes are occasionally, if not often, met with giants, though. That is rather a far cry. You see, once in a way, Marcello the Midget Queen, in those waxworks in Henry Street, I myself saw some Aztecs, as they are called, sitting bow-legged. They couldn't straighten their legs if you paid them, because the muscles here, you see, he proceeded, indicating on his companion the brief outline of the sinews or whatever you like to call them behind the right knee. We're utterly powerless from sitting that way so long cramped up, being adored as gods. There's an example again of simple souls. However, reverting to friend Sinbad in his horrifying adventures, who reminded him a bit of Ludwig, Ilius Ledwig, when he occupied the boards of the Gaity when Michael Gunn was identified with the management in the Flying Dutchman, a stupendous success, and his host of admirers came in large numbers. Everyone simply flocking to hear him, though ships of any sort, phantom or the reverse, on the stage, usually fell a bit flat, as also did trains. There was nothing intrinsically incompatible about it, he conceded. On the contrary, that stab in the back-touch was quite in keeping with those Italianos. Though candidly, he was nonetheless free to admit those ice-creamers and friars in the fish-way, not to mention the chip-potato variety and so forth over in little Italy there, near the coom, were sober, thrifty, hard-working fellows. Except perhaps a bit too given to pot-hunting the harmless necessary animal of feline persuasion of others at night, so as to have a good old succulent tuck-in with garlic, do regure off him or her next day, on the quiet, and he added, on the cheap. Spaniards, for instance, he continued, passionate temperaments like that, impetuous as old Nick, are given to taking the law into their own hands, and give you your queatess double-quick with those poignards they carry in the abdomen. It comes from the great heat, climate generally. My wife is, so to speak, Spanish, half that is. Point of fact, she could actually claim Spanish nationality if she wanted, having been born in, technically, Spain. I age a brawler. She has a Spanish type, quite dark, regular brunette, black. I, for one, certainly believe climate accounts for character. That's why I asked you if you wrote your poetry in Italian. The temperaments at the door, Stephen interposed with, were very passionate about ten shillings, Roberto Rubar Roba Sua. Quite so, Mr. Bloom didod. Then, Stephen said, staring and rambling onto himself or some unknown listener somewhere, we have the impetuosity of Dante, and the isosceles triangle miss Portanari he fell in love with, and Leonardo, and San Tomasso Mastino. It's in the blood, Mr. Bloom acceded at once. All are washed in the blood of the sun. Coincidence, I just happened to be in the Kildare Street Museum 890 today, shortly prior to our meeting, if I can so call it, and I was just looking at those antique statues there, the splendid proportions of hips, bosom. You simply don't knock against those kind of women here. An exception here and there. Handsome, yes. Pretty in a way. You find? But what I'm talking about is the female form. Besides, they have so little taste in dress, most of them, which greatly enhances a woman's natural beauty. No matter what you say. Rumbled stockings. It may be, possibly is, a foible of mine, but still, it's a thing I simply hate to see. Interest, however, was starting to flag somewhat all around. And then the others got into talking about accidents at sea. Ships, lost in a fog, goo collisions with icebergs, all that sort of thing. Ship of Hoy, of course, had his own to say. He had doubled the cape a few odd times and weathered a monsoon, a kind of wind in the China seas. And through all those perils of the deep there was one thing he declared stood to him, or words to that effect, a pious medal he had that saved him. So then after that they drifted on to the wreck off Daunt's Rock, wreck of that ill-fated Norwegian bark nobody could think of her name for the moment, until the Jarvie who had really quite a look of Henry Campbell remembered it. Palm on Butterstown Strand. That was the talk of the town that year. Albert William Quill wrote a fine piece of original verse of 910 distinctive merit on the topic for the Irish Times. Breakers running over her and crowds and crowds in the shore in commotion petrified with horror. Then someone said something about the case of the SS Lady Cairns of Swansea, run into by the Mona, which was on an opposite tack in rather muggyish weather and lost, with all hands on deck. No aid was given. Her master, the Mona's, said he was afraid his collision bulkhead would give way. She had no water it appears in her hold. At this stage an incident happened, it having become necessary for him to unfurl a reef, the sailor vacated his seat. Let me cross your bows, mate. He said to his neighbor, who was just gently dropping off into a peaceful dose. He made tracks heavily, slowly, with a dumpy sort of a gate to the door, stepped heavily down the one step there was out of the shelter and Bordeaux left. While he was in the act of getting his bearings, Mr. Bloom, who noticed when he stood up that he had two flasks of presumably ship's rum sticking, one out of each pocket, for the private consumption of his burning interior, saw him produce a bottle and uncork it or unscrew, and applying its nozzle to his lips take a good old delectable swig out of it with a gurgling noise. The irrepressible Bloom, who also had a shrewd suspicion that the old Stager went out on a maneuver after the counter-attraction the shape of a female, who, however, had disappeared to all intents and purposes, could, by straining, just perceive him. When duly refreshed by his rum-puncheon exploit, gaping up at the piers and girders of the loop line, rather out of his depth, as, of course, it was all radically altered since his last visit, and greatly improved. Some person or persons invisible directed him to the male urinal, erected by the cleansing committee all over the place for the purpose. But after a brief space of time during which silence reigned supreme, the sailor, evidently giving it a wide berth, eased himself closer at hand, the noise of his bilge-water some little time subsequently splashy on the ground, where it apparently awoke a horse to the cabernic. A hoof scooped anyway for new foothold, after sleep and harness jingled, slightly disturbed in the sentry-box by the brazier of live coke. The watcher of the corporation's stones, who though now broken down and fast-breaking up, was none other in stern reality than the gumly a force said. Now practically on the parish rates, given the temporary job by Pat Tobin, in all human probability, from dictates of humanity knowing him before, shifted about and shuffled in his box, before composing his limbs again into the arms of Morpheus, a truly amazing piece of hard lines in its most virulent form, and a fellow most respectably connected and familiarized with decent home comforts all his life, who came in for a cool one hundred pounds a year at one time, which of course the double-barrel ass proceeded to make general ducks and drakes of, and there he was at the end of his tether after having only painted the town tolerably pink without a beggarly stiver. He drank, needless to be told, and it pointed only once more immoral, when he might quite easily be in a large way of business if, a big if however, he had contrived to cure himself of his particular partiality. All meantime were loudly lamenting the falling-off in Irish shipping, coast-wise and far in as well, which was all part and parcel the same thing. A palgrove Murphy boat was put off the ways at Alexander Basin, the only launch that year. Right enough the harbors were there, only no ships ever called. There are wrecks and wreckers, the keeper said, who was evidently offay. What he wanted to ascertain was why that ship ran bang against the only rock in Galway Bay. When the Galway harbour scheme was mooted by a Mr. Worthington, or some name like that eh? Ask the then captain, he advised them, how much palm oil the British government gave him for that day's work. Captain John Lever of the Lever Line. Am I right, skipper? he queried to the sailor, now returning after his private petition and the rest of his exertions. That worthy picking up the scent of the faggin of the song or words growled in would-be music, but with great them some kind of chantier other in seconds or thirds. Mr. Bloom's sharp ears heard him then expectorate the plug probably, which it was, so that he must have lodged it for the time being in his fist, while he did the drinking and making water-jobs, and found it a bit sour after the liquid fire in question. Anyhow, in he rolled after his successful libation computation, introducing an atmosphere of drink into the soiree, boisterously trolling like a veritable son of a sea-cook. The biscuits were as hard as brass and the beef as salt as lots wife's arse. Oh, Johnny Lever, Johnny Lever, oh! After which effusion the redoubtable specimen duly arrived on the scene and regaining his seat, he sank rather than sat, heavily on the form provided. Skin the goat, assuming he was he, evidently with an axe to grind, was airing his grievances in a forcible, feeble, philipic annant, the natural resources of Ireland, or something of that sort, which he described in his lengthy dissertation as the richest country bar none on the face of God's earth, far and away superior to England, with coal in large quantities, six million pounds worth of pork exported every year, ten millions between butter and eggs, and all the riches drained out of it by England, leviing taxes on the poor people that paid through the nose always, and gobbling up the best meat in the market, and a lot more surplus steam in the same vein. End of Section 48, recorded by Karen. Section 49 of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Karen. Ulysses by James Joyce. Part 3, The Nostos. Episode 16, Umeas. Part 4. Their conversation accordingly became general, and all agreed that that was a fact. You could grow any mortal thing in Irish soil, he stated, and there was that colonel Everard down there in Navin growing tobacco. Where would you find anywhere the like of Irish bacon? But a day of reckoning, he stated, crescendo with no uncertain voice thoroughly monopolizing all the conversation, was in store for mighty England, despite her power of pelf on account of her crimes. There would be a fall, and the greatest fall in history. The Germans and the Japs were going to have their little look in, he affirmed. The Bowers were the beginning of the end. Broomergem England was toppling already, and her downfall would be Ireland, her Achilles' heel. Which he explained to them about the vulnerable point of Achilles, the Greek hero, a point his auditors at once seized as he completely gripped their attention by showing the tendon referred to as boot. His advice to every Irishman was stay in the land of your birth, and work for Ireland, and live for Ireland. Ireland, Parnell said, could not spare a single one of her sons. Silence all round marked the termination of his finale. The impervious navigator heard these lurid tidings, undismayed. Take a bit of doing, boss! Retaliated that rough diamond, palpably a bit peeved in response to the forgoing truism. To which Koldouche, referring to downfall and so on, the keeper concurred, but nevertheless held to his main view. Who's the best troops in the army? The grizzled old veteran I greatly interrogated. And the best jumpers and racers? And the best admirals and generals we've got? Tell me that. The Irish for choice retorted the cabbie like so, facial blemishes apart. That's right! The old tarpolin corroborated. The Irish Catholic peasant. He's the backbone of our empire. You know, Gem Mullins? While allowing him his individual opinions as every man, the keeper added he cared nothing for any empire, ours or his, and considered no Irishman worthy of his salt that served it. Then they began to have a few irascible words when it waxed both needless to say, appealing to the listeners, who followed the passage of arms with interest so long as they didn't indulge in recriminations and come to blows. From inside information extending over a series of years, Mr. Bloom was rather inclined to poo-poo the suggestion, as a greatest balderdash, for pending the consummation devoutly to be or not to be wished for, he was fully cognizant of the fact that there are neighbors across a channel, as they were much bigger fools than he took them for, rather concealed their strength than the opposite. It was quite an apart with the chaotic idea in certain quarters that in a hundred million years the coal seam of the sister island would be played out, and if as time went on, that turned out to be how the cat jumped. All he could personally say on the matter was that as a host of contingencies equally relevant to the issue might occur near then, it was highly advisable in interim to try to make most of both countries, even though poles apart. Another little interesting point, the amours of horrors and chummies to put it in common parlance, reminded him, Irish soldiers had as often fought for England as against her, more so in fact, and now why? So the scene between the pair of them, the licensee of the place rumoured to be have been Fitz Harris, the famous Invincible, and the other obviously bogus, reminded him forcibly as being on all fours with a confidence trick. Supposing that is, it was prearranged as a looker on a student of the human soul of anything, the others seeing least of the game. And as for the less-seer keeper, who probably wasn't the other person at all he, be, couldn't help feeling and most properly, it was better to give people like that the go-by, unless you are a blithering idiot altogether, and refuse to have nothing to do with them as a golden rule in private life and their felon setting. They're always being the off-chance of a Danny-man coming forward and turning Queen's evidence, or King's now, like Dennis or Peter Kerry, an idea he utterly repudiated. Quite apart from that, he disliked those careers of wrongdoing and crime on principle. Yet though such criminal propensities had never been an inmate at his bosom in any shape or form, he certainly did feel, and no denying it, while in really remaining what he was, a certain kind of admiration for a man who had actually brandished a knife, cold steel, with the courage of his political convictions, though personally he would never be a party to any such thing. Off the same bat as those love-and-deaddes of the South. Have her, or swing for her. When the husband frequently after some words passed between the two concerning her relations with the other lucky mortal, he, having had the pair watched, inflicted fatal injuries on his adored one as a result of an alternative post-nuptial liaison by plunging his knife into her just until it struck him that Fetz, nicknamed a goat, merely drove the car for the actual perpetrators of the outrage, and so was not, if he was reliably informed, actually party to the ambush, which in point of fact was the plea some legal luminary saved his skin on. In any case that was very ancient history by now. And as for our friend, the pseudo-skinly, etc., he had transparently outlived his welcome. He ought to have either died naturally or had a cold tie. Like actresses, always farewell positively last performance, then come up smiling again. Generous to a fault, of course, temperamental, no economizing or any idea of the sort, always snapping at the bone for the shadow. So similarly, he had a very shrewd suspicion that Mr. Johnny Lever got rid of some LSD in the course of his perambulations round the docks in the congenial atmosphere of the old Ireland tavern. Come back to Aaron, and so on. Then, as for the other, he had heard not so long before the same identical lingo as he told Stephen how he simply but effectually silenced the offender. He took umbrage at something or other that much injured but on the whole even-tempered person declared. I let slip. He called me a Jew and in a heated of fashion, so I, without deviating from plain facts in the least, told him his God, I mean Christ, was a Jew too, and all his family, like me, though in reality I am not. That was one for him. A soft answer turns away wrath. He had no word to say for himself as everyone saw. Am I not right? He turned along your wrong gaze on Stephen of timorous dark pride at the soft impeachment with a glance also of entreaty, for he seemed to glean in a kind of a way that it wasn't all, exactly. Exquibis, Stephen mumbled, in a non-committal accent, there too are four eyes conversing, Christos or Bloom his name is or after all any other Secundum Carnum. Of course, Mr. B. proceeded to stipulate. You must look at both sides of the question. It is hard to lay down any hard and fast rules as to right and wrong, but room for improvement all around there certainly is. Though every country they say, our own distressful included, has the government it deserves. But, with a little good will all around, it's all very fine to boast of mutual superiority. But what about mutual equality? I resent violence and intolerance in any shape or form. Never reaches anything or stops anything. A revolution must come on the due installment plan. It's a patent absurdity in the face of it to hate people because they live around the corner and speak another vernacular. In the next house, so to speak. Memorable bloody bridge battle in seven minutes war. Stephen assented between Skinner's Alley and Orman Market. Yes, Mr. Bloom thoroughly agreed, entirely endorsing the remark that was overwhelmingly right and the whole world was full of that sort of thing. You just took the words out of my mouth, he said. A hocus pocus of conflicting evidence that candidly you couldn't remotely all those wretched quarrels in his humble opinion, stirring up bad blood from some bump of combativeness or gland of some kind. Ironiously supposed to be about a punctilio of honor and a flag were very large, they a question of the money. Question which was at the back of everything, greed and jealousy, people never knowing when to stop. They accuse, remarked he audibly, he turned away from the others who probably and spoke nearer to, so as the others in case they. Jews he softly imparted in an aside to Stephen's ear are accused of ruining not a vestige of truth in it I can safely say. History would you be surprised to learn, proves up to the hilt, Spain decayed when Inquisition hounded the Jews out and England prospered when Cromwell and uncommonly Able Ruffian, who in other respects has much to answer for imported them. Why? Because they are imbued with a proper spirit, they are practical and are proved to be so. I don't want to indulge in any because you know the standard works on the subject, and then orthodox as you are. But, in the economic, not touching religion domain, the priest spells poverty. Spain again you saw in the war compared with the go ahead America. Turks it's in the dogma. Because, if they didn't believe they'd go straight to heaven when they die, they try to live better. At least, I think. That's the jug on which the P.P.'s raised the wind on false pretenses. I'm, he resumed with dramatic force, as good an Irishman as that rude person I told you about at the outset. And I want to see everyone, concluded he. All creeds and classes pro-rata having a comfortable tidy size income in no-niggered fashion either, something in the neighborhood of 300 pounds per annum. That's the vital issue at stake, and it's feasible, and would be provocative a friendlier intercourse between man and man. At least that's my idea for what it's worth. I call that patriotism. Ubi Patria, as we learned a smattering of in our classical days in Alma Mater, vita bene. Where you can live well, the sense is if you work. Over his untasteable apology for a cup of coffee, listening to this synopsis of things in general, Stephen stared at nothing in particular. He could hear, of course, all kinds of words changing color, like those crabs about ring-send in the morning, burrowing quickly into all colors of different sorts of the same sand where they had a home somewhere beneath, or seemed to. Then he looked up and saw the eyes that said, or didn't say the words, the voice he heard said, if you work. Count me out. He managed to remark, meaning work. The eyes were surprised at this observation, because as he, the person who owned them pro tem, observed, or rather his voice speaking did, all must work, have to, together. I mean, of course, the other hastened to affirm work in the widest possible sense. Also, literary labor, not merely for the kudos of the thing. Writing for the newspapers, which is the readiest channel nowadays, that's work, too, important work. After all, from the little I know of you, after all the money expended on your education, you're entitled to recoup yourself and command your price. You have every bit as much right to live by your pen in pursuit of your philosophy as a peasant has. What, you both belong to Ireland, the brain and the brawn. Each is equally important. You suspect Stephen retorted with a sort of half laugh, that I may be important because I belong to the Thauberg St. Patrice, called Ireland for short? I would go a step farther, Mr. Bloom insinuated. But I suspect, Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must be important because it belongs to me. What, belongs? queried Mr. Bloom vending, fancing he was perhaps under some misapprehension. Excuse me. Unfortunately, I didn't catch the letter portion. What was it, you? Stephen patently cross-tempered, repeated and shoved aside his mug of coffee, or whatever you like to call it, none too politely adding eleven seventy. We can't change the country. Let us change the subject. At this pertinent suggestion Mr. Bloom, to change the subject, looked down, but in a quandary, as he couldn't tell exactly what construction to put on belongs to, which sounded rather a far cry. The rebuke of some kind was clearer than the other part. Needless to say, the fumes of his recent orgy spoke then with some asperity in a curious bitter way, foreign to his sober state. Probably the home life to which Mr. B attached the utmost importance had not been all that was needful, or he hadn't been familiarized with the right sort of people. But the touch of fear for the young man beside him, whom he furtively scrutinized with an air of some consternation, remembering he had just come back from Paris, the eyes more especially reminding him forcibly a father and sister. Failing to throw much light on the subject, however he brought to my instances of cultured fellows that promised so brilliantly, nipped in the bud of premature decay, and nobody to blame but themselves. For instance, there was a case of O'Callahan for one, the half-crazy fattest, respectably connected though of inadequate means with his mad vagaries among whose other gay doings, when Rato and making himself a nuisance to everybody all round, he was in the habit of ostentatiously sporting in public a suit of brown paper, a fact. And then the usual denouement after the fun had gone on fast and furious, he got 1190, landed into hot water, and had to be spirited away by a few friends after a strong hint to a blind horse from John Mallon of Lower Castle Yard, so as not to be made amenable under Section 2 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act. Certain names of those subpoenaed being handed in but not divulged for reasons which will occur to anyone with a pick of brains. Briefly putting two and two together, 616, which he pointedly turned a deaf ear to, Antonio and so forth, jockeys and esthetes and a tattoo which was all the go in the seventies or thereabouts even in the House of Lords, because early in life the occupant of the throne, then heir apparent, the other members of the upper ten and other high personages simply following in the footsteps of the head of the state. He reflected about the errors of notorieties and crowned heads running counter to morality, such as the Cornwall case, a number of years before under their veneer in a way scarcely intended by nature, a thing good. Mrs. Grundy, as the law stands, was terribly down on, though not for the reason they thought they were probably whatever it was except women chiefly, who were always fiddling more or less at one another, it being largely a matter of dress and all the rest of it. Ladies who like distinctive underclothing should, and every well-tailored man must, trying to make the gap wider between them by innuento and give more of a general Philip to acts of impropriety between the two. She unbuttoned his and then he untied her, mined the pin, whereas savages in the cannibal islands say, at ninety degrees in the shade, not carrying a continental. However, reverting to the original, there were on the other hand others who had forced their way to the top from the lowest rung aid of their bootstraps. Sheer force of natural genius that, with brains, sir, for which and further reasons he felt it was his interest and duty, even to wait on and profit, by the unlooked for occasion, though why he could not exactly tell being as it was already several shillings to the bad, having in fact let himself in for it. Still, to cultivate the acquaintance of someone of no uncommon caliber who could provide food for reflection would simply repay any small. Intellectual stimulation, as such, was he felt from time to time a first rate tonic for the mind, added to which was the coincidence of meeting, discussion, dance, row, old salt of the here-today-and-gone-tomorrow type, night loafers, the whole galaxy events, all went to make up a miniature cameo of the world we live in, especially as a lies of the submerged 10th, these coalminers, divers, scavengers, etc., were very much under the microscope lately. To improve the shining hour he wondered whether he might meet with anything approaching the same luck as Mr. Philip Bofoy. If taken down in writing, suppose he were to pen something out of the common groove, as he fully intended doing, at the rate of one guinea per column. My experiences, let us say, in a cabman's shelter. The pink edition extra sporting of the telegraph, telegraphic lie, lay as luck would have it beside his elbow, and as he was just puzzling again, far from satisfied, over a country belonging to him and the preceding rebus, the vessel came from bridge-water, and the postcard was addressed, eh, Boudin, find the captain's age. His eyes went aimlessly over the respective captions, which came under his special province, the all-embracing give-us-this-day, our daily press. First he got a bit of a start, but it turned out to be only something about somebody named H. Du Bois, agent for typewriters or something like that. Great battle, Tokyo. Love-making in Irish. Two hundred pounds damages. Gordon Bennett. Immigration swindle. A letter from his grace, William. Ascot meeting. The Gold Cup. Victory of outsider throwaway recalls Derby of 92, when Captain Marshall's dark horse, Sir Hugo, captured the blue ribbon at long odds. New York disaster. Thousand lives lost. Foot and mouth. Funeral of the late Mr. Patrick Dignam. End of section 49. Recorded by Karen. Section 50 of Ulysses. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Paul Adams. Ulysses by James Joyce. Part 3, The Nostos. Episode 16, Umeus. Part 5. So to change the subject, which he reflected was anything but a gay send-off, or a change of address anyway. This morning, Heinz put it in, of course, the remains of the late Mr. Patrick Dignam were removed from his residence, No. 9 Newbridge Avenue, Sandymount for interment in Glassnevin. The deceased gentleman was the most popular and genial personality in city life and his demise after a brief illness came as a great shock to citizens of all classes by whom he has deeply regretted. The obsequies at which many friends of the deceased were present were carried out, certainly Heinz wrote it with a nudge from Corny, by Messers H. J. O'Neill and son No. 164 North Strand Road. The mourners included Patrick Dignam, son, Bernard Corrigan, brother-in-law, John Henry Menton, solar, Martin Cunningham, John Power, Eton for one eighth, Ador-Ador-Ador-Dor-Ador must be where he called monks the dayfather about keys-ad. Thomas Kernan, Simon Daedalus, Stephen Daedalus, B4, Edward J. Lambert, Cornelius T. Kelleher, Joseph M. C. Heinz, L. Boom, C. P. McCoy, M. Intosh, and several others. Nettled not a little by L. Boom, as it incorrectly stated, and the line of bitch-type but tickled to death simultaneously by C. P. McCoy and Stephen Daedalus, B. A., who were conspicuous, needless to say, by their total absence to say nothing of M. Intosh, L. Boom pointed it out to his companion B. A. engaged in stifling another yawn, half nervousness, not forgetting the usual crop of nonsensical howlers of misprints. Is that thirsty pistol to the Hebrew as he asked as soon as his bottom jaw would let him in? Text open thy mouth and put thy foot in it. It is, really, Mr. Boom said, though first he fancied he alluded to the archbishop till he added about foot and mouth of which there could be no possible connection, overjoyed to set his mind at rest and a bit flabbergasted at Miles Crawford's after all managing to. While the other was reading it on page two, Boom, to give him for the nonce his new misnomer, wild away a few odd leisure moments in fits and starts, with the account of the third eventer Ascot on page three his side, value one thousand sovereigns with three thousand sovereigns in species she added, for entire colts and fillers. Mr. F. Alexander's throwaway, B. H., by right away, Mr. Alexander's nine stone four pounds, W. Lane, one, Lord Howard DeWarton's Zinfandel, M. Cannon, Z., Mr. W. Bass's scepter, three, betting five to four on Zinfandel, twenty to one throwaway, off. Scepter, a shade heavier, five to four on Zinfandel, twenty to one throwaway, off. Throwaway and Zinfandel stood close order. It was anybody's race. Then the rank rider drew to the fore, got long lead, beating Lord Howard's DeWarton's chestnut colt and Mr. W. Bass's bayfelly scepter on a two-and-a-half mile course. Winner trained by brain, so that Lenahan's version of the business was all pure bunkham. Secured the verdict cleverly by length, one thousand sovereigns with three thousand in species. Also ran, J. de Bremond's French horse Bantam Lyons was anxiously inquiring after not in yet, but expected any minute. Maxim, too. Different ways of bringing off a coup, love-making damages. Though that half-baked Lyons ran off at a tangent in his impetuosity to get left. Of course, gambling eminently lent itself to that sort of thing, though as the event turned out, the poor fall hadn't much reason to congratulate himself on his pick, the forlorn hope. Guesswork it reduced itself to eventually. There was every indication they would arrive at that. He blew them at said. Who? The other, whose hand, by the way, was hurt, said. One morning you would open the paper, the cab man affirmed, and read, Return of Parnell! He bet them what they liked. A Dublin fuselier was in that shelter one night and said he saw him in South Africa. Pride it was killed him. He ought to have gone away with himself or lain low for a time after committee room number 15 until he was his old self again, with no one to point a finger at him. Then he would all to a man have gone down on their marrow-bones to him to come back when he had recovered his senses. Dead he wasn't. Simply absconded somewhere. The coffin they brought over was full of stones. He changed his name to duet, the boar general. He made a mistake to fight the priests and so forth and so on. All the time Bloom, properly so dubbed, was rather surprised at their memories, for in nine cases out of ten it was a case of tar barrels and not singly but in their thousands and then complete oblivion because it was twenty odd years. Highly unlikely, of course, there was even a shadow of truth in the stones, and even supposing he thought a return highly inadvisable, all things considered. Something evidently riled them in his death. Either he petered out too tamedly of acute pneumonia, just when his various different political arrangements were nearing completion, or whether it transpired he owed his death to his having neglected to change his boots and clothes, after a wetting when a cold resulted and failing to consult a specialist he being confined to his room till he eventually died of it widespread regret, before a fortnight was at an end, or quite possibly they were distressed to find the job was taken out of their hands. Of course nobody being acquainted with his movements even before there was absolutely no clues to his whereabouts which were decidedly of the Alice where art thou order even prior to his starting to go under several aliases such as Fox and Stuart. So the remark which emanated from friend Cabbie might be within bounds of possibility. Naturally then it would prey on his mind as a born leader of men, which undoubtedly he was and a commanding figure a six footer, or at any rate five feet ten or eleven in his stocking feet, whereas messes so and so who, though they weren't even a patch on the former man ruled the roost after their redeeming features were very few and far between. It certainly pointed a moral the idle with feet of clay and then seventy-two of his trusty henchmen rounding on him with mutual mud slinging and the identical same with murderers you had to come back that haunting sense kind of drew you to show the understudy in the title role how to he saw him once on the auspicious occasion when they broke up the type in the insuppressable, or was it Ireland a privilege he keenly appreciated and in point of fact handed him his silk hat when it was knocked off and he said thank you excited as he undoubtedly was under his frigid exterior notwithstanding the little misadventure mentioned between the cup and the lip what's bread in the bone still as regards return you were a lucky dog if they didn't set the terror at you directly you got back then a lot of shilly shally usually followed tom four and dick and harry against and then number one you came up against the man in possession and had to produce your credentials like the claimant in the titch born case roger child's titch born bella was the boat's name the best of his recollection he the air went down in as the evidence went to show and there was a tattoo mark too in indian ink lord bella was it as he might very easily have picked up the details from some pal onboard ship and then when got up to tally with the description given introduce himself with excuse me my name is so and so are some such commonplace remark a more prudent course as bloom said to the not over effusive in fact like the distinguished personage under discussion beside him would have been to sound the lie of the land first that bitch that english hor did for him the she been proprietor commented she put the first nail in his coffin fine lump of a woman all the same the swad distant town clerk henry cambell remarked and plenty of her she loosened many a man's thighs I seen her picture in a barbers the husband was a captain or an officer I skin the goat amusingly added he was in a cotton ball one this gratuitous contribution of a humorous character occasioned a fair amount of laughter among his entourage as regards bloom he without the faintest suspicion of a smile merely gazed in the direction of the door and reflected upon the historic story which had aroused extraordinary interest at the time when the facts to make matters worse were made public with the usual affectionate letters that passed between them full of sweet nothings first it was strictly platonic till nature intervened and an attachment sprang up between them till bit by bit matters came to a climax and the matter became the talk of the town till the staggering blow came as a welcome intelligence to not a few evil disposed however who were resolved upon encompassing his downfall though the thing was public property all along though not to anything like the sensational extent that it subsequently blossomed into since their names were coupled though since he was her declared favorite where was the particular necessity to proclaim it to the rank and file from the house tops the fact namely that he had shared her bedroom which came out in the witness box on oath when a thrill went through the packed court literally electrifying everybody in the shape of witnesses swearing to having witnessed him on such and such a particular date in the act of scrambling out for an upstairs apartment with the assistance of a ladder in night apparel having gained admittance in the same fashion a fact the weeklies addicted to the lubric a little simply coin shoals of money out of where as the simple fact of the case was it was simply a case of the husband not being up to scratch with nothing in common between them beyond the name and then a real man arriving on the scene strong to the verge of weakness falling a victim to her sire and charms and forgetting home ties the usual sequel to bask in the loved one's smiles the eternal question of the life can you be all needless to say cropped up can real love supposing there happens to be another chap in the case exist between married folk poser there was no concern of theirs absolutely if he regarded her with affection carried away by a wave of folly a magnificent specimen of manhood he was truly augmented obviously by gifts of a high order as compared with the other military supernumery that is who is just the usual everyday farewell my gallant captain kind of an individual in the light ragoons the 18th hours to be accurate and flammable doubtless the fallen leader that is not the other in his own peculiar way which she of course a woman quickly perceived as highly likely to carve his way to fame which he almost bid fair to do till the priests and ministers of the gospel as a whole his erst while staunch adherence and his beloved evicted tenants for whom he had done yeoman service in the rural parts of the country taking up the cuddles on their behalf in a way that exceeded the most sanguine expectations very effectually cooked his matrimonial goose thereby heaping coals of fire on his head much in the same way as the fabled asses kick looking back now in a retrospective kind of arrangement all seemed a kind of dream and then coming back was the worst thing you ever did because it went without saying you would miss as things always moved with the times why as he reflected irish town strand a locality he had not been in for quite a number of years looked different somehow since as it happened he went to reside on the north side north or south however it was just the well-known case of hot passion pure and simple upsetting the apple cart with a vengeance and just bore out the very thing he was saying as Spanish or half so types that wouldn't do things by halves passionate abandon of the south casting every shred of decency to the winds just bears out what I was saying he with glowing bosoms head to Stephen about blood and the sun and if I don't greatly mistake she was Spanish too the king of Spain's daughter Stephen answered adding something or other rather muddled about farewell and due to you Spanish onions and the first land called the dead man and from Ram head to silly was so and so many was she bloom ejaculated surprise though not astonished by any means I never heard that rumor before possible especially there it was as she lived there so Spain carefully avoiding a book in his pocket sweets of which reminded him by the buy of that one street library book out of date he took out his pocket book and turning over the various contents it contained rapidly finally he do you consider by the buy he said thoughtfully selecting a faded photo which he laid on the table that a Spanish type Stephen obviously addressed looked down on the photo showing a large sized lady with her fleshy charms on evidence in an open fashion as she was in the full bloom of womanhood in evening dress cut ostentatiously low for the occasion to give a liberal display of bosom with more than vision of breasts her full lips parted and some perfect teeth standing near ostensibly with gravity a piano on the rest of which was in old Madrid a ballad pretty in its way which was then all the vogue her the lady's eyes dark large looked at Stephen about to smile about something to be admired Lafayette of West Mellon street Dublin's premiere photographic artist being responsible for the aesthetic execution Mrs. Bloom my wife the pre-Madonna Madame Marion Tweedy Bloom indicated taken a few years since in or about 96 very like her then beside the young man he looked also at the photo of the lady now his 1440 legal wife who he intimated was the accomplished daughter of major Brian Tweedy and displayed at an early age remarkable proficiency as a singer having even made her bow to the public when her years numbered barely sweet 16 as for the face it was a speaking likeness in expression but it did not do justice to her figure which came in for a lot of notice usually and which did not come out to the best advantage in that get up she could without difficulty he said have posed for the ensemble not to dwell on certain opulent curves of the he dwelt being a bit of an artist in his spare time on the female form in general developmentally because as it so happened no later than that afternoon he had seen those Christian statues 1450 perfectly developed as works of art in the national museum marble could give the original shoulders back or the symmetry or the rest yes Puritan is me it does though St. Joseph's sovereign thievery a la bonde fin trot trot whereas no photo could because it simply wasn't art in a word the spirit moving him he would much have liked to follow Jack Tars good example and leave the likeness there for a very few minutes to speak for itself on the plea he so that the other could drink in the beauty for himself her stage presence being frankly a treat in itself which the camera could not at all do justice to but it was scarcely professional etiquette so though it was a warm pleasant sort of a night now wonderfully cool for the season considering the sunshine after storm and he did feel a kind of need there and then to follow suit like a kind of inward voice and satisfy a possible need by moving emotion nevertheless he sat tight just viewing the slightly soiled photo creased by opulent curves none the worse for where however and looked away thoughtfully with the intention of not further the other's possible embarrassment while gauging her symmetry heaving on bonpois in fact the slight soiling was only an added charm like the case of linen slightly soiled good as new much better in fact with the starch out suppose she was gone when he I looked for the lamp which he told me came into his mind but merely as a passing fancy of his because he then recollected the morning littered bed etc and the book about Ruby with met him pike hoses in it which must have fell down sufficiently appropriately beside the domestic chamber pot with apologies to Lindley Murray the vicinity of the young man he certainly relished educated distangue and impulsive into the bargain far and away the pick of the bunch though you wouldn't think he had it in him yet you would besides he said the picture was handsome which say what you like it was though at the moment she was distinctly stouter and why not an awful lot of mate believe went on about that sort of thing involving a lifelong slur with the usual splash page of gutter press about the same old matrimonial tangle alleging misconduct with professional golfer or the newest stage favorite instead of being honest and above board about the whole business how they were fated to meet and an attachment sprang up between the two so that their names were coupled in the public eye was told in court with letters containing the habitual mushy and compromising expressions leaving no loophole to show that they openly cohabited two or three times a week at some well known seaside hotel and relations when the thing ran its normal course became in due course intimate then the decree Nisi and the king's proctor tries to show cause why and he failing to quash it Nisi was made absolute but as for that the two misdemeanants wrapped up as they largely were in one another could safely afford to ignore it as they very largely did till the matter was put in the hands of a solicitor who filed a petition for the party wronged in due course he be enjoyed the distinction of being close to Eren's uncrowned king in the flesh when the thing occurred on the historic fracas when the fallen leaders who notoriously stuck to his guns to the last drop even when clothed in the mantle of adultery leaders trusty henchmen to the number of ten or a dozen or possibly even more than that penetrate into the printing works of the insuppressable or no it was united Ireland a by no means by the by appropriate appellative and broke up the type cases with hammers or something like that all on account of some scurrilous effusions from the facile pens of the O'Brienite scribes at the usual mud slinging occupation reflecting on the erstwhile tribune's private morals though palpably a radically altered man he was still a commanding figure though carelessly garbed as usual with that look of settled purpose which went a long way with the shilly shaliers till they discovered to their vast discomforture that their idol had feet of clay after placing him upon a pedestal which she however was the first to perceive as those were particularly hot times in the general hullabaloo Bloom sustained a minor injury from a nasty prod of some chap's elbow in the crowd that of course congregated lodging in a place about the pit of the stomach fortunately not of a grave character his hat, Parnell's a silk one was inadvertently knocked off and as a matter of strict history Bloom was the man who picked it up in the crush after witnessing the occurrence meaning to return it to him and return it to him he did with the utmost celerity who panting and hatless and whose thoughts were miles away from his hat at the time being a gentleman born with a stake in the country he, as a matter of fact having gone into it more for the kudos of the thing than anything else watched bread in the bone instilled into him in infancy at his mother's knee in the shape of knowing what good form was came out at once because he turned round to the donor and thanked him with perfect aplomb saying, thank you sir knowing a very different tone of voice from the ornament of the legal profession whose head gear Bloom also set to rights earlier in the course of the day history repeating itself with a difference after the barrel of a mutual friend when they had left him alone in his glory after the grim task of having committed his remains to the grave on the other hand what incensed him more inwardly was the blatant jokes of the cab man and so on who passed to all of us a jest laughing fifteen thirty immoderately pretending to understand everything the why and the wherefor and in reality not knowing their own minds it being a case for the two parties themselves unless it ensued that the legitimate husband happened to be a party to it owing to some anonymous letter from the youthful boy Jones who happened to come across them at the crucial moment in a loving position locked in one another's arms drawing attention to their illicit proceedings and leading up to a domestic rumpus and the airing fair one begging forgiveness of her lord and master upon her knees and promising to sever the connection and not receive his visits any more if only the aggrieved husband would overlook the matter and let bygones be bygones with tears in her eyes though possibly with her tongue in her fair cheek at the same time as quite possibly there were several others he personally being of a skeptical bias believed and didn't make the smallest bones about saying so either that man or men in the plural were always hanging around on the waiting list about a lady even supposing she was the best wife in the world and they got on fairly well together for the sake of argument when neglecting her duties she chose to be tired of wedded life and was on for little flutter impolite debrauchery to press their attentions on her with improper intent a sub-shot being that her affections centered on another the cause of many liaisons between still attractive married women getting on for fair and faulty and younger men no doubt as several famous cases of feminine infatuation proved up to the hilt End of section 50 Recording by Paul Adams www.yornguy.com