Ulysses
majestic longstablished vault, the crystal palace of the Creator, all
in applepie order, a penny for him who finds the pea.
Behold the mansion reared by dedal Jack
See the malt stored in many a refluent sack,
In the proud cirque of Jackjohn’s bivouac.
A black crack of noise in the street here, alack, bawled back. Loud on
left Thor thundered: in anger awful the hammerhurler. Came now the
storm that hist his heart. And Master Lynch bade him have a care to
flout and witwanton as the god self was angered for his hellprate and
paganry. And he that had erst challenged to be so doughty waxed wan as
they might all mark and shrank together and his pitch that was before
so haught uplift was now of a sudden quite plucked down and his heart
shook within the cage of his breast as he tasted the rumour of that
storm. Then did some mock and some jeer and Punch Costello fell hard
again to his yale which Master Lenehan vowed he would do after and he
was indeed but a word and a blow on any the least colour. But the
braggart boaster cried that an old Nobodaddy was in his cups it was
muchwhat indifferent and he would not lag behind his lead. But this was
only to dye his desperation as cowed he crouched in Horne’s hall. He
drank indeed at one draught to pluck up a heart of any grace for it
thundered long rumblingly over all the heavens so that Master Madden,
being godly certain whiles, knocked him on his ribs upon that crack of
doom and Master Bloom, at the braggart’s side, spoke to him calming
words to slumber his great fear, advertising how it was no other thing
but a hubbub noise that he heard, the discharge of fluid from the
thunderhead, look you, having taken place, and all of the order of a
natural phenomenon.
But was young Boasthard’s fear vanquished by Calmer’s words? No, for he
had in his bosom a spike named Bitterness which could not by words be
done away. And was he then neither calm like the one nor godly like the
other? He was neither as much as he would have liked to be either. But
could he not have endeavoured to have found again as in his youth the
bottle Holiness that then he lived withal? Indeed no for Grace was not
there to find that bottle. Heard he then in that clap the voice of the
god Bringforth or, what Calmer said, a hubbub of Phenomenon? Heard?
Why, he could not but hear unless he had plugged him up the tube
Understanding (which he had not done). For through that tube he saw
that he was in the land of Phenomenon where he must for a certain one
day die as he was like the rest too a passing show. And would he not
accept to die like the rest and pass away? By no means would he though
he must nor would he make more shows according as men do with wives
which Phenomenon has commanded them to do by the book Law. Then wotted
he nought of that other land which is called Believe-on-Me, that is the
land of promise which behoves to the king Delightful and shall be for
ever where there is no death and no birth neither wiving nor mothering
at which all shall come as many as believe on it? Yes, Pious had told
him of that land and Chaste had pointed him to the way but the reason
was that in the way he fell in with a certain whore of an eyepleasing
exterior whose name, she said, is Bird-in-the-Hand and she beguiled him
wrongways from the true path by her flatteries that she said to him as,
Ho, you pretty man, turn aside hither and I will show you a brave
place, and she lay at him so flatteringly that she had him in her grot
which is named Two-in-the-Bush or, by some learned, Carnal
Concupiscence.
This was it what all that company that sat there at commons in Manse of
Mothers the most lusted after and if they met with this whore
Bird-in-the-Hand (which was within all foul plagues, monsters and a
wicked devil) they would strain the last but they would make at her and
know her. For regarding Believe-on-Me they said it was nought else but
notion and they could conceive no thought of it for, first,
Two-in-the-Bush whither she ticed them was the very goodliest grot and
in it were four pillows on which were four tickets with these words
printed on them, Pickaback and Topsyturvy and Shameface and Cheek by
Jowl and, second, for that foul plague Allpox and the monsters they
cared not for them for Preservative had given them a stout shield of
oxengut and, third, that they might take no hurt neither from Offspring
that was that wicked devil by virtue of this same shield which was
named Killchild. So were they all in their blind fancy, Mr Cavil and Mr
Sometimes Godly, Mr Ape Swillale, Mr False Franklin, Mr Dainty Dixon,
Young Boasthard and Mr Cautious Calmer. Wherein, O wretched company,
were ye all deceived for that was the voice of the god that was in a
very grievous rage that he would presently lift his arm up and spill
their souls for their abuses and their spillings done by them
contrariwise to his word which forth to bring brenningly biddeth.
So Thursday sixteenth June Patk. Dignam laid in clay of an apoplexy and
after hard drought, please God, rained, a bargeman coming in by water a
fifty mile or thereabout with turf saying the seed won’t sprout, fields
athirst, very sadcoloured and stunk mightily, the quags and tofts too.
Hard to breathe and all the young quicks clean consumed without
sprinkle this long while back as no man remembered to be without. The
rosy buds all gone brown and spread out blobs and on the hills nought
but dry flag and faggots that would catch at first fire. All the world
saying, for aught they knew, the big wind of last February a year that
did havoc the land so pitifully a small thing beside this barrenness.
But by and by, as said, this evening after sundown, the wind sitting in
the west, biggish swollen clouds to be seen as the night increased and
the weatherwise poring up at them and some sheet lightnings at first
and after, past ten of the clock, one great stroke with a long thunder
and in a brace of shakes all scamper pellmell within door for the
smoking shower, the men making shelter for their straws with a clout or
kerchief, womenfolk skipping off with kirtles catched up soon as the
pour came. In Ely place, Baggot street, Duke’s lawn, thence through
Merrion green up to Holles street a swash of water flowing that was
before bonedry and not one chair or coach or fiacre seen about but no
more crack after that first. Over against the Rt. Hon. Mr Justice
Fitzgibbon’s door (that is to sit with Mr Healy the lawyer upon the
college lands) Mal. Mulligan a gentleman’s gentleman that had but come
from Mr Moore’s the writer’s (that was a papish but is now, folk say, a
good Williamite) chanced against Alec. Bannon in a cut bob (which are
now in with dance cloaks of Kendal green) that was new got to town from
Mullingar with the stage where his coz and Mal M’s brother will stay a
month yet till Saint Swithin and asks what in the earth he does there,
he bound home and he to Andrew Horne’s being stayed for to crush a cup
of wine, so he said, but would tell him of a skittish heifer, big of
her age and beef to the heel, and all this while poured with rain and
so both together on to Horne’s. There Leop. Bloom of Crawford’s journal
sitting snug with a covey of wags, likely brangling fellows, Dixon
jun., scholar of my lady of Mercy’s, Vin. Lynch, a Scots fellow, Will.
Madden, T. Lenehan, very sad about a racer he fancied and Stephen D.
Leop. Bloom there for a languor he had but was now better, he having
dreamed tonight a strange fancy of his dame Mrs Moll with red slippers
on in a pair of Turkey trunks which is thought by those in ken to be
for a change and Mistress Purefoy there, that got in through pleading
her belly, and now on the stools, poor body, two days past her term,
the midwives sore put to it and can’t deliver, she queasy for a bowl of
riceslop that is a shrewd drier up of the insides and her breath very
heavy more than good and should be a bullyboy from the knocks, they
say, but God give her soon issue. ’Tis her ninth chick to live, I hear,
and Lady day bit off her last chick’s nails that was then a twelvemonth
and with other three all breastfed that died written out in a fair hand
in the king’s bible. Her hub fifty odd and a methodist but takes the
sacrament and is to be seen any fair sabbath with a pair of his boys
off Bullock harbour dapping on the sound with a heavybraked reel or in
a punt he has trailing for flounder and pollock and catches a fine bag,
I hear. In sum an infinite great fall of rain and all refreshed and
will much increase the harvest yet those in ken say after wind and
water fire shall come for a prognostication of Malachi’s almanac (and I
hear that Mr Russell has done a prophetical charm of the same gist out
of the Hindustanish for his farmer’s gazette) to have three things in
all but this a mere fetch without bottom of reason for old crones and
bairns yet sometimes they are found in the right guess with their
queerities no telling how.
With this came up Lenehan to the feet of the table to say how the
letter was in that night’s gazette and he made a show to find it about
him (for he swore with an oath that he had been at pains about it) but
on Stephen’s persuasion he gave over the search and was bidden to sit
near by which he did mighty brisk. He was a kind of sport gentleman
that went for a merryandrew or honest pickle and what belonged of
women, horseflesh or hot scandal he had it pat. To tell the truth he
was mean in fortunes and for the most part hankered about the
coffeehouses and low taverns with crimps, ostlers, bookies, Paul’s men,
runners, flatcaps, waistcoateers, ladies of the bagnio and other rogues
of the game or with a chanceable catchpole or a tipstaff often at
nights till broad day of whom he picked up between his sackpossets much
loose gossip. He took his ordinary at a boilingcook’s and if he had but
gotten into him a mess of broken victuals or a platter of tripes with a
bare tester in his purse he could always bring himself off with his
tongue, some randy quip he had from a punk or whatnot that every
mother’s son of them would burst their sides. The other, Costello that
is, hearing this talk asked was it poetry or a tale. Faith, no, he
says, Frank (that was his name), ’tis all about Kerry cows that are to
be butchered along of the plague. But they can go hang, says he with a
wink, for me with their bully beef, a pox on it. There’s as good fish
in this tin as ever came out of it and very friendly he offered to take
of some salty sprats that stood by which he had eyed wishly in the
meantime and found the place which was indeed the chief design of his
embassy as he was sharpset. _Mort aux vaches_, says Frank then in the
French language that had been indentured to a brandyshipper that has a
winelodge in Bordeaux and he spoke French like a gentleman too. From a
child this Frank had been a donought that his father, a headborough,
who could ill keep him to school to learn his letters and the use of
the globes, matriculated at the university to study the mechanics but
he took the bit between his teeth like a raw colt and was more familiar
with the justiciary and the parish beadle than with his volumes. One
time he would be a playactor, then a sutler or a welsher, then nought
would keep him from the bearpit and the cocking main, then he was for
the ocean sea or to hoof it on the roads with the romany folk,
kidnapping a squire’s heir by favour of moonlight or fecking maids’
linen or choking chicken behind a hedge. He had been off as many times
as a cat has lives and back again with naked pockets as many more to
his father the headborough who shed a pint of tears as often as he saw
him. What, says Mr Leopold with his hands across, that was earnest to
know the drift of it, will they slaughter all? I protest I saw them but