t  will he save  the circulation? Thumping,
thumping.
     He pushed in  the glass  swingdoor and  entered,  stepping over  strewn
packing paper. Through  a  lane of clanking  drums he made  his  way towards
Nannetti's reading closet.
     <b>With Unfeigned Regret it is we announce the  of a most respected Dublin
Burgess</b>
     Hynes  here  too: account of the funeral probably. Thumping thump. This
morning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash a man  to
atoms  if  they got him  caught. Rule the world  today. His  machineries are
pegging away  too. Like these,  got out of  hand:  fermenting. Working away,
tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in.
     <b>How a Great Daily Organ is turned out</b>
     Mr  Bloom halted behind  the foreman's  spare body, admiring  a  glossy
crown.
     Strange he  never saw his real country.  Ireland my country. Member for
College green.  He  boomed that workaday  worker tack for all  it was worth.
It's the  ads  ad side  features sell  a  weekly not the stale  news  in the
official gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by authority in the year one
thousand  and.  Demesne  situate in  the townland of  Rosenallis, barony  of
Tinnachinch. To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing
return of number of mules and jennets exported from  Ballina. Nature  notes.
Cartoons.  Phil Blake's weekly  Pat and Bull  story. Uncle' Toby's page  for
tiny tots. Country bumpkin's queries. Dear Mr  Editor,  what is a good  cure
for  flatulence?  I'd like  that part.  Learn  a  lot  teaching  others. The
personal note M.A. P. Mainly all pictures. Shapely bathers on golden strand.
World's  biggest  balloon.  Double   marriage  of  sisters  celebrated.  Two
bridegrooms  laughing heartily  at each other. Cuprani  too,  printer.  More
Irish than the Irish.
     The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thurap. Now if he
got  paralysed there and no one knew how to stop them they'd clank on and on
the  same, print  it over and over  and  up and back. Monkeydoodle the whole
thing. Want a cool head.
     -- Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said.
     Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him they say.
     The  foreman, without answering,  scribbled press on  a  corner of  the
sheet and made a sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently over the
dirty glass screen.
     -- Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.
     Mr Bloom stood in his way.
     -- If  you want to  draw the cashier is just  going to lunch, he  said,
pointing backward with his thumb.
     -- Did you? Hynes asked.
     -- Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and you'll catch him.
     -- Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I'll tap him too.
     He hurried on eagerly towards the <i>Freeman's Journal</i>.
     Three bob I lent him in Meagher's. Three weeks. Third hint.
     <b>We see the Canvasser at work</b>
     Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.
     --  Excuse  me,  councillor, he  said.  This ad, you  see.  Keyes,  you
remember.
     Mr Nannetti considered the cutting a while and nodded.
     -- He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said.
     He doesn't hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves.
     The foreman moved his pencil towards it.
     -- But  wait, Mr Bloom  said. He  wants it changed. Keyes, you  see. He
wants two keys at the top.
     Hell of a racket they make. Maybe he understands what I.
     The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began
to scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket.
     -- Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top.
     Let him take that in first.
     Mr  Bloom, glancing sideways up  from the  cross he had  made,  saw the
foreman's sallow  face, think  he  has a touch  of  jaundice, and beyond the
obedient reels feeding in  huge webs  of paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles of
it unreeled. What  becomes of it  after?  O, wrap up meat, parcels:  various
uses, thousand and one things.
     Slipping  his  words deftly into the  pauses  of  the clanking  he drew
swiftly on the scarred-woodwork.
     <b>House of Key(e)s</b>
     --  Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name
Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on.
     Better not teach him his own business.
     -- You know  yourself, councillor, just  what he wants. Then round  the
top in leaded: the house of keys. You see? Do you think that's a good idea?
     The foreman  moved his scratching hand  to his lower ribs and scratched
there quietly.
     -- The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor,
the Manx parliament. Innuendo of  home rule.  Tourists, you  know,  from the
isle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that?
     I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that <i>voglio</i>. But then if
he didn't know only make it awkward for him. Better not.
     -- We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design?
     -- I can get it, Mr  Bloom said. It was  in a Kilkenny  paper. He has a
house  there too. I'll just run  out and ask him. Well,  you can do that and
just a little par calling attention. You know the usual. High class licensed
premises. Longfelt want. So on.
     The foreman thought for an instant.
     -- We can do that, he said. Let him give us a three months' renewal.
     A typesetter  brought  him a  limp  galleypage.  He began  to check  it
silently. Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the
silent typesetters at their cases.
     <b>Orthographical</b>
     Want to be sure of his spelling. Proof fever. Martin  Cunningham forgot
to give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning. It is amusing to view the
unpar one ar  alleled embarra two ars is it? double  ess ment of  a harassed
pedlar while gauging au the symmetry of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.
Silly, isn't it? Cemetery put in of course on account of the symmetry.
     I could have said when he clapped on  his topper. Thank you. I ought to
have  said something about an old hat or  something. No, I  could have said.
Looks as good as new now. See his phizthen.
     Sllt.  The nethermost  deck of the  first machine  jogged forwards  its
flyboard with slit the first batch of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost human
the way it sllt to call attention.  Doing its level best to speak. That door
too slit creaking,  asking to be shut. Everything  speaks  in its  own  way.
Sllt.
     <b>Noted Churchman an Occasional Contributor</b>
     The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying:
     -- Wait. Where's the  archbishop's  letter? It's to be repeated in  the
<i>Telegraph</i>. Where's what's his name?
     He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.
     -- Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.
     -- Ay. Where's Monks?
     -- Monks!
     Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out.
     -- Then I'll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a
good place I know.
     -- Monks!
     -- Yes, sir.
     Three months' renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it
anyhow.  Rub in  August: good idea:  horseshow month.  Ballsbridge. Tourists
over for the show.
     <b>A Dayfather</b>
     He  walked  on  through  the  caseroom,  passing  an  old  man,  bowed,
spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot  of stuff  he  must
have  put  through his  hands  in  his time: obituary  notices,  pubs'  ads,
speeches, divorce suits, found  drowned.  Nearing the end of his tether now.
Sober serious man with a bit in the savings-bank  I'd say.  Wife a good cook
and washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn
nonsense.
     <b>And it was the Feast of the Passover</b>
     He  stayed  in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type.
Reads  it backwards  first. Quickly  he  does it. Must require some practice
that. mangiD. kcirtaP. Poor papa with  his  hagadah book, reading  backwards
with  his finger to me.  Pessach. Next year in  Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All
that long business about that brought  us  out of the land of Egypt and into
the house of  bondage <i>alleluia.  Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu</i>. No, that's the
other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. And then the lamb and the cat
and  the dog and the stick and the water and the  butcher and then the angel
of death kills the butcher and he  kills the  ox and the dog  kills the cat.
Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means  but
it's  everybody  eating everyone else.  That's what  life is after all.  How
quickly he  does that  job. Practice makes  perfect. Seems  to see  with his
fingers.
     Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to
the landing.  Now am I going to  tram it out all the way and  then catch him
out  perhaps?  Better phone him  up first. Number?  Same as  Citron's house.
Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.
     <b>Only once more that soap</b>
     He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over these
walls with matches? Looks as  if  they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy  smell
there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was
there.
     He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap
I  put there. Lose it out of that  pocket. Putting back  his handkerchief he
took out the soap and stowed  it away, buttoned into the hip  pocket of  his
trousers.
     What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still: tram: something
I forgot. Just to see before dressing. No. Here. No.
     A sudden  screech  of laughter came from  the <i>Evening Telegraph</i> office.
Know who that is. What's up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is.
     He entered softly.
     <b>Erin, Green Gem of the Silver Sea</b>
     -- The ghost walks, professor Macllugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to
the dusty windowpane.
     Mr Dedalus, staring  from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing
face, asked of it sourly:
     -- Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse?
     Ned Lambert, seated on the table, read on:
     -- <i>Or again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles on
its way,  fanned  by  gentlest  zephyrs  tho'  quarrelling  with  the  stony
obstacles, to the tumbling waters of Neptune's blue domain, mid mossy banks,
played on by  the glorious  sunlight  or  'neath  the shadows  cast o'er its
pensive bosom by the  overarching leafage  of the giants of the forest</i>. What
about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that for
high?
     -- Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.
     Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating:
     <i>-- The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage</i>. O boys! O boys!
     -- And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again on
the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea.
     -- That will do,  professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don't want
to hear any more of the stuff.
     He ate  off the  crescent  of water biscuit he  had been  nibbling and,
hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.
     High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see.
Rather upsets a man's day a funeral  does.  He  has influence  they say. Old
Chatterton, the vice-chancellor,  is his granduncle  or his greatgranduncle.
Close on  ninety they say.  Subleader for his  death written  this long time
perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go first himself. Johnny, make room for
your uncle.  The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Daresay  he writes
him an  odd shaky cheque or two on gale  days. Windfall  when  he kicks out.
Alleluia.
     -- Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said.
     -- What is it? Mr Bloom asked.
     --  A  recently  discovered  fragment  of  Cicero's, professor  MacHugh
answered with pomp of tone. <i>Our lovely land</i>.
     <b>Short but to the Point</b>
     -- Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.
     -- Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews.  With
an accent on the whose.
     -- Dan Dawson's land, Mr Dedalus said.
     -- Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked.
     Ned Lambert nodded.
     -- But listen to this, he said.
     The doorknob  hit  Mr  Bloom in the small  of the back as the door  was
pushed in.
     -- Excuse me, J.J. O'Molloy said, entering.
     Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.
     -- I beg yours, he said.
     -- Good day, Jack.
     -- Come in. Come in.
     -- Good day.
     -- How are you, Dedalus?
     -- Well. And yourself?
     J.J. O'Molloy shook his head.
     <b>Sad</b>
     Cleverest fellow  at the junior  bar he used to be.  Decline poor chap.
That hectic flush  spells finis for a man. Touch and go  with him. What's in
the wind, I wonder. Money worry.
     -- <i>Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks</i>.
     -- You're looking extra.
     -- Is the  editor to be seen? J.J. O'Molloy asked,  looking towards the
inner door.
     -- Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be  seen and heard. He's in
his sanctum with Lenehan.
     J.J. O'Molloy strolled Jo the sloping  desk and began  to turn back the
pink pages of the file.
     Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen.  Losing  heart. Gambling. Debts of
honour. Reaping the  whirlwind.  Used to get good retainers from  D.  and T.
Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show  their grey  matter. Brains  on  their sleeve
like the  statue in  Glasnevin. Believe  he does  some literary work for the
<i>Express</i> with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread  fellow. Myles Crawford  began on  the
<i>Independent</i>. Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when they get wind
of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot  and  cold in the same  breath. Wouldn't
know which to  believe. One story good  till you hear  the  next. Go for one
another  baldheaded in the  papers and  then all blows over. Hailfellow well
met the next moment.
     -- Ah, listen to this  for God's sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. <i>Or again if
we but climb the serried mountain peaks</i>...
     --  Bombast!  the  professor broke in  testily. Enough  of the inflated
windbag!
     -- <i>Peaks</i>, Ned  Lambert went  on, <i>towering  high  on high, to bathe  our
souls, as it were</i>...
     -- Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he
taking anything for it?
     --  <i>As  'twere,  in  the  peerless  panorama  of  Ireland's  portfolio,
unmatched,  despite their  wellpraised  prototypes  in other  vaunted  prize
regions,  for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating  plain and luscious
pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent translucent glow of
our mild mysterious Irish twilight</i>...
     <b>His Native Doric</b>
     -- The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.
     -- <i>That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of
the moon shines forth to irradiate her silver effulgence</i>.
     --  O! Mr Dedalus cried,  giving vent  to a hopeless groan,  shite  and
onions! That'll do, Ned. Life is too short.
     He  took  off his  silk hat  and,  blowing  out impatiently  his  bushy
moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.
     Ned  Lambert tossed  the newspaper  aside, chuckling with  delight.  An
instant  after  a  hoarse bark  of laughter burst  over professor  MacHugh's
unshaven black-spectacled face.
     -- Doughy Daw! he cried.
     <b>What Wetherup said</b>
     All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot
cake that stuff. He was in the bakery line too  wasn't he? Why they call him
Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that chap in
the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked that nicely. Entertainments
open house. Big blow out. Wetherup always said that. Get a  grip of them  by
the stomach.
     The inner  door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested
by a comb  of feathery  hair,  thrust itself in. The bold  blue  eyes stared
about them and the harsh voice asked:
     -- What is it?
     --  And  here  comes  the  sham  squire himself, professor MacHugh said
grandly.
     --  Getououthat,   you  bloody  old  pedagogue!  the  editor  said   in
recognition.
     -- Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus  said, putting on his hat. I must get a  drink
after that.
     -- Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before mass.
     -- Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.
     Ned Lambert sidled  down from  the table.  The editor's blue eyes roved
towards Mr Bloom's face, shadowed by a smile.
     -- Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.
     <b>Memorable Battles Recalled</b>
     -- North Cork militia!  the editor cried, striding to the  mantelpiece.
We won every time! North Cork and Spanish officers!
     -- Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance at
his toecaps.
     -- In Ohio! the editor shouted.
     -- So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.
     Passing out, he whispered to J.J. O'Molloy:
     -- Incipient jigs. Sad case.
     -- Ohio! the editor crowed  in  high treble from his  uplifted  scarlet
face. My Ohio!
     -- A Perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.
     <b>O, Harp Eolian</b>
     He  took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking
off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant unwashed
teeth.
     -- Bingbang, bangbang.
     Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door.
     -- Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I just want to  phone about  an
ad.
     He went in.
     -- What about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming
to the editor and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.
     -- That'll be  all right, Myles Crawford said more  calmly.  Never  you
fret. Hello, Jack. That's all right.
     -- Good day, Myles. J.J. O'Molloy  said, letting the pages he held slip
limply back on the file. Is that Canada swindle case on today?
     The telephone whirred inside.
     -- Twenty eight... No, twenty... Double four . Yes.
     <b>Spot the Winner</b>
     Lenehan came out of the inner office with <i>Sports</i> tissues.
     -- Who  wants a dead cert  for the  Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O.
Madden up.
     He tossed the tissues on to the table.
     Screams  of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door  was
flung open.
     -- Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops.
     Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin
by the collar  as the others scampered out of the hall and  down  the steps.
The  tissues rustled up in  the  draught, floated  softly  in  the  air blue
scrawls and under the table came to earth.
     -- It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.
     --  Throw  him  out and shut  the  door, the  editor  said.  There's  a
hurricane blowing.
     Lenehan began  to  paw  the tissues up from the  floor,  grunting as he
stooped twice.
     -- Waiting for  the racing special, sir, the newsboy  said. It was  Pat
Farrel shoved me, sir.
     He pointed to two faces peering in round the door-frame.
     -- Him, sir.
     -- Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.
     He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.
     J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking:
     -- Continued on page six, column four.
     -- Yes...  <i>Evening  Telegraph</i>  here, Mr  Bloom  phoned  from  the inner
office. Is  the boss... ? Yes, <i>Telegraph</i>... To where?... Aha! Which  auction
rooms?... Aha! I see... Right. I'll catch him.
     <b>A Collision ensues</b>
     The bell whirred  again as he rang off.  He came in quickly  and bumped
against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.
     -- <i>Pardon,  monsieur</i>, Lenehan said,  clutching  him for  an instant and
making a grimace.
     -- My fault, Mr  Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I'm in a
hurry.
     -- Knee, Lenehan said.
     He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee.
     -- The accumulation of the <i>anno Domini</i>.
     -- Sorry, Mr Bloom said.
     He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J.J. O'Molloy slapped
the heavy pages over.  The  noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed
in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps:
     We are the boys of Wexford
     Who fought with heart and hand.
     <b>Exit Bloom</b>
     -- I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, about this
ad of Keyes's. Want to fix it up. They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.
     He looked  indecisively for  a  moment at their faces.  The editor who,
leaning against the  mantelshelf, had propped his head on his  hand suddenly
stretched forth an arm amply.
     -- Begone! he said. The world is before you.
     -- Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.
     J.J.  O'Molloy  took the  tissues  from  Lenehan's hand  and read them,
blowing them apart gently, without comment.
     -- He'll get that advertisement, the  professor said,  staring  through
his  blackrimmed  spectacles  over the crossblind.  Look at the young scamps
after him.
     -- Show! Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window.
     <b>A Street Cortege</b>
     Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys  in Mr
Bloom's wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail
of white bowknots.
     -- Look at the young guttersnipe  behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said,
and you'll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk.
Small nines. Steal upon larks.
     He  began to  mazurka in  swift  caricature across the floor on sliding
feet  past the  fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy who placed  the  tissues  in  his
receiving hands.
     -- What's that? Myles Crawford said with  a start. Where  are the other
two gone?
     -- Who? the professor said, turning. They're gone round to the Oval for
a drink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.
     -- Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where's my hat?
     He  walked  jerkily  into the  office behind,  parting the  vent of his
jacket,  jingling his keys in his back  pocket. They jingled then in the air
and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer.
     -- He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voIce.
     -- Seems  to be, J.J.  O'Molloy said,  taking  out a cigarette  case in
murmuring meditation, but it  is not  always as  it  seems. Who has the most
matches?
     <b>The Calumet of Peace</b>
     He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one  himself.  Lenehan
promptly  struck a match for  them  and lit their cigarettes  in turn.  J.J.
O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it.
     -- <i>Thanky vous</i>, Lenehan said, helping himself.
     The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He
declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:
     'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee,
     'Twas empire charmed thy heart.
     The professor grinned, locking his long lips.
     -- Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said.
     He took  a cigarette from the open  case.  Lenehan, lighting it for him
with quick grace, said:
     -- Silence for my brandnew riddle!
     -- <i>Imperium romanum</i>, J.J.  O'Molloy said gently.  It sounds nobler than
British or Brixton. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire.
     Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling.
     -- That's it, he said. We are the fat.  You  and I are  the  fat in the
fire. We haven't got the chance of a snowball in hell.
     <b>The Grandeur that was Rome</b>
     -- Wait a  moment,  professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We
mustn't be  led  away  by  words,  by  sounds  of words. We  think of  Rome,
imperial, imperious, imperative.
     He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing:
     -- What was their civilisation? Vast,  I allow: but vile. Cloac&Aelig;:
sewers. The Jews in  the wilderness and on the mountaintop  said: <i>It is meet
to be here. Let us build an altar to Jehovah</i>. The Roman, like the Englishman
who follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set his
foot (on our shore  he never set it)  only his cloacal obsession.  He  gazed
about him in his toga and he said: <i>It is meet to be here. Let us construct a
watercloset.</i>
     -- Which  they  accordingly  did do,  Lenehan  said.  Our  old  ancient
ancestors, as we  read in the first chapter of Guinness's,  were  partial to
the running stream.
     -- They were  nature's gentlemen, J.J. O'Molloy  murmured. But  we have
also Roman law.
     -- And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh responded.
     -- Do  you  know that story  about  chief Baron Palles?  J.J.  O'Molloy
asked.  It  was  at  the  royal  university  dinner.  Everything  was  going
swimmingly.
     -- First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are you ready?
     Mr  O'Madden Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal tweed, came in from
the hallway. Stephen Dedalus, behind him, uncovered as he entered.
     -- <i>Entrez, mes enfants!</i> Lenehan cried.
     -- I escort a  suppliant, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Youth led
by Experience visits Notoriety.
     -- How do you  do?  the editor said, holding out a  hand. Come in. Your
governor is just gone.
     <b>? ? ?</b>
     Lenehan said to all:
     --  Silence!  What opera  resembles  a  railway  line? Reflect, ponder,
excogitate, reply.
     Stephen  handed  over the  typed  sheets, pointing  to  the  title  and
signature.
     -- Who? the editor asked.
     Bit torn off.
     -- Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said:
     -- That old pelters, the editor said. Who tore it? Was he short taken.
     On swift sail flaming
     >From storm and south
     He comes, pale vampire,
     Mouth to my mouth.
     -- Good  day,  Stephen, the professor said, coming  to  peer over their
shoulders. Foot and mouth? Are you turned... ?
     Bullockbefriending bard.
     <b>Shindy in wellknown Restaurant</b>
     -- Good  day, sir, Stephen answered, blushing.  The letter is not mine.
Mr Garrett Deasy asked me to...
     -- O,  I  know  him, Myles Crawford said, and  knew his  wife  too. The
bloodiest old tartar  God  ever  made.  By Jesus, she had the foot and mouth
disease and no mistake! The night she threw the soup in the waiter's face in
the Star and Garter. Oho!
     A  woman brought sin into  the world.  For Helen, the runaway  wife  of
Menelaus, ten years the Greeks. O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.
     -- Is he a widower? Stephen asked.
     --  Ay, a  grass one,  Myles  Crawford  said, his eye running down  the
typescript. Emperor's horses.  Habsburg. An  Irishman saved  his life on the
ramparts of Vienna. Don't you forget! Maximilian  Karl  O'Donnell, graf  von
Tirconnel  in  Ireland.  Sent his heir  over to make the  king  an  Austrian
fieldmarshal now. Going  to be trouble there one day.  Wild  geese.  O  yes,
every time. Don't you forget that!
     --  The  moot point  is did  he forget it?  J.J. O'Molloy said quietly,
turning a horseshoe paperweight. Saving princes is a thank you job.
     Professor MacHugh turned on him.
     -- And if not? he said.
     -- I'll tell you how it was, Myles Crawford began. Hungarian it was one
day...
     <b>Lost Causes Noble Marquess mentioned</b>
     We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for us
is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. We were never loyal to
the successful.  We serve  them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I speak
the tongue of a  race  the  acme of whose  mentality is the maxim:  time  is
money. Material domination. <i>Dominus!</i>  Lord! Where  is the spirituality? Lord
Jesus! Lord Salisbury. A sofa in a westend club. But the Greek!
     <b>Kyrie Eleison!</b>
     A smile of  light  brightened his  darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long
lips.
     --  The  Greek!  he said again. <i>Kyrios!</i> Shining word!  The  vowels  the
Semite and the Saxon know not. <i>Kyrie!</i> The radiance of the intellect. I ought
to  profess Greek, the language of the mind. <i>Kyrie eleison!</i>  The closetmaker
and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. We are liege subjects
of  the catholic  chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar  and of the
empire of  the spirit, not  an <i>imperium</i>, that went under with  the  Athenian
fleets at &Aelig;gospotami. Yes, yes. They went under. Pyrrhus, misled by an
oracle, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of  Greece. Loyal to  a
lost cause.
     He strode away from them towards the window.
     -- They went forth  to  battle, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but they
always fell.
     -- Boohoo!  Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a brick received
in the latter half of the <i>matinØe</i>. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!
     He whispered then near Stephen's ear:
     <b>Lenehan's Limerick</b>
     There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh
     Who wears goggles of ebony hue.
     As he mostly sees double
     To wear them why trouble?
     I can't see the Joe Miller. Can you?
     In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother is beastly dead.
     Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket.
     -- That'll be all right, he said. I'll read the  rest after. That'll be
all right.
     Lenehan extended his hands in protest.
     -- But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railway line?
     -- Opera? Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.
     Lenehan announced gladly:
     -- <i>The Rose of Castille</i>. See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel. Gee!
     He poked Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O'Madden Burke fell
back with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.
     -- Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.
     Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his  face rapidly with  the  rustling
tissues.
     The professor, returning by  way  of the files, swept his  hand  across
Stephen's and Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties.
     -- Paris, past and present, he said. You look like communards.
     --  Like fellows  who had blown up the bastille, J.J.  O'Molloy said in
quiet mockery. Or  was it  you shot the lord  lieutenant of  Finland between
you? You look as though you had done the deed. General Bobrikoff.
     <b>Omnium Gatherum</b>
     -- We were only thinking about it, Stephen said.
     -- All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics.
     -- The turf, Lenehan put in.
     -- Literature, the press.
     --  If  Bloom  were  here,  the  professor  said.  The  gentle  art  of
advertisement.
     -- And  Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke added. The vocal  muse. Dublin's
prime favourite.
     Lenehan gave a loud cough.
     --  Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath air! I caught a
cold in the park. The gate was open.
     <b>You can do it!</b>
     The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder.
     -- I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a bite
in it. You can do it. I see it in your face. <i>In the lexicon of youth</i>...
     See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little schemer.
     -- Foot  and  mouth disease!  the  editor cried in  scornful invective.
Great nationalist meeting  in  Borris-in-Ossory.  All balls! Bulldosing  the
public! Give  them something with a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn its
soul. Father Son and Holy Ghost and fakes M'Carthy.
     -- We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
     Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare.
     -- He wants you for the pressgang, J.J. O'Molloy said.
     <b>The Great Gallaher</b>
     --  You  can  do it, Myles Crawford  repeated,  clenching his  hand  in
emphasis. Wait a minute. We'll paralyse Europe  as Ignatius Gallaher used to
say when he  was on  the shaughraun, doing  billiardmarking in the Clarence.
Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You know how he  made
his  mark? I'll tell you. That  was the  smartest  piece of journalism  ever
known. That was  in eightyone, sixth of May, time of the invincibles, murder
in the Phoenix park, before you were born, I suppose. I'll show you.
     He pushed past them to the files.
     --  Look  at here, he  said, turning. The <i>New  York World</i> cabled  for a
special. Remember that time?
     Professor MacHugh nodded.
     -- <i>New  York World</i>,  the editor said,  excitedly pushing back his straw
hat. Where it took place. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean, Joe Brady  and  the
rest of them. Where Skin-the-goat drove the car. Whole route, see?
     --  Skin-the-goat, Mr  O'Madden Burke said.  Fitzharris.  He  has  that
cabman's shelter,  they say, down there at Butt bridge. Holohan told me. You
know Holohan?
     -- Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawford said.
     -- And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me, minding stones for
the corporation. A night watchman.
     Stephen turned in surprise.
     -- Gumley? he said. You don't say so? A friend of my father's, is he?
     -- Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Let Gumley mind the
stones,  see they don't  run away.  Look at here. What did Ignatius Gallaher
do? I'll tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled right away. Have you <i>Weekly
Freeman</i> of 17 March? Right. Have you got that?
     He flung back pages of the files and stuck his finger on a point.
     -- Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee let us say. Have
you got that? Right.
     The telephone whirred.
     <b>A distant voice</b>
     -- I'll answer it, the professor said going.
     -- B is parkgate. Good.
     His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.
     -- T is viceregal lodge. C is where murder took place. K is Knockmaroon
gate.
     The loose flesh of his neck shook like a cock's wattles. An illstarched
dicky  jutted  up  and  with a  rude  gesture  he thrust  it back  into  his
waistcoat.
     -- Hello? <i>Evening Telegraph</i>  here...  Hello?...  Who's there?... Yes...
Yes...
     --  F to  P is  the  route Skin-the-goat  drove  the car for  an alibi.
Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. F. A.  B.  P.
Got that? X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.
     The professor came to the inner door.
     -- Bloom is at the telephone, he said.
     --  Tell  him  go  to  hell,  the  editor said promptly.  X  is Burke's
publichouse, see?
     <b>Clever, Very</b>
     Clever, Lenehan said. Very.
     --  Gave  it  to them on  a hot plate, Myles Crawford  said, the  whole
bloody history.
     Nightmare from which you will never awake.
     -- I saw it, the  editor  said proudly. I was  present, Dick Adams, the
besthearted  bloody  Corkman  the  Lord ever put the breath of life in,  and
myself.
     Lenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing:
     -- Madam, I'm Adam. And Able was I ere I saw Elba.
     -- History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of Prince's street  was
there first. There was weeping  and  gnashing  of teeth over that. Out of an
advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it. That gave him the leg up.
Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who  took him on to  the <i>Star</i>. Now he's got
in with  Blumenfeld.  That's press. That's talent.  Pyatt! He  was all their
daddies.
     --  The  father  of  scare  journalism,  Lenehan   confirmed,  and  the
brother-in-law of Chris Callinan.
     --  Hello?... Are  you  there?...  Yes,  he's  here  still. Come across
yourself.
     -- Where do you find a pressman like that now, eh? the editor cried. He
flung the pages down.
     -- Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke.
     -- Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
     Professor MacHugh came from the inner office.
     -- Talking about  the  invincibles,  he  said, did  you  see that  some
hawkers were up before the recorder...
     -- O  yes,  J.J. O'Molloy said  eagerly. Lady  Dudley  was walking home
through the park to see  all the trees that were blown down  by that cyclone
last year and thought  she'd buy a view of Dublin. And it turned out to be a
commemoration postcard of  Joe Brady or Number  One or Skin-the-goat.  Right
outside the viceregal lodge, imagine!
     -- They're only in the hook  and  eye  department, Myles Crawford said.
Psha! Press and  the bar! Where have  you  a  man now at  the bar like those
fellows,  like Whiteside,  like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued  O'Hagan? Eh?
Ah, bloody nonsense! Only in the halfpenny place!
     His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain.
     Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? How do you know? Why did you
write it then?
     <b>Rhymes and Reasons</b>
     Mouth, south. Is the mouth south someway? Or the south a mouth? Must be
some.  South, pout, out,  shout, drouth. Rhymes: two men dressed  the  same,
looking the same, two by two.
     ... la tua pace
     ... che parlar ti piace
     ... mentrechå il vento, come fa, si tace.
     He  saw them three  by three, approaching  girls, in green, in rose, in
russet,  entwining, <i>per l'aer  perso</i> in mauve, in  purple,  <i>quella  pacifica
oriafiamma</i>, in gold of oriflamme, <i>di rimirar fe piu ardenti</i>.  But I old men,
penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb.
     -- Speak up for yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
     <b>Sufficient for the Day...</b>
     J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.
     -- My dear Myles,  he said, flinging  his  cigarette  aside, you  put a
false construction on  my words. I hold no brief, as at present advised, for
the third profession <i>qua</i> profession but your Cork legs are running away with
you. Why  not  bring  in Henry Grattan  and Flood and Demosthenes and Edmund
Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth  of
the farthing press, and his American  cousin  of the Bowery gutter sheet not
to  mention <i>Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences</i> and  our watchful friend
<i>The Skibereen Eagle</i>. Why  bring in  a  master  of  forensic  eloquence  like
Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof.
     <b>Links with Bygone Days of Yore</b>
     Grattan and  Flood  wrote  for this very paper, the editor cried in his
face.  Irish volunteers. Where are you now? Established 1763. Dr  Lucas. Who
have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha!
     -- Well, J.J. O'Molloy said, Bushe K. C., for example.
     -- Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes. Bushe, yes. He has a strain of it
in his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.
     -- He would have been on the bench long ago,  the professor  said, only
for... But no matter.
     J.J. O'Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly:
     -- One  of the most polished periods I  think I ever listened to in  my
life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide,
the Childs murder case. Bushe defended him.
     And in the porches of mine ear did pour.
     By the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep. Or the other
story, beast with two backs?
     -- What was that? the professor asked.
     <b>Italia, Magistra Artium</b>
     -- He spoke on  the  law  of evidence,  J.J.  O'Molloy  said,  of Roman
justice as contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the <i>lex talionis</i>. And he
cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the Vatican.
     -- Ha.
     -- A few wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence!
     Pause. J.J. O'Molloy took out his cigarette case. False lull. Something
quite ordinary.
     Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar.
     I have often thought since on looking back over that  strange time that
it was that small  act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match, that
determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives.
     <b>A Polished Period</b>
     J.J. O'Molloy resumed, moulding his words:
     -- He  said of it:  <i>that  stony  effigy  in  frozen  music, horned  and
terrible,  of the  human  form  divine,  that  eternal symbol  of wisdom and
prophecy which if aught that the  imagination or the  hand  of  sculptor has
wrought in marble  of soultransfigured and of  soultransfiguring deserves to
live, deserves to live</i>.
     His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.
     -- Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.
     -- The divine afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
     -- You like it? J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.
     Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and  gesture, blushed. He
took a cigarette from the case.  J.J.  O'Molloy offered  his  case to  Myles
Crawford.  Lenehan  lit  their  cigarettes as before  and  took his  trophy,
saying:
     -- Muchibus thankibus.
     <b>A Man of High Morale</b>
     -- Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you,  J.J. O'Molloy said
to Stephen. What do you think  really of that hermetic  crowd, the opal hush
poets