s an old tramp  sat,
grumbling,  emptying  the dirt and stones out of his huge  dustbrown yawning
boot. After life's journey.
     Gloomy gardens then went by, one by one: gloomy houses.
     Mr Power pointed.
     -- That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house.
     -- So it is,  Mr Dedalus  said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got  him
off. Murdered his brother. Or so they said.
     -- The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said.
     -- Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. That's the maxim of the
law. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one  innocent person to
be wrongfully condemned.
     They   looked.   Murderer's  ground.   It  passed   darkly.  Shuttered,
tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully condemned.
Murder. The murderer's image in the eye of the murdered. They  love  reading
about it. Man's head  found  in a garden. Her clothing consisted of. How she
met her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still  at large.
Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed. Murder will out.
     Cramped in this carriage. She mightn't like me to come that way without
letting  her know. Must be careful about  women. Catch  them once with their
pants down. Never forgive you after. Fifteen.
     The high railings of Prospects rippled past  their gaze. Dark  poplars,
rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees,
white  forms and fragments streaming by mutely,  sustaining vain gestures on
the air.
     The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin Cunningham put
out his  arm and, wrenching back the  handle, shoved the door open  with his
knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed.
     Change that soap now. Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly
and transferred the  paperstuck soap to his  inner  handkerchief  pocket. He
stepped  out of the  carriage,  replacing the newspaper his other hand still
held.
     Paltry  funeral:  coach  and  three  carriages.  It's   all  the  same.
Pallbearers,  gold  reins, requiem  mass, firing  a  volley.  Pomp of death.
Beyond  the  hind carriage a hawker stood by his  barrow of cakes and fruit.
Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead. Dogbiscuits. Who
ate them? Mourners coming out.
     He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and  Ned  Lambert followed, Hynes
walking after them. Corny  Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took  out
the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy.
     Where is that child's funeral disappeared to?
     A  team of  horses  passed from  Finglas  with  toiling plodding tread,
dragging through the funereal  silence  a creaking  waggon on  which  lay  a
granite block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted.
     Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is.  Horse looking  round at
it with his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck, pressing on
a  bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here every day?
Must be twenty or  thirty funerals  every  day. Then  Mount  Jerome  for the
protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling
them  under by  the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too  many in
the world.
     Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy,
hard  woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl's face stained with dirt and
tears, holding the woman's arm looking up at her  for a sign to cry.  Fish's
face, bloodless and livid.
     The mutes shouldered the coffin  and bore it  in through the gates.  So
much dead weight. Felt heavier  myself stepping out of that bath. First  the
stiff: then  the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher  and  the boy followed
with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law.
     All walked after.
     Martin Cunningham whispered:
     -- I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.
     -- What? Mr Power whispered. How so?
     --  His  father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had  the
Queen's  hotel  in  Ennis.  You  heard  him  say  he  was  going  to  Clare.
Anniversary.
     -- O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself!
     He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking  eyes followed
towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Speaking.
     -- Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.
     --  I  believe  so,  Mr Kernan  answered,  but the policy  was  heavily
mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.
     -- How many children did he leave?
     --  Five. Ned  Lambert says  he'll try  to get  one  of  the girls into
Todd's.
     -- A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.
     -- A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.
     -- Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.
     Has the laugh at him now.
     He  looked down at  the  boots  he  had  blacked and polished. She  had
outlived  him,  lost  her husband. More dead  for her than for  me. One must
outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the world.
Condole with her. Your terrible loss.  I hope  you'll  soon  follow him. For
Hindu widows only.  She  would  marry another. Him? No. Yet who knows after?
Widowhood not the  thing since the  old queen died. Drawn  on a guncarriage.
Victoria  and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But  in the  end she put a
few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her  heart of hearts. All  for a  shadow.
Consort not even  a king. Her son was the substance.  Something new to  hope
for not like the past she wanted back, waiting. It  never comes. One must go
first: alone under the ground: and lie no more in her warm bed.
     -- How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't
seen you for a month of Sundays.
     -- Never better. How are all in Cork's own town?
     -- I  was  down  there  for the Cork  park races  on Easter Monday, Ned
Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.
     -- And how is Dick, the solid man?
     -- Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.
     -- By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?
     -- Martin is going to get up  a  whip for  the youngsters, Ned  Lambert
said, pointing  ahead. A  few bob a skull.  Just to keep them going till the
insurance is cleared up.
     -- Yes,  yes,  Mr  Dedalus said  dubiously. Is that the eldest  boy  in
front?
     -- Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is
behind. He put down his name for a quid.
     -- I'll engage  he did, Mr Dedalus  said. I  often told  poor  Paddy he
ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.
     -- How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?
     -- Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.
     They  halted about  the  door of the mortuary  chapel.  Mr  Bloom stood
behind the  boy  with  the wreath, looking down at his sleek combed hair and
the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he there
when  the  father?  Both unconscious. Lighten  up  at  the last  moment  and
recognise for the last time. All  he  might have done. I owe three shillings
to O'Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin  into the chapel.
Which end is his head.
     After a moment  he followed the  others  in,  blinking in  the screened
light. The  coffin lay  on  its bier before the  chancel,  four tall  yellow
candles at its  corners. Always  in  front of us.  Corny Kelleher,  laying a
wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners knelt
here and there in praying desks.  Mr Bloom stood behind near the  font  and,
when all  had knelt dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket
and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left
knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.
     A server, bearing a brass bucket with something in it, came out through
a  door.  The whitesmocked  priest came after him tidying his stole with one
hand,  balancing  with  the other a little book against  his  toad's  belly.
Who'll read the book? I, said the rook.
     They halted  by  the bier and the priest began to  read out of his book
with a fluent croak.
     Father  Coffey. I knew his name  was like a coffin. <i>Dominenamine</i>. Bully
about the muzzle he  looks. Bosses the  show. Muscular christian. Woe betide
anyone  that  looks crooked at  him:  priest. Thou art Peter. Burst sideways
like a sheep in  clover Dedalus says he  will.  With  a belly on him like  a
poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst sideways.
     -- <i>Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine</i>.
     Makes  them feel more  important  to be  prayed over in  Latin. Requiem
mass. Crape weepers.  Blackedged  notepaper. Your  name  on  the  altarlist.
Chilly place this. Want to feed  well,  sitting in  there all the morning in
the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too.
What swells  him up  that  way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of the
place maybe. Looks full  up of bad gas.  Must be an  infernal lot of baa gas
round the place. Butchers  for  instance:  they get like raw beefsteaks. Who
was telling me? Mervyn Brown. Down in the  vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely
old  organ hundred  and  fifty  they  have to  bore a  hole in  the  coffins
sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes: blue. One whiff
of that and you're a goner.
     My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That's better.
     The  priest took  a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's
bucket and shook  it over the  coffin. Then he  walked  to the other end and
shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you were
before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it.
     -- <i>Et ne nos inducas in tentationem</i>.
     The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be
better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that of course.
     Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking  sleep out of it. He must be fed
up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up. What
harm  if he could  see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a fresh
batch:  middleaged men,  old women, children,  women dead in childbirth, men
with  beards,  baldheaded  business   men,  consumptive  girls  with  little
sparrow's breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all
ad shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam now.
     -- <i>In paradisum</i>.
     Said he was  going  to paradise  or  is  in paradise.  Says  that  over
everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.
     The priest closed his book and went off, followed by  the server. Corny
Kelleher opened  the  sidedoors and  the  gravediggers came in, hoisted  the
coffin  again, carried it out and shoved  it on  their  cart. Corny Kelleher
gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All  followed them
out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last, folding his
paper  again  into  his  pocket.  He gazed gravely at  the ground  till  the
coffincart wheeled off to the  left. The metal wheels ground the gravel with
a sharp grating cry  and the pack of blunt boots followed the barrow along a
lane of sepulchres.
     The ree the ra the Fee the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.
     -- The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.
     Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone.
     -- He's at rest,  he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But
his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon!
     --  Her grave  is  over there,  Jack, Mr  Dedalus said.  I'Il  soon  be
stretched beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.
     Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly,  stumbling a little
in his walk. Mr Power took his arm.
     -- She's better where she is, he said kindly.
     -- I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a  weak gasp. I suppose she is in
heaven if there is a heaven.
     Corny Kelleher  stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to
plod by.
     -- Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.
     Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.
     -- The  others  are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we
can do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place.
     They covered their heads.
     -- The  reverend  gentleman read  the  service  too quickly,  don't you
think? Mr Kernan said with reproof.
     Mr Bloom  nodded gravely, looking in  the quick bloodshot eyes.  Secret
eyes, secret searching  eyes. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We
are the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something else.
     Mr Kernan added:
     -- The service of the  Irish  church, used in Mount Jerome, is simpler,
more impressive, I must say.
     Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing.
     Mr Kernan said with solemnity:
     --  <i>I am  the resurrection and  the life</i>.  That touches a  man's inmost
heart.
     -- It does, Mr Bloom said.
     Your heart perhaps  but what price the fellow  in the  six feet  by two
with his  toes  to  the daisies? No touching  that.  Seat of the affections.
Broken heart. A pump after all,  pumping thousands of gallons of blood every
day. One  fine day it gets bunged up and there  you are. Lots of them  lying
around here:  lungs, hearts,  livers. Old rusty pumps:  damn the thing else.
The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead. That last day
idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves.  Come forth, Lazarus! And he
came  fifth and lost the  job. Get up! Last  day! Then  every fellow mousing
around for his liver and his lights and the rest of his traps. Find damn all
of  himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder  in a  skull. Twelve grammes
one pennyweight. Troy measure.
     Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.
     -- Everything went off A 1, he said. What?
     He looked  on them from his  drawling eye.  Policeman's shoulders. With
your tooraloom tooraloom.
     -- As it should be, Mr Kernan said.
     -- What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.
     Mr Kernan assured him.
     --  Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I
know his face.
     Ned Lambert glanced back.
     --  Bloom,  he  said, Madam Marion  Tweedy that  was, is,  I  mean, the
soprano. She's his wife.
     -- O, to be sure, John Henry  Menton said. I haven't  seen her for some
time.  She was  a finelooking  woman.  I  danced  with  her,  wait,  fifteen
seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's, in Roundtown. And a good armful
she was.
     He looked behind through the others.
     -- What is he? he asked. What  does he do? Wasn't he in the  stationery
line? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls.
     Ned Lambert smiled.
     --  Yes,   he  was,  he  said,  in  Wisdom  Hely's.  A  traveller   for
blottingpaper.
     -- In God's  name,  John Henry Menton  said, what did she marry  a coon
like that for? She had plenty of game in her then.
     -- Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.
     John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead.
     The  barrow turned  into  a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the
grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps.
     -- John O'Connell, Mr Power said, pleased. He never forgets a friend.
     Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said:
     -- I am come to pay you another visit.
     -- My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low  voice. I  don't want
your custom at all.
     Saluting  Ned  Lambert and John Henry  Menton he  walked on  at  Martin
Cunningham's side, puzzling two keys at his back.
     -- Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?
     -- I did not, Martin Cunningham said.
     They  bent  their silk hats in  concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The
caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold  watch chain and spoke in
a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.
     --  They tell the story, he  said,  that two  drunks  came out here one
foggy evening to  look for  the grave of  a friend of theirs. They asked for
Mulcahy from the Coombe  and were  told where he was buried. After traipsing
about in the fog they found the grave, sure enough. One of  the drunks spelt
out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The  other drunk was blinking up at  a statue
of our Saviour the widow had got put up.
     The caretaker  blinked up  at  one  of  the sepulchres they  passed. He
resumed:
     -- And, after  blinking up at the sacred figure, <i>Not a  bloody bit like
the man</i>, says he. <i>That's not Mulcahy</i>, says he, <i>whoever done it</i>.
     Rewarded  by smiles  he  fell  back  and  spoke  with  Corny  Kelleher,
accepting the  dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them  as he
walked.
     --  That's all done  with  a  purpose, Martin  Cunningham  explained to
Hynes.
     -- I know, Hynes said, I know that.
     --  To  cheer   a   fellow  up,  Martin  Cunningham  said.  It's   pure
goodheartedness: damn the thing else.
     Mr Bloom  admired the caretaker's prosperous  bulk. All want to  be  on
good terms with him.  Decent  fellow, John O'Connell, real good  sort. Keys:
like Keyes's  ad: no fear of anyone getting out, no passout  checks.  <i>Habeat
corpus</i>. I must see about that ad after  the funeral. Did I write Ballsbridge
on  the envelope  I took to cover when she disturbed  me  writing to Martha?
Hope it's not chucked  in the dead letter office. Be the better of  a shave.
Grey sprouting beard. That's the first sign when the hairs come out grey and
temper  getting cross. Silver threads among the grey. Fancy  being his wife.
Wonder how he had the  gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in
the graveyard. Dangle that before  her. It might  thrill her first. Courting
death... Shades of  night hovering here with  all the dead  stretched about.
The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must  be
a descendant I  suppose who is this used to say he was  a  queer  breedy man
great catholic  all the same like a big  giant in the dark. Will o'the wisp.
Gas of  graves.  Want  to keep  her mind  off it to  conceive at all.  Women
especially are so touchy. Tell her a  ghost  story in bed to make her sleep.
Have you ever  seen  a  ghost? Well, I  have. It was  a pitchdark night. The
clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they'd  kiss all right if  properly
keyed up. Whores  in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken  young. You
might pick up a young widow here.  Men like that. Love among the tombstones.
Romeo.  Spice  of pleasure. In the  midst of death we are in life. Both ends
meet. Tantalising for  the poor dead.  Smell  of frilled  beefsteaks  to the
starving gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it
at the window. Eight children he has anyway.
     He has  seen a fair share  go under in his time, lying around him field
after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing. Sitting or
kneeling  you  couldn't. Standing? His  head might  come  up some  day above
ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground must
be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too, trim grass and edgings. His
garden Major Gamble calls Mount  Jerome. Well so  it is. Ought to be flowers
of sleep.  Chinese cemeteries with  giant poppies  growing produce  the best
opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens  are just over there. It's the
blood sinking in  the earth gives new  life. Same idea  those jews they said
killed the christian boy.  Every man his  price. Well  preserved fat  corpse
gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit  garden. A bargain.  By carcass  of
William  Wilkinson,  auditor and accountant, lately  deceased, three  pounds
thirteen and six. With thanks.
     I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpse manure, bones, flesh,
nails,  charnelhouses.  Dreadful.  Turning green and pink,  decomposing. Rot
quick in  damp  earth. The lean old ones tougher.  Then a kind  of a tallowy
kind of a cheesy. Then begin to  get black, treacle oozing out of them. Then
dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living.
Changing  about.  Live  for ever practically.  Nothing  to feed on  feed  on
themselves.
     But they must breed  a devil of a  lot  of maggots. Soil must be simply
swirling with  them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside
gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a  sense  of power seeing
all the others  go under first.  Wonder how he  looks at life. Cracking  his
jokes too: warms  the cockles  of his  heart.  The  one about the  bulletin.
Spurgeon went to  heaven 4 A.M. this morning. 11  P.M.  (closing time).  Not
arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an
odd  joke or the women to know what's in fashion. A  juicy pear  or  ladies'
punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so
better do it that  way. Gravediggers in <i>Hamlet</i>. Shows the profound knowledge
of the human heart. Daren't joke  about the dead for two years at  least. <i>De
mortuis  nil nisi prius</i>.  Go  out  of  mourning  first. Hard to imagine  his
funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they  say you
live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.
     -- How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.
     -- Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.
     The caretaker put the  papers  in his  pocket. The barrow had ceased to
trundle. The  mourners  split and moved to each  side of  the hole, stepping
with  care  round the graves. The  gravediggers bore the coffin and set  its
nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.
     Burying him. We come  to bury  Caesar. His ides  of  March or  June. He
doesn't know who is here nor care.
     Now  who  is that lankylooking galoot over there in  the macintosh? Now
who is he I'd like to know? Now, I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always
someone turns up you  never dreamt  of. A fellow  could live on his lonesome
all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after
he died  though he could dig  his own  grave. We all do. Only man buries. No
ants too. First thing strikes  anybody. Bury  the dead.  Say Robinson Crusoe
was  true  to  life. Well then  Friday  buried him.  Every  Friday buries  a
Thursday if you come to look at it.
     O, poor Robinson Crusoe,
     How could you possibly do so?
     Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his  box.  When you think  of
them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent
a  handsome bier with a  kind of panel sliding let it down that  way. Ay but
they might  object  to  be  buried  out  of  another  fellow's.  They're  so
particular. Lay me in  my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only
a  mother and deadborn child ever buried in the  one coffin.  I see what  it
means. I  see. To  protect  him  as long as possible even in  the earth. The
Irishman's house is  his coffin. Enbalming  in catacombs, mummies,  the same
idea.
     Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads.
Twelve. I'm  thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh  is  thirteen.  Death's
number. Where the  deuce did he pop out of? He  wasn't in the  chapel,  that
I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.
     Nice soft tweed  Ned Lambert  has in that suit. Tinge  of purple. I had
one like that when we lived in  Lombard street west. Dressy  fellow  he  was
once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine
turned  by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot  he's not  married or
his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.
     The coffin  dived out of sight, eased down by  the men straddled on the
gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.
     Pause.
     If we were all suddenly somebody else.
     Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they
say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.
     Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in  a whisper. Whisper. The
boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both  hands staring quietly in the
black open space. Mr Bloom  moved  behind  the portly kindly caretaker. Well
cut frockcoat.  Weighing them  up perhaps to see which will go next. Well it
is a  long rest. Feel no more.  It's  the  moment you feel.  Must  be damned
unpleasant. Can't believe  it at first. Mistake must  be: someone  else. Try
the  house  opposite.  Wait, I  wanted  to.  I  haven't  yet.  Then darkened
deathchamber. Light  they want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see
a priest? Then  rambling and wandering.  Delirium all you hid all your life.
The  death struggle. His  sleep  is not natural.  Press  his  lower  eyelid.
Watching is his nose pointed is  his jaw  sinking are the soles  of his feet
yellow. Pull the pillow  away  and finish it  off on  the  floor since  he's
doomed. Devil in that picture of  sinner's death showing him a woman.  Dying
to  embrace her  in his  shirt.  Last act of <i>Lucia. Shall I nevermore behold
thee?</i> Bam! expires. Gone at last. People  talk about you  a bit: forget you.
Don't  forget to pray for him. Remember  him  in your prayers. Even Parnell.
Ivy  day dying  out. Then they  follow: dropping  into a  hole one after the
other.
     We are  praying now  for the repose of his soul. Hoping you're well and
not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of  the fryingpan of life into the fire
of purgatory.
     Does he ever think  of the hole waiting for  himself? They  say  you do
when you shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Callboy's warning. Near
you. Mine  over there towards Finglas,  the plot I bought. Mamma poor mamma,
and little Rudy.
     The gravediggers  took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in
on the coffin. Mr Bloom turned his face. And if  he was alive  all the time?
Whew! By  Jingo,  that would  be awful! No,  no: he  is dead, of  course. Of
course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the
heart and make sure or an electric  clock or a telephone in the  coffin  and
some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of distress. Three days. Rather long  to
keep them  in summer.  Just as well to  get shut of them  as soon as you are
sure there's no.
     The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.
     The caretaker moved away a few paces  and put on his hat. Had enough of
it.  The  mourners  took  heart  of  grace, one by  one, covering themselves
without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its way
deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed
the dismal fields.
     Hynes jotting  down something in  his  notebook. Ah,  the names. But he
knows them all. No: coming to me.
     -- I am  just taking  the names, Hynes said below his breath.  What  is
your christian name? I'm not sure.
     -- L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might  put down M'Coy's name too.
He asked me to.
     Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the <i>Freeman</i> once.
     So he was  before he got the  job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good
idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know. He died
of a Tuesday.  Got the run.  Levanted with the  cash of a few ads.  Charley,
you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, does no harm.  I saw
to  that,  M'Coy.  Thanks, old  chap:  much  obliged.  Leave  him  under  an
obligation: costs nothing.
     -- And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow  in the, fellow was
over there in the.
     He looked around.
     -- Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?
     -- M'Intosh,  Hynes said, scribbling,  I don't know who  he is. Is that
his name?
     He moved away, looking about him.
     -- No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!
     Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all
the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell.  Become invisible. Good Lord,
what became of him?
     A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade.
     -- O, excuse me!
     He stepped aside nimbly.
     Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen  in the hole. It rose. Nearly over.
A mound of damp  clods  rose  more, rose, and the gravediggers rested  their
spades. All  uncovered again for a few  instants. The boy propped his wreath
against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The gravediggers put  on
their caps and  carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Then knocked
the blades lightly  on the turf: clean. One bent to  pluck from  the haft  a
long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with shouldered
weapon, its blade blueglancing. Silently at the gravehead another coiled the
coffinband.   His  navelcord.  The  brother-in-law,  turning  away,   placed
something  in  his  free  hand.  Thanks  in  silence.  Sorry,  sir: trouble.
Headshake. I know that. For yourselves just.
     The  mourners moved away slowly, without aim, by devious paths, staying
awhile to read a name on a tomb.
     -- Let us go round by the chief's grave, Hynes said. We have time.
     -- Let us, Mr Power said.
     They turned  to the right,  following their slow thoughts. With  awe Mr
Power's blank voice spoke:
     --  Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled
with stones. That one day he will come again.
     Hynes shook his head.
     --  Parnell will  never come  again, he said. He's  there, all that was
mortal of him. Peace to his ashes.
     Mr Bloom walked unheeded  along his grove by saddened  angels, crosses,
broken  pillars,  family vaults, stone hopes praying  with upcast eyes,  old
Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some charity
for the  living. Pray  for the repose of the  soul  of. Does anybody really?
Plant  him  and  have done with him. Like  down a coalshoot. Then  lump them
together to save time. All souls' day.  Twentyseventh I'll be  at his grave.
Ten shillings for the gardener. He  keeps it free of weeds. Old man himself.
Bent down double with his  shears clipping.  Near  death's door.  Who passed
away. Who departed this life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the
shove, all of them. Who kicked the bucket. More interesting if they told you
what  they were. So  and so,  wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid
five shillings in the pound. Or a  woman's with her saucepan.  I cooked good
Irish stew. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose
is it Wordsworth or  Thomas Campbell. Entered into rest  the protestants put
it.  Old Dr Murren's.  The great physician  called him home. Well it's God's
acre for  them. Nice country residence.  Newly plastered and  painted. Ideal
spot to  have a quiet  smoke and read  the <i>Church Times</i>.  Marriage  ads they
never try to beautify. Rusty  wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil.
Better value that for  the  money. Still, the flowers are more poetical. The
other gets rather tiresome, never withering. Expresses nothing. Immortelles.
     A  bird  sat tamely perched on a poplar  branch. Like stuffed. Like the
wedding present alderman Hooper gave  us. Hu! Not a budge out of him.  Knows
there  are  no  catapults  to  let  fly at  him.  Dead  animal  even sadder.
Silly-Milly  burying  the  little  dead bird  in  the  kitchen  matchbox,  a
daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.
     The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve.
     Ought  to be sideways  and red it should be painted like a  real heart.
Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever that.  Seems  anything but  pleased.
Why this  infliction? Would birds come then  and peck like the boy with  the
basket of fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the
boy. Apollo that was.
     How many! All these here once walked round Dublin.  Faithful  departed.
As you are now so once were we.
     Besides how could you remember  everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the
voice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone  in every  grave or keep it in the
house.  After  dinner  on   a  Sunday.  Put  on  poor  old  greatgrandfather
Kraahraark!   Hellohellohello   amawfullyglad  kraark  awfullygladaseeragain
hellohello  amarawf  kopthsth.  Remind you of the voice like the  photograph
reminds  you  of the face. Otherwise  you  couldn't remember the  face after
fifteen years, say.  For  instance  who? For  instance some fellow that died
when I was in Wisdom Hely's.
     Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop.
     He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait. There he
goes.
     An  obese  grey  rat toddled along the side of  the  crypt, moving  the
pebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey alive
crushed itself  in under  the plinth,  wriggled  itself  in under  it.  Good
hidingplace for treasure.
     Who lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. Robert Emmet was
buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Making his rounds.
     Tail gone now.
     One of those chaps would make short work  of  a fellow. Pick the  bones
clean no matter  who it was. Ordinary meat for them.  A corpse is meat  gone
bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that <i>Voyages in China</i>
that  the Chinese  say a white man  smells like a  corpse. Cremation better.
Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm. Wholesale burners and
Dutch oven dealers. Time  of  the plague. Quicklime fever pits  to eat them.
Lethal chamber.  Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is that Parsee  tower
of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire,  water.  Drowning they say  is  the
pleasantest.  See your whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life
no. Can't bury in the air however. Out of a  flying machine. Wonder does the
news go about whenever  a fresh one is let  down. Underground communication.
We learned that from them. Wouldn't  be surprised. Regular  square  feed for
them. Flies  come before he's  well dead.  Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn't
care about the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste
like raw white turnips.
     The  gates glimmered  in front:  still open. Back  to the  world again.
Enough of this place. Brings you a  bit  nearer every time. Last time  I was
here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa  too. The love that kills. And even
scraping up  the earth at night with a lantern like that case I  read of  to
get at fresh buried  females or even putrefied with running gravesores. Give
you the creeps after a bit.  I will appear  to you after death. You will see
my ghost after death.  My ghost will haunt you after death. There is another
world after death named hell.  I do not like that  other world she wrote. No
more do I. Plenty to see and  hear and  feel yet. Feel live warm beings near
you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They are not going to get me this
innings. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life.
     Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.
     Solicitor, I think. I  know  his face.  Menton. John Henry,  solicitor,
commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be  In his office. Mat
Dillon's  long  ago. Jolly  Mat  convivial  evenings. Cold fowl, cigars, the
Tantalus glasses. Heart of  gold really. Yes,  Menton. Got his rag out  that
evening  on  the bowling  green because I sailed inside him.  Pure fluke  of
mine:  the  bias.  Why  he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate  at  first
sight. Molly and Floey  Dillon linked under the  lilactree, laughing. Fellow
always like that, mortified if women are by.
     Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.
     -- Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.
     They stopped.
     -- Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said, pointing.
     John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.
     -- There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also.
     John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged  out  the dinge and smoothed
the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.
     -- It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said.
     John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.
     -- Thank you, he said shortly.
     They  walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen,  drew behind a
few paces so  as not to overhear. Martin laying down the  law.  Martin could
wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger without his seeing it.
     Oyster eyes.  Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it  dawns on him.
Get the pull over him that way.
     Thank you. How grand we are this morning.


        Ulysses 7: Ae

     <b>In the Heart of the Hibernian Metropolis</b>
     BEFORE NELSON'S PILLAR TRAILS SLOWED, SHUNTED, CHANGED TROLLEY, started
for  Blackrock,  Kingstown  and  Dalkey,  Clonskea,  Rathgar  and  Terenure,
Palmerston park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green,  Rathmines,  Ringsend
and  Sandymount  Tower, Harold's  Cross. The  hoarse Dublin  United  Tramway
Company's timekeeper bawled them off:
     -- Rathgar and Terenure!
     -- Come on, Sandymount Green!
     Right  and  left   parallel  clanging  ringing  a  doubledecker  and  a
singledeck moved  from  their  railheads,  swerved to the  down line, glided
parallel.
     -- Start, Palmerston park!
     <b>The Wearer of the Crown</b>
     Under  the  porch of  the general  post  office shoeblacks  called  and
polished. Parked in  North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion mailcars,
bearing  on  their  sides the royal  initials, E. R., received loudly  flung
sacks  of  letters,  postcards, lettercards, parcels,  insured and paid, for
local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.
     <b>Gentlemen of the Press</b>
     Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's  stores
and  bumped  them  up  on  the brewery float.  On the  brewery  float bumped
dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's stores.
     -- There it is Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes.
     -- Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and  I'll take it round to
the <i>Telegraph</i> office.
     The-door of Ruttledge's office  creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in
a large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning  his ringlets, passed out with a
roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier.
     Red  Murray's  long  shears  sliced  out  the  advertisement  from  the
newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.
     -- I'll go through the printing works, Mr  Bloom said, taking  the  cut
square.
     --  Of course, if he  wants  a par,  Red  Murray said earnestly,  a pen
behind his ear, we can do him one.
     -- Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in. We.
     <b>William Brayden, Esquire, of Oaklands, Sandymount</b>
     Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:
     -- Brayden.
     Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a
stately  figure entered between  the newsboards of  the  <i>Weekly  Freeman and
National  Press</i> and  the <i>Freeman's Journal  and National Press</i>. Dullthudding
Guinness's barrels.  It  passed  stately  up the  staircase  steered  by  an
umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back ascended each step:
back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus says.  Welts
of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck.
     -- Don't you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.
     The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee:  cree. They always  build
one door opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Way out.
     Our Saviour: beardframed  oval  face: talking in the dusk Mary, Martha.
Steered by an umbrella sword to the footlights: Mario the tenor.
     -- Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.
     -- Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario  was said to be the picture of Our
Saviour.
     Jesus  Mario with rougy  cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand  on his
heart. In <i>Martha</i>.
     Co-ome thou lost one,
     Co-ome thou dear one.
     <b>The Crozier and the Pen</b>
     -- His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.
     They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.
     A telegram boy stepped  in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and
stepped off posthaste with a word.
     -- <i>Freeman!</i>
     Mr Bloom said slowly:
     -- Well, he is one of our saviours also.
     A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed
in through the sidedoor and along  the warm  dark  stairs and passage, along
the now  reverberating boards. Bu