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—We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham 

said. 

—God grant he doesn’t upset us on the road, Mr 

Power said. 

—I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a 

great race tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett. 

—Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth 

seeing, faith. 

As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near 

the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling 

song of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Kay ee 

double ell wy. Dead March from Saul. He’s as bad as old 

Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater 

Misericordiae. Eccles street. My house down there. Big 

place. Ward for incurables there. Very encouraging. Our 

Lady’s Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy 

underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look 

terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her 

mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her bed for 

her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite 

the bee gave me. He’s gone over to the lying-in hospital 

they told me. From one extreme to the other. The 

carriage galloped round a corner: stopped. 

—What’s wrong now? 

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A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, 

lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails 

slowly on their clotted bony croups. Outside them and 

through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. 

—Emigrants, Mr Power said. 

—Huuuh! the drover’s voice cried, his switch sounding 

on their flanks. 

Huuuh! out of that! 

Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. 

Springers. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. 

For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old England. They 

buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter lost: 

all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in 

a year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the 

slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if 

that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at 

Clonsilla. 

The carriage moved on through the drove. 

—I can’t make out why the corporation doesn’t run a 

tramline from the parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. 

All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the 

boats. 

—Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin 

Cunningham said. Quite right. They ought to. 

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—Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often 

thought, is to have municipal funeral trams like they have 

in Milan, you know. Run the line out to the cemetery 

gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and all. 

Don’t you see what I mean? 

—O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. 

Pullman car and saloon diningroom. 

—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added. 

—Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. 

Wouldn’t it be more decent than galloping two abreast? 

—Well, there’s something in that, Mr Dedalus granted. 

—And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn’t have 

scenes like that when the hearse capsized round Dunphy’s 

and upset the coffin on to the road. 

—That was terrible, Mr Power’s shocked face said, and 

the corpse fell about the road. Terrible! 

—First round Dunphy’s, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. 

Gordon Bennett cup. 

—Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously. 

Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. 

Burst open. Paddy Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff 

in the dust in a brown habit too large for him. Red face: 

grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what’s up now. 

Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the 

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insides decompose quickly. Much better to close up all the 

orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up 

all. 

—Dunphy’s, Mr Power announced as the carriage 

turned right. 

Dunphy’s corner. Mourning coaches drawn up, 

drowning their grief. A pause by the wayside. Tiptop 

position for a pub. Expect we’ll pull up here on the way 

back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation. Elixir 

of life. 

But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a 

nail say cut him in the knocking about? He would and he 

wouldn’t, I suppose. Depends on where. The circulation 

stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery. It would be 

better to bury them in red: a dark red. 

In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An 

empty hearse trotted by, coming from the cemetery: looks 

relieved. 

Crossguns bridge: the royal canal. 

Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood 

on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the 

towpath by the lock a slacktethered horse. Aboard of the 

Bugabu. 

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Their eyes watched him. On the slow weedy waterway 

he had floated on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by 

a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked 

bottles, carrion dogs. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I 

could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or 

cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one 

the other day at the auction but a lady’s. Developing 

waterways. James M’Cann’s hobby to row me o’er the 

ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats. 

Camping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I 

will without writing. Come as a surprise, Leixlip, 

Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. With 

turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his brown 

straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam. 

They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it 

now. 

—I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr 

Power said. 

—Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said. 

—How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him 

weeping, I suppose? 

—Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory 

dear. 

The carriage steered left for Finglas road. 

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