IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS

Before *Nelson’s pillar* trams 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!

**THE WEARER OF THE CROWN**

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, lettecards, parcels, insured and paid, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.

**GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS**

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 Telegraph 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.

**WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS,**

**SANDYMOUNT**

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 Weekly Freeman and National Press and the Freeman’s Journal and National Press. 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.

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-Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place.
+Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished.

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-          <p class="markdown">See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end.</p>
+          <p class="markdown">Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place.</p>
           <p><a href="https://github.com/irrealitas/hashlog" target="_blank">(sources)</a></p>
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+    <div class="text text--list" id="text-eee6e6d">
+        <button class="btn hash">eee6e6d</button>
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+          <div class="text__subject" style="display: none;">
+            <p class="markdown text__title">Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage</p>
+            <p class="text__link">2020-06-27</p>
+            <p class="text__link"><a href="https://github.com/irrealitas/hashlog/commit/eee6e6deedd3b5d6adf424c499a3e062fd1b986e" target="_blank">Git Time</a></p>
+          </div>
+        </div>
+        <div class="text__container text__container--right">
+          <div class="text__body" style="display: none;">
+            <p class="markdown">And, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care.
+
+— Come on, Simon.
+
+— After you, Mr Bloom said.
+
+Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying :
+
+— Yes, yes.
+
+— Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.
+
+Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to after him and slammed it tight till it shut tight. He passed an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriage window at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside : an old woman peeping. Nose white- flattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she was passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in corners. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he’d wake. Then getting it ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Pull it more to your side. Our windingsheet. Never know who will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grow all the same after. Unclean job.
+
+All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap in my hip pocket. Better shift it out of that. Wait for an opportunity.
+
+All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front turning : then nearer : then horses’ hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of the avenue passed and number ten with its craped knocker, door ajar. At walking pace.
+
+They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the doorframes.
+
+— What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.
+
+— Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.
+
+Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.
+
+— That’s a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died out.
+
+All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by passers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat.
+
+— There’s a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.
+
+— Who is that?
+
+— Your son and heir.
+
+— Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over, across.
+
+The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. Mr Dedalus fell back, aying :
+
+— Was that Mulligan cad with him? His fidus Achates!
+
+— No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.
+
+— Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding faction, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa’s little lump of dung, the wise child that knows her own father.
+
+Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros the bottle- works. Dodder bridge
+</p>
+          </div>
+        </div>
+    </div>
+
+    <div class="text text--list" id="text-95fc47d">
+        <button class="btn hash">95fc47d</button>
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+          <div class="text__subject" style="display: none;">
+            <p class="markdown text__title">By lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom walked soberly.</p>
+            <p class="text__link">2020-06-27</p>
+            <p class="text__link"><a href="https://github.com/irrealitas/hashlog/commit/95fc47dfba453fb3ae5e614dcf63f14ae1969df6" target="_blank">Git Time</a></p>
+          </div>
+        </div>
+        <div class="text__container text__container--right">
+          <div class="text__body" style="display: none;">
+            <p class="markdown">Past Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed crusher’s, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors’ home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street. By Brady’s cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he won’t grow. O let him! His life isn’t such a bed of roses! Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour : won’t be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes : house of : Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols’ the undertaker’s. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged that job for O’Neill’s. Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumay call. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
+
+In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets : choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Couldn’t ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.
+
+So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over again : choice blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be : the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing around in the sun, in dolce far niente. Not doing a hand’s turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah, in the dead sea, floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn’t sink if you tried : so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the. Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It’s a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second, per second. Law of falling bodies : per second, per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It’s the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.
+
+He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air : just drop in to see. Per second, per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.
+
+He handed the card through the brass grill.
+
+— Are there any letters for me? he asked.
+
+While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade : and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time.
+
+The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.
+
+Henry Flower, Esq,
+
+c/o P. O. Westland Row,
+
+City.
+</p>
+          </div>
+        </div>
+    </div>
+
+    <div class="text text--list" id="text-75786ad">
+        <button class="btn hash">75786ad</button>
+        <div class="text__container text__container--left">
+          <div class="text__subject" style="display: none;">
+            <p class="markdown text__title">Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.</p>
+            <p class="text__link">2020-06-27</p>
+            <p class="text__link"><a href="https://github.com/irrealitas/hashlog/commit/75786ad8f3b05ab99d96ea14d918afc7f4c2525d" target="_blank">Git Time</a></p>
+          </div>
+        </div>
+        <div class="text__container text__container--right">
+          <div class="text__body" style="display: none;">
+            <p class="markdown">He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
+
+Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a bit peckish.
+
+The coals were reddening.
+
+Another slice of bread and butter : three, four : right. She didn’t like her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.
+
+— Mkgnao!
+
+— O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.
+
+The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
+
+Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see : the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
+
+— Milk for the pussens, he said.
+
+— Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
+
+They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.
+
+— Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chook- chooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.
+
+Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.
+
+— Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.
+
+She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon’s milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.
+
+— Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.
+
+He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can’t mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.
+
+He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday : not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley’s. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz’s. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough? To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round him. No.
+</p>
+          </div>
+        </div>
+    </div>
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