Episode 11: Sirens (Literary technique: Fuga per canonem (fugue or polyphony by rule: weaving of various voices and motifs in counterpoint to one another). Art: Music. Time: 38 40 pm. Place: Ormond Hotel


Bloom tries moderation and reason to the outbursts against English tyranny



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Bloom tries moderation and reason to the outbursts against English tyranny.
--And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen. We had our trade with

Spain and the French and with the Flemings before those mongrels were

pupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedark waterway.
--And will again, says Joe.
--And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says the

citizen, clapping his thigh. our harbours that are empty will be full

again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom of

Kerry, Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with a fleet

of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O'Reillys and the

O'Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with

the emperor Charles the Fifth himself. And will again, says he, when the

first Irish battleship is seen breasting the waves with our own flag to

the fore, none of your Henry Tudor's harps, no, the oldest flag afloat,

the flag of the province of Desmond and Thomond, three crowns on a blue

field, the three sons of Milesius.
And he took the last swig out of the pint. Moya. All wind and piss like

a tanyard cat. Cows in Connacht have long horns. As much as his bloody

life is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled

multitude in Shanagolden where he daren't show his nose with the Molly

Maguires looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbing the

holding of an evicted tenant.
--Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. What will you have?
--An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.
--Half one, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up. Terry! Are you asleep?
--Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir.
Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead

of attending to the general public. Picture of a butting match, trying to

crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with his head down

like a bull at a gate. And another one: BLACK BEAST BURNED IN OMAHA, GA.

A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a Sambo strung

up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under him. Gob, they ought

to drown him in the sea after and electrocute and crucify him to make sure

of their job.
--But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay?
--I'll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Hell upon earth it is.

Read the revelations that's going on in the papers about flogging on the

training ships at Portsmouth. A fellow writes that calls himself DISGUSTED

ONE.
So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew

of tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats and the

parson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad

brought out, howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the buttend of a

gun.
--A rump and dozen, says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir John

Beresford called it but the modern God's Englishman calls it caning on the

breech.
And says John Wyse:
--'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance.
Then he was telling us the master at arms comes along with a long

cane and he draws out and he flogs the bloody backside off of the poor lad

till he yells meila murder.
--That's your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that bosses the

earth.
The fellows that never will be slaves, with the only hereditary chamber on

the face of God's earth and their land in the hands of a dozen gamehogs

and cottonball barons. That's the great empire they boast about of drudges

and whipped serfs.
--On which the sun never rises, says Joe.
--And the tragedy of it is, says the citizen, they believe it. The

unfortunate yahoos believe it.
They believe in rod, the scourger almighty, creator of hell upon earth,

and in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast,

born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was scarified,

flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third day he arose again

from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend till further

orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid.
--But, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. I mean wouldn't

it be the same here if you put force against force?
Didn't I tell you? As true as I'm drinking this porter if he was at his

last gasp he'd try to downface you that dying was living.
--We'll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our greater

Ireland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house and home in the

black 47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laid

low by the batteringram and the TIMES rubbed its hands and told the

whitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as

redskins in America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But the

Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of

crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay, they

drove out the peasants in hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in the

coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free remember the

land of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no

cravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan.
--Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was ...
--We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. Since the

poor old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed at

Killala.
--Ay, says John Wyse. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us

against the Williamites and they betrayed us. Remember Limerick and the

broken treatystone. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the wild

geese. Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield and O'Donnell, duke of Tetuan in

Spain, and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria Teresa.

But what did we ever get for it?
--The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do you know what

it is? They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Aren't they

trying to make an ENTENTE CORDIALE now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with

perfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were.
--CONSPUEZ LES FRANCAIS, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.
--And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven't we had

enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George the

elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that's dead?
Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old one

with the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal palace every night of

God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman carting her

up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by the whiskers

and singing him old bits of songs about EHREN ON THE RHINE and come where

the boose is cheaper.
--Well, says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.
--Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. There's a bloody sight more pox

than pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin!
--And what do you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests and

bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic Majesty's

racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses his jockeys

rode. The earl of Dublin, no less.
--They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says little

Alf.
And says J. J.:
--Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision.
--Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.
--Yes, sir, says he. I will.
--You? says Joe.
--Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your shadow never grow less.
--Repeat that dose, says Joe.
Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with

his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about.
--Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it.

Perpetuating national hatred among nations.
--But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.
--Yes, says Bloom.
--What is it? says John Wyse.
--A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same

place.
--By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that's so I'm a nation for I'm

living in the same place for the past five years.
So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to

muck out of it:
--Or also living in different places.
--That covers my case, says Joe.
--What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen.
--Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.
The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and,

gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.
--After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his handkerchief to

swab himself dry.
--Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take that in your right hand and repeat

after me the following words.
Parody 23: In the style of a newspaper feature-story’s description of a medieval tapestry or an illuminated manuscript.
The muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish

facecloth attributed to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og

MacDonogh, authors of the Book of Ballymote, was then carefully

produced and called forth prolonged admiration. No need to dwell on the

legendary beauty of the cornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can

distinctly discern each of the four evangelists in turn presenting to each

of the four masters his evangelical symbol, a bogoak sceptre, a North

American puma (a far nobler king of beasts than the British article, be it

said in passing), a Kerry calf and a golden eagle from Carrantuohill. The

scenes depicted on the emunctory field, showing our ancient duns and raths

and cromlechs and grianauns and seats of learning and maledictive stones,

are as wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate as when the

Sligo illuminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy long long ago

in the time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovely lakes of Killarney,

the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins,

Ireland's Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh Patrick, the brewery of

Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company (Limited), Lough Neagh's banks,

the vale of Ovoca, Isolde's tower, the Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick Dun's

hospital, Cape Clear, the glen of Aherlow, Lynch's castle, the Scotch

house, Rathdown Union Workhouse at Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail,

Castleconnel rapids, Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice,

Jury's Hotel, S. Patrick's Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college

refectory, Curley's hole, the three birthplaces of the first duke of

Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street

Warehouse, Fingal's Cave--all these moving scenes are still there for us

today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have

passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time.
Bloom declares his identity as both Irish and a Jew and opposes hatred with love.
--Show us over the drink, says I. Which is which?
--That's mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.
--And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.

Also now. This very moment. This very instant.
Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.
--Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs

to us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold by

auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle.
--Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.
--I'm talking about injustice, says Bloom.
--Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.
That's an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old

lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he'd adorn a

sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse's apron on him. And

then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as

limp as a wet rag.
--But it's no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That's not

life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it's

the very opposite of that that is really life.
--What? says Alf.
--Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says he

to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is there.

If he comes just say I'll be back in a second. Just a moment.
Who's hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning.
--A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.
--Well, says John Wyse. Isn't that what we're told. Love your neighbour.
--That chap? says the citizen. Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love,

moya! He's a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.
Parody 24: In the style of sentimental adult child-talk.
Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A

loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle.

M. B. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow.

Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with the

ear trumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in the

brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her

Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love

a certain person. And this person loves that other person because

everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.
Bloom exits, and Lenehan claims that he has gone to collect his winnings on Throwaway, the only one in Dublin to back the Gold Cup winner. Bloom’s refusal to share his winnings by standing drinks increases the hostility they all feel for him. The Narrator goes to the toilet and when he returns they continue to discuss Bloom.
--Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power, citizen.
--Hurrah, there, says Joe.
--The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen.
And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.
--We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket.

What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women

and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text GOD IS LOVE

pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did you read that skit in

the UNITED IRISHMAN today about that Zulu chief that's visiting England?
--What's that? says Joe.
So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts

reading out:
--A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented

yesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in Waiting,

Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty the heartfelt

thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in his

dominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion

of which the dusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech,

freely translated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias

Praisegod Barebones, tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and

emphasised the cordial relations existing between Abeakuta and the

British empire, stating that he treasured as one of his dearest

possessions an illuminated bible, the volume of the word of God

and the secret of England's greatness, graciously presented to him by

the white chief woman, the great squaw Victoria, with a personal

dedication from the august hand of the Royal Donor. The Alaki then drank a

lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh to the toast BLACK AND WHITE from the

skull of his immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak,

surnamed Forty Warts, after which he visited the chief factory of

Cottonopolis and signed his mark in the visitors' book, subsequently

executing a charming old Abeakutic wardance, in the course of which he

swallowed several knives and forks, amid hilarious applause from the girl

hands.
--Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn't doubt her. Wonder did he put that

bible to the same use as I would.
--Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful land

the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.
--Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse.
--No, says the citizen. It's not signed Shanganagh. It's only

initialled: P.
--And a very good initial too, says Joe.
--That's how it's worked, says the citizen. Trade follows the flag.
--Well, says J. J., if they're any worse than those Belgians in the Congo

Free State they must be bad. Did you read that report by a man what's this

his name is?
--Casement, says the citizen. He's an Irishman.
--Yes, that's the man, says J. J. Raping the women and girls and flogging

the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber they can out of

them.
--I know where he's gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers.
--Who? says I.
--Bloom, says he. The courthouse is a blind. He had a few bob on

THROWAWAY and he's gone to gather in the shekels.
--Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed a horse

in anger in his life?
--That's where he's gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons going to back

that horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the tip.

Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He's the only

man in Dublin has it. A dark horse.
--He's a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe.
--Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out.
--There you are, says Terry.
Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort. So I just went round the back of

the yard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings to five) while I was

letting off my (THROWAWAY twenty to) letting off my load gob says I to

myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and one in

Slattery's off) in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillings is

five quid) and when they were in the (dark horse) pisser Burke

was telling me card party and letting on the child was sick (gob, must

have done about a gallon) flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube

SHE'S BETTER or SHE'S (ow!) all a plan so he could vamoose with the

pool if he won or (Jesus, full up I was) trading without a licence (ow!)

Ireland my nation says he (hoik! phthook!) never be up to those

bloody (there's the last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) cuckoos.
So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse

saying it was Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his

paper all kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes

off of the government and appointing consuls all over the world to walk

about selling Irish industries. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Gob, that puts

the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show. Give us

a bloody chance. God save Ireland from the likes of that bloody

mouseabout. Mr Bloom with his argol bargol. And his old fellow before him

perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the robbing bagman, that

poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country with

his baubles and his penny diamonds. Loans by post on easy terms. Any

amount of money advanced on note of hand. Distance no object. No security.

Gob, he's like Lanty MacHale's goat that'd go a piece of the road with

every one.
Cunningham, Power, and Crofton finally arrive.
--Well, it's a fact, says John Wyse. And there's the man now that'll tell

you all about it, Martin Cunningham.
Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power

with him and a fellow named Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of the

collector general's, an orangeman Blackburn does have on the registration

and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around the country at the

king's expense.


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