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.
— Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks.
— 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.
Lenehan based on Mick Hart who'd died six years earlier aged 39, character in "Two Gallants" [video]
Richard II II.1.41? 'This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands' [more]
cf p19 "Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green stone."
— The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the dusty windowpane.
cf? p24 "A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissues of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath."
Ellmann: "MacHugh himself was, as his name suggests, Hugh MacNeill, a scholar of the classical modern languages, clever and lazy. Ordinarily careless in dress, he had for a time a position as teacher of romance languages at Maynooth, and so was obliged to wear hat and tailcoat; he usually left them unbrushed. Gogarty, speculating upon this garb, evidently made the remark, in mourning for Sallust,' which passes through Stephen's mind. MacNeill used to arrive early in the morning at the Evening Telegraph offices, read the paper, and remain all day. As the members of the staff arrived, he reprimanded them for being late. The title of professor was accorded him out of slightly ironic politeness, for in fact he never attained that eminence."
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:
— Or again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles on its way, tho' quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to the tumbling waters of Neptune's blue domain, 'mid mossy banks fanned by gentlest zephyrs, 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. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that for high?
Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating:
— The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage. 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.
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 savingsbank I'd say. Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense.
"caseroom" = where the text is set in lead type? (why no definitions? 1964 video)
"Sober serious" recycled in FW: Evans: My People, Stories of the Peasantry of West Wales 25: 'A Heifer Without Blemish': 'What nonsense you talk out of the back of your head! Sober serious, mouth not that you have thrown gravel at Sara Jane's window!'
Pesach/Passover in 1904 was from 31 March to 6 April
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 alleluia. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. No, that's the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons.
"mangiD. kcirtaP." = metathesis
(so Rudolph read Hebrew to little Poldy?)
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.
"And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher..." = polysyndeton
"...and then the angel of death kills the butcher..." = climax
Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery onto 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? Yes. Same as Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.
"Now am I going to tram it out all the way...?" = anthimeria
to Ballsbridge?
ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP
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.
"down the house staircase" (so we've been on the 2nd floor?)
(this matches-business must fit some unrecognised pattern, most likely Homeric)
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.
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 with a y 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 phiz then.
Sllt. The nethermost deck of the first machine jogged forward its flyboard with sllt 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 sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its own way. Sllt.
"Sllt." = onomatopoeia
"Doing its level best to speak." = prosopopoeia or personification
NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL
CONTRIBUTOR
The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying:
— Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the Telegraph. Where's what's his name?
He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.
— Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.
the 1901 census includes a plausible 50yo-father/son duo of printer-compositors
casting box uses sand to shape hot lead for printing
— 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.
Hell of a racket they make. He doesn't hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves. Maybe he understands what I.
"Hell of a racket they make" = hyperbaton or anastrophe?
"Nannan" = apocope?
"Maybe he understands what I." = anacoluthia
The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began to scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket.
(sounds hot)
— 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.
HOUSE OF KEY(E)S
— 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 voglio. 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.
(run out where?)
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.
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.
bio, cartoons
not found yet: "Pat and Bull" = Pat and Mike comic + cock and bull story?
"Uncle Toby" (from Tristram Shandy)
Freeman's Weekly supposedly carried 'Uncle Remus' Address to his Nieces and Nephews'
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.
cf 'Our Letterbox'
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.
"More Irish than the Irish." = antanaclasis or antistasis
The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thump. 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.
"Monkeydoodle" was briefly a variant on 'monkey business' c1900
— 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.
— His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.
Archbishop Walsh p77 (acting as censor?)
Ellmann: "The publisher of the Freeman's Journal was Thomas Sexton, a Parnellite who was feuding with Archbishop Walsh; consequently his paper minimized whatever the Archbishop did and enlarged upon everything that Cardinal Logue did. Walsh evidently made frequent protests, which Joyce referred to without explanation in the sentence in Ulysses, 'His grace phoned down twice this morning.'"
A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a word:
— Freeman!
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. But will he save the circulation? Thumping, thumping.
"along the warm dark stairs" up, or down?
Brayden had been editor since 1892
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.
WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS WE ANNOUNCE
THE DISSOLUTION OF A MOST RESPECTED
DUBLIN BURGESS
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.
"Working away, tearing away." = epiphora?
HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT
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 and 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 Tinnahinch. To all
the saturday Telegraph had a column 'The Work-a-Day World' bylined 'a Work-a-Day Worker' Dublin Gazette
"Queen Anne is dead" phrase
— 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.
Ellmann: "The cashier of the newspaper was a man named Ruttledge, who had a high,
squeaky voice. On payday Ruttledge carried a money box around with him,
paying out from office to office of the old building; and his coming was
announced by the phrase, 'The ghost walks,' spoken in Ulysses by
Professor MacHugh."
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.
