United States or Mauritania ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard. Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall. Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is. True men like you men. Ay, ay, Ben. Will lift your glass with us. They lifted. Tschink. Tschunk. Tip.
In her days of courtship, Mr. Kernan had seemed to her a not ungallant figure: and she still hurried to the chapel door whenever a wedding was reported and, seeing the bridal pair, recalled with vivid pleasure how she had passed out of the Star of the Sea Church in Sandymount, leaning on the arm of a jovial well-fed man, who was dressed smartly in a frock-coat and lavender trousers and carried a silk hat gracefully balanced upon his other arm.
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.
M'Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head with a double intention, saying: "That's no joke, I can tell you." "We didn't learn that, Tom," said Mr. Power, following Mr. M'Coy's example, "when we went to the penny-a-week school." "There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week school with a sod of turf under his oxter," said Mr. Kernan sententiously.
Her husband called out to her: "And have you nothing for me, duckie?" "O, you! The back of my hand to you!" said Mrs. Kernan tartly. Her husband called after her: "Nothing for poor little hubby!" He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of the bottles of stout took place amid general merriment.
He spent money like a prince of fiction. And then a weird and gorgeous musical comedy engaged their attention. Afterward there was a late supper in a grillroom, with champagne, and Kernan at the height of his complacency.
Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school which believed in the dignity of its calling. He had never been seen in the city without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. By grace of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass muster. He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great Blackwhite, whose memory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry.
The keys of Dublin, crossed on a crimson cushion, are given to him. TOM KERNAN: You deserve it, your honour. BLOOM: On this day twenty years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith. Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect. Half a league onward! They charge! All is lost now! Do we yield? No! We drive them headlong! Lo! We charge!
After an interval, he uncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose also and settled again on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored his hat to its original position on his knee and presented an attentive face to the preacher. The preacher turned back each wide sleeve of his surplice with an elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed the array of faces.
The gentlemen drank again, one following another's example. Mr. Kernan seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He was impressed. He had a high opinion of Mr. Cunningham as a judge of character and as a reader of faces. He asked for particulars. "O, it's just a retreat, you know," said Mr. Cunningham. "Father Purdon is giving it. It's for business men, you know."
Word Of The Day