from “Hades”

[...]
    
    The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.
    —In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.
    —But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own life.
    Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.
    —The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.
    —Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We must take a charitable view of it.
    —They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.
    —It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.
    Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham’s large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent. Like Shakespeare’s face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn’t broken already. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in the riverbed clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight that night, Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and capering with Martin’s umbrella:

He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.
    That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian blinds. The coroner’s ears, big and hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold.
    No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.
    The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.
    —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?
    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. Roast beef for old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter is 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.
    —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 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.