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So he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if
there was anything he could lift on the nod, the old cur after
him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. Old Mother
Hubbard went to the cupboard.
—Not there, my child, says he.
—Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She’d have won the
money only for the other dog.
And J. J. and the citizen arguing about law and history
with Bloom sticking in an odd word.
—Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others’
eyes but they can’t see the beam in their own.
—Raimeis, says the citizen. There’s no-one as blind as the
fellow that won’t see, if you know what that means. Where
are our missing twenty millions of Irish should be here to-
day instead of four, our lost tribes? And our potteries and
textiles, the finest in the whole world! And our wool that
was sold in Rome in the time of Juvenal and our flax and
our damask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick
lace, our tanneries and our white flint glass down there by
Ballybough and our Huguenot poplin that we have since
Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk and our Foxford
tweeds and ivory raised point from the Carmelite convent
in New Ross, nothing like it in the whole wide world. Where
are the Greek merchants that came through the pillars of
Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind,
with gold and Tyrian purple to sell in Wexford at the fair of
Carmen? Read Tacitus and Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cam-
brensis. Wine, peltries, Connemara marble, silver from
Tipperary, second to none, our farfamed horses even today,