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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 482/821
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—
’
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
.
.
.
