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ulyssesredux · 8 years ago

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Cyclops

Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door. Gob, he's not as green as he's cabbagelooking. The man in the moon was a jew.

She'd have won the money only for the other with his head down like a bull at a gate. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court only Corny Kelleher got round him telling him to get the handwriting examined first.

From the belfries far and near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around the gloomy precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drums punctuated by the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. I mean his wife.

Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller, Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street, Liverpool, Isabella Helen.

Secrets for enlarging your private parts.

Drink that, citizen. Cows in Connacht have long horns. The strangers, says the citizen. The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc. —Widow woman, says Ned. The bloody nag took fright and the old mongrel after the car like bloody hell, the third largest harbour in the wide world with a fleet of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O'Reillys and the O'Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with the emperor Charles the Fifth himself.

With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was overheard, by those privileged burghers who happened to be in his immediate entourage, to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone: God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. —What's that? The traitor's son. —Yes, your worship. So Joe took up the letters.

Says he.

—Is it Paddy? Gob, he's like Lanty MacHale's goat that'd go a piece of the road with every one. —With Dignam, says Alf. —O jakers, Jenny, says Joe.

And calling himself a Frenchy for the shawls, Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and he cursing the curse of Ireland.

I'm thinking.

Any civilisation they have they stole from us. Visszontlátásra! —I, says Joe, i have a special nack of putting the noose once in he can't get out hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir, my terms is five ginnees. Justifiable homicide, so it would.

A full thousand cubits high stood the greatest among them, wherein the high-priests liked not these festivals, for there had descended amongst them queer tales of how the sea��green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the great water-lizard. It's a secret. Deaths. —Well, Joe, says I. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of stuff like a man.

No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full the motives which actuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office you entrust to me consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of sorrow, this proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitterness of the cup. And he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or whatever you call him and him in the middle of them letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera. Who are you laughing at? Lovely maidens sit in close proximity to the roots of the lovely trees singing the most lovely songs while they play with all kinds of breastplates bidding defiance to the world only Bob Doran.

Good health, citizen.

Through all the land of Mnar is very still, and remote from most other lands, both of waking and of dream.

—Slan leat, says he.

I met him one day in the south city markets buying a tin of Neave's food six weeks before the wife was delivered. How are the mighty fallen! The signal for prayer was then promptly given by megaphone and in an instant all heads were bared, the commendatore's patriarchal sombrero, which has been in the possession of his family since the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by his medical adviser in attendance, Dr Pippi.

—He's a perverted jew, says Martin to the jarvey. Thereon embossed in excellent smithwork was seen the image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house of Bernard Kiernan and Co, limited, 8,9 and 10 little Britain street, wholesale grocers, wine and brandy shippers, licensed fo the sale of beer, wine and brandy shippers, licensed fo the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises, the celebrant blessed the house of commons.

Not like the ikons of other gods were those of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon. Says Joe. Says Joe. Not even the mines of precious metal remained. The wonder of the world and the pride of all mankind was Sarnath the magnificent. —Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. Gob, that puts the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show.

No security.

A couched spear of acuminated granite rested by him while at his feet looking up to know who to bite and when. But not much is written of these beings, as indeed are most beings of a world yet inchoate and rudely fashioned.

Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney's snug, squeezed up with the laughing.

Visszontlátásra!

There he is again, says the citizen, clapping his thigh, our harbours that are empty will be full again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom of Kerry, Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with a fleet of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O'Reillys and the O'Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with the emperor Charles the Fifth himself. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. —True for you, says the citizen. A powerful current of warm breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble. Says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease.

Your God. Ay, ay, says Joe. —Short, painstaking yet withal so characteristic of the man. And Bob Doran starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you're there. 'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance. And says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like the next fellow anyhow. Ironical opposition cheers. The speaker: Order! Gob, he'll come home by weeping cross one of those days, I'm thinking. Jumbo, the elephant. Tell him, says he, trying to crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other dog. Says I. —I'll tell you what. —You don't grasp my point, says Bloom. The objects which included several hundred ladies' and gentlemen's gold and silver watches were promptly restored to their rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme. Cried crack till he brought him home as drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils of alcohol and by herrings, if the three women didn't near roast him, it's a queer story, the old cur after him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe, till he knows if he's a father or a mother. —Widow woman, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay? Stop!

—Well, says J.J. We have Edward the peacemaker now. But my point was … —We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe.

We are not speaking so much of those delightful lovesongs with which the eunuch Catalani beglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers was easily distinguishable. And Bloom with his but don't you see, because on account of the poor lad till he yells meila murder. It was a knockout clean and clever. The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone the semiparalysed doyen of the party who had to be assisted to his seat by the aid of a powerful steam crane, Monsieur Pierrepaul Petitépatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Virága Kisászony Putrápesthi, Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pecadillo y Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung Chang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchisitch, Borus Hupinkoff, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli, Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocent-generalhistoryspecialprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein. The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77,78,79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the peace and genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was never a truer, a finer than poor little Willy that's dead to tell her.

Gob, he near sent it into the county Longford. Begob I saw there was trouble coming. Gob, the devil wouldn't stop him till he got hold of the bloody tin anyhow and out with him and out trying to walk straight. Boylan.

In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan.

—I thought so, says Ned. So Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts reading them out: A most scandalous thing!

Right, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. The catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect.

Says he. —What's that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him, I promise you.

Says Martin. Says he, what will you have? Blimey it makes me kind of bleeding cry, straight, it does, when I sees her cause I thinks of my old mashtub what's waiting for me down Limehouse way. —O, by God, says Ned. He wore a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching to the knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by a girdle of plaited straw and rushes. Considerable amusement was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang The Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion.

Says Martin. How many children?

—Who? —Then about! And the Saviour was a jew, says Martin.

—And moreover, says J.J.—We don't want him, says he.

—Whose admirers? Where are our missing twenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four, our lost tribes? Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres.

I turned around to let him have the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter only Joe Hynes. And says John Wyse. In summer the gardens were cooled with fresh odorous breezes skilfully wafted by fans, and in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast, born of the fighting navy, says the citizen, clapping his thigh, our harbours that are empty will be full again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom of Kerry, Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with a fleet of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O'Reillys and the O'Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with the emperor Charles the Fifth himself.

Love loves to love love. And the rest nowhere. And he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or whatever you call him and him in the dock the other day for suing poor little Gumley that's minding stones, for the corporation there near Butt bridge.

—Foreign wars is the cause of our old tongue, Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised morning and evening by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the best traditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to us from the cradle by Speranza's plaintive muse. And then an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the populace shouting and laughing and the old dog at his feet reposed a savage animal of the canine tribe whose stertorous gasps announced that he was now on the path of pr l ya or return but was still submitted to trial at the hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the lower astral levels. Insulted.

Says Martin. And heroes voyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and of Cruahan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of Caolte and of the tribe of Owen and of the east the lofty trees wave in different directions their firstclass foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and other ornaments of the arboreal world with which that region is thoroughly well supplied. —And moreover, says J.J. And Bloom letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera. Says he, looking for you. —A 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. If the man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. Moya. Says Martin. I may ask?

The man that got away James Stephens. Are you asleep? —Mendelssohn was a jew. —And the wife with typhoid fever! Says John Wyse. Do you know that he's balmy? Handed him the father and mother of a beating. Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him would give you the creeps. And he starts taking off the old recorder letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera. Shake hands, brother.

Mister Knowall. And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month as a solution equally honourable for both contending parties. What are you doing round those parts?

To us! She lays eggs for us. —Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. Read the revelations that's going on in the papers about flogging on the training ships at Portsmouth. Belle in her bloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for her tickles and Norman W. Tupper bouncing in with his cod's eye on the dog and he talking all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. Or also living in different places.

Other eyewitnesses depose that they observed an incandescent object of enormous proportions hurtling through the atmosphere at a terrifying velocity in a trajectory directed southwest by west.

A couched spear of acuminated granite rested by him while at his feet looking up to know who to bite and when.

Ind.: Don't hesitate to shoot. Set of dancing masters! —Who made those allegations?

Ten thousand years ago there stood by its shore the mighty city of Sarnath on horses and camels and elephants, looked again upon the mist-begetting lake and saw the gray rock Akurion was quite submerged. Senhor Enrique Flor presided at the organ with his wellknown ability and, in addition to the prescribed numbers of the nuptial mass, played a new and striking arrangement of Woodman, spare that tree at the conclusion of which the veteran patriot champion may be said without fear of contradiction to have fairly excelled himself. Stop! —Ireland, says Bloom. Amongst the clergy present were the very rev. William Delany, S.J., L.L.D.; the rt rev. Mgr M'Manus, V.G.; the rev. P.J. Cleary, O.S.F.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O.M.; the rev. F.T. Purcell, O.P.; the very rev. Fr. Nicholas, O.S.F.C.; the very rev. James Murphy, S.J.; the rev. P.J. Cleary, O.S.F.; the rev. B.R. Slattery, O.M.I.; the very rev. M.D. Scally, P.P.; the rev. P.J. Cleary, O.S.F.; the rev. John Lavery, V.F.; the very rev. William Doherty, D.D.; the rev. P.J. Kavanagh, C.S.Sp.; the rev. M.A. Hackett, C.C.; the rev. J. Flavin, C.C.; the rev. T. Maher, S.J.; the very rev. William Doherty, D.D.; the rev. L.J. Hickey, O.P.; the very rev. James Murphy, S.J.; the rev. T. Waters, C.C.; the rev. T. Waters, C.C.; the rev. M.A. Hackett, C.C.; the rev. T. Maher, S.J.; the very rev. M.D. Scally, P.P.; the rev. L.J. Hickey, O.P.; the very rev. William Doherty, D.D.; the rev. John Lavery, V.F.; the very rev. B. Gorman, O.D.C.; the rev. B.R. Slattery, O.M.I.; the very rev. M.D. Scally, P.P.; the rev. T. Brangan, O.S.A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C.C.; the rev. F.T. Purcell, O.P.; the very rev. William Doherty, D.D.; the rev. P.J. Kavanagh, C.S.Sp.; the rev. M.A. Hackett, C.C.; the rev. J. Flavin, C.C.; the rev. J. Flanagan, C.C. The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc.

Thereafter those in the towers and without the walls beheld strange lights on the water, and saw that the gray rock Akurion was quite submerged. And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month as a solution equally honourable for both contending parties. However this may be, it is certain that they worshipped a sea-green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the great water-lizard. Not like the ikons of other gods were those of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon. He puts his hand under black Liz and takes her fresh egg. Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion. O'Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most timehonoured names in Albion's history placed on the finger of his blushing fiancée an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds.

The answer to the honourable member's question is in the negative. —Give it a name, citizen, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his that died was born. Gone but not forgotten. Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief.

—Whose God?

I sees her cause I thinks of my old mashtub what's waiting for me down Limehouse way.

Also now.

—When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? He let out that Myler was on the beer to run up the odds and he swatting all the time.

Heenan and Sayers was only a bloody fool to it.

You whatwhat? —We know those canters, says he, taking out his handkerchief to swab himself dry. So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it was Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper all kinds of drivel about training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system, comprises, among other achievements, the recitation of verse. The king's friends God bless His Majesty!

The deafening claps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the ghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its supernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle. —Who tried the case? We let them come in. —With Dignam, says Alf. The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf.

Declare to my aunt he'd talk about it for an hour so he would, if he was my dog. —Ten thousand pounds. —Foreign wars is the cause of all our misfortunes. Thereafter those in the towers and the domes of fated Sarnath. —No, says I. These men indeed went to the lake to the gates of Sarnath burst open and emptied forth a frenzied throng that blackened the plain, so that in those gardens it was always spring.

Justifiable homicide, so it would.

They took the liberty of burying him this morning anyhow. —Wine of the country, says he, looking for you. There rises a watchtower beheld of men afar.

Gob, that puts the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show. His name was Virag, the father's name that poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country with bugs. —Ay, Blazes, says Alf, laughing. —Nannan's going too, says Bloom.

—O, I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom.

The bride who was given away by her father, the M'Conifer of the Glands, looked exquisitely charming in a creation carried out in green mercerised silk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke of broad emerald and finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued fringe, the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acorn bronze. Says Bloom, the robbing bagman, that poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country with bugs. The eyes in which a tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery were of the dimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. But, says Bloom.

—That so? We know what put English gold in his pocket: It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. Here, citizen.

—Who?

—Then suffer me to take your hand, said he with an obsequious bow. —Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack. He wore a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching to the knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by a girdle of plaited straw and rushes. It was exactly seventeen o'clock.

So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice. —They're all barbers, says he. Says he. Universal love.

Selling bazaar tickets or what do you think of that, citizen?

—Are you talking about the Irish language and the corporation meeting and all to that and then he went round to Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round to the subsheriff's for a lark.

Since the poor old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed at Killala. And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep and Cuffe's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the various different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus heifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime premiated milchcows and beeves: and there is no record extant of a similar seismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of 1534, the year of the destroying of Ib. And he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or whatever you call him and him in the private office when I was there with Pisser releasing his boots out of the question of my honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right honourable sir Hercules Hannibal Habeas Corpus Anderson, K.G., K.P., K.T., P.C., K.C.B., M.P., J.P., M.B., D.S.O., S.O.D., M.F.H., M.R.I.A., B.L., Mus. Doc., P.L.G., F.T.C.D., F.R.U.I., F.R.C.P.I. and F.R.C.S.I. —Well, good health, Jack, says Ned. His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Amid tense expectation the Portobello bruiser was being counted out when Bennett's second Ole Pfotts Wettstein threw in the towel and the Santry boy was declared victor to the frenzied cheers of the public who broke through the ringropes and fairly mobbed him with delight.

He's a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.

Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where it wouldn't blind him. The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him in Irish and a lot of colleen bawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals and oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him in Irish and the old dog seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. Ten, did you say? Perfide Albion!

And he started laughing.

—Jesus, says he. And with the help of the holy boys, the priests and bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic Majesty's racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses his jockeys rode.

It is told that in the castle. The citizen made a plunge back into the shop. —There's hair, Joe, says I.

—Afraid he'll bite you? —But do you know what it is?

On a handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the quartering knife, the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances specially supplied by the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round and Sons, Sheffield, a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the duodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted and two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the most precious victim. —Cockburn.

—Cattle traders, says Joe, doing the honours. Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort.

The mimber? And because they did not wish to touch them. O'Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most obedient city, second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there, sure enough, was the citizen up in the City Arms pisser Burke told me there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom trying to get the handwriting examined first. O'Bloom, the son of Rory: it is he.

So one day the young warriors, the slingers and the spearmen and the bowmen, marched against Ib and slew all the inhabitants thereof, pushing the queer bodies into the lake; wondering from the greatness of the labor how ever the stones were brought from afar, as they fled from the doomed city of Sarnath on horses and camels and elephants trod, which were paved with granite.

Old lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Ireland! Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the desirability of the revivability of the ancient games and sports of our ancient Panceltic forefathers. Says Joe.

—Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she?

After a brisk exchange of courtesies during which a smart upper cut of the military man brought blood freely from his opponent's mouth the lamb suddenly waded in all over his man and landed a terrific left to Battling Bennett's stomach, flooring him flat. Taking what belongs to us by right. —After you with the push, Joe, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and Greek street with his cod's eye on the dog and he talking all kinds of breastplates bidding defiance to the world only Bob Doran. —Not there, my child, says he. —Twenty to one, says Martin, we're ready. —The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over tonight to London to ask about it on the floor of the house of commons.

��Circumcised? —Well, says Martin to the jarvey. I saw him before I met you, says Lenehan. —All these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time. —Well, that's a point, says Bloom.

—An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion. Love your neighbour. The citizen made a grab at the letter. —By Jesus, I'll crucify him so I will, says he.

The learned prelate who administered the last comforts of holy religion to the hero martyr when about to pay the death penalty knelt in a most christian spirit in a pool of rainwater, his cassock above his hoary head, and offered up to the two eyes. We know those canters, says he. Myler quickly became busy and got his man under, the bout ending with the bulkier man on the ropes, Myler punishing him.

—Ireland, says Bloom, the robbing bagman, that poisoned himself. —En ventre sa mère, says J.J. What'll it be, Ned?

—Drinking his own stuff? And he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or whatever you call him and him in the middle of them letting on to be modest. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a face on him as long as a late breakfast. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging out of him and Joe and little Alf hanging on to his taw now for the past five years. —Sinn Fein!

An you be the king's messengers, master Taptun? And who does he suspect?

Begob I saw there was trouble coming. The tear is bloody near your eye. —Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. —What's your opinion of the times? More power, citizen. —Well, they're still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. Gob, we won't be let even do that much itself. No, says Martin. The final bout of fireworks was a gruelling for both champions.

—Well, good health, Jack, says Ned. And one or two sky pilots having an eye around that there was no goings on with the females, hitting below the belt. Says he.

It was a knockout clean and clever. She's singing, yes. —Do you call that a man? —There he is again, says he.

How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber? —Health, Joe, says I.

It is told that in the castle. Mr Allfours: The answer is in the land of bondage. So one day the young warriors, the slingers and the spearmen and the bowmen, marched against Ib and slew all the inhabitants thereof, pushing the queer bodies into the lake, each of vast size, and served upon golden platters set with rubies and diamonds. —And the tragedy of it is, says Joe. Hell upon earth it is. And the beds of the Barrow and Shannon they won't deepen with millions of acres of marsh and bog to make us all die of consumption?

Do you know what it is? But with their marveling was mixed hate, for they knew and loved her from the rising of the sun and moon and stars and planets when it was not less because they found the beings weak, and soft as jelly to the touch of stones and arrows. Gob, it'd turn the porter sour in your guts, so it would.

Just a holiday. Love, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. —I'll tell you what. —That's the new Messiah for Ireland! But Bob Doran shouts out of her: Eh, mister!

He stood ascend to heaven. Your fly is open, mister! Excellent. A bit off the top.

Says Joe.

So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it was Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper all kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes off of the poor lad till he yells meila murder.

—Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. It was a knockout clean and clever. Says Joe. —Love, says Bloom. After Lowry's lights.

It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.

And straightway the minions of the law.

How half and half.

Bristow, at Whitehall lane, London: Carr, Stoke Newington, of gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the Moat house, Chepstow … —I know where he's gone, says Lenehan. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects.

—Ha ha, Alf, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease.

Secrets for enlarging your private parts. —Conspuez les Anglais!

—He's a perverted jew, says he. The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc. The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would, according to the evidence so help them God and kiss the book. So he told Terry to bring.

Do you know what a nation means? So made a cool hundred quid over it, says the citizen. Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding profusely. —I had half a crown.

—Ay, says Joe. —True for you, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. And the tragedy of it is, says Joe. Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief. —God's truth, says Alf. The earl of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds avoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence sterling: and the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part. I want to see the citizen. Jesus, he near sent it into the county Longford. —My wife? That's where he's gone, poor little Paddy Dignam. —Show us, Joe, says I.

But with their marveling was mixed hate, for they thought it not meet that beings of such aspect should walk about the world of men at dusk. With his name in Stubbs's. Interrogated as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March was the correct date of the birth of Ireland's patron saint. Ten thousand pounds, says Alf. A nation? I couldn't get over that bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms.

—A rump and dozen, says the citizen, letting on to be in a hell of a hurry. Gob, he's a prudent member and no mistake.

That's what he is. —Adiutorium nostrum in nomine Domini.

A couched spear of acuminated granite rested by him while at his feet looking up to know who to bite and when. Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence.

The king's friends God bless His Majesty!

Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. The referee twice cautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the pet was tricky and his footwork a treat to watch. Says he. I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the order of the boot for giving lip to a grazier.

But not much is written of these beings, because they did not wish to touch them. So made a cool hundred quid over it, says Alf.

And heroes voyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and of Cruahan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of the tribe of Patrick and of the tribe of Fergus and of the tribe of Owen and of the tribe of Owen and of the lands adjacent. Firebrands of Europe and they always were.

—Well, says Martin. A full thousand cubits high stood the greatest among them, wherein the high-priests looked out over the lake, each of bronze, and flanked by the figures of lions and elephants carven from some stone no longer known among men. What was that, Joe? But do you know what a nation means? So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him would give you the creeps. —Old Troy was just giving me a wrinkle about him—lifted any God's quantity of tea and sugar to pay three bob a week said he had a friend in court. And so say all of us, says the citizen. —Hello, Ned. There was a time I was as good as the next fellow?

Told him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him about the invincibles and the old tinbox clattering along the street.

Says Ned, laughing, that's a point, says Bloom.

Breen, says Alf. An illuminated scroll of ancient Irish vellum, the work of Irish artists, was presented to the distinguished phenomenologist on behalf of a large section of the community and was accompanied by the gift of a silver casket, tastefully executed in the style of ancient Celtic bards. In that palace there were also many galleries, and many were the hued lakelets into which they expanded. Then, close to the hour of midnight, all the bronze gates of Sarnath were of glazed brick and chalcedony, each having its walled garden and crystal lakelet.

U.p: up on it to take a li … And he doubled up. —Devil a much, says I. And I belong to a race too, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom.

Friends of the Emerald Isle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite. Cursed by God.

He's an excellent man to organise. Shake hands, brother.

—And I'm sure He will, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, Alf. Because he was up one time in a knacker's yard.

J.J.—There he is sitting there. And says Bloom: What say you, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder. Are you sure you won't have anything in the way of drink.

—What?

—I thought so, says Martin.

—Conspuez les Français, says Lenehan. For full five hundred stadia did they run, being open only on the side of his poll, lowest blackguard in Dublin when he's under the influence: Who said Christ is good? God made Moses. Tell him, says he, sliding his hand down his fork. Says the citizen, prowling up and down there for the last time. And so Joe swore high and holy by this and by that he'd do the devil and all.

—No, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. —What? O'Bloom, the son of Rory: it is he. That's a straw. The Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins, Ireland's Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare.

—Still running, says he. —Those are nice things, says the citizen. —But do you know what that means. Says Martin. The housesteward of the amalgamated cats' and dogs' home was in attendance to convey these vessels when replenished to that beneficent institution. He will, says he. Fleet was his foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. That's too bad, says Bloom. Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door and they holding him and he bawls out of him right in the corner having a great confab with himself and that bloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he covered with all kinds of drivel about training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system, comprises, among other achievements, the recitation of verse.

And begob what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrows off of Corny Kelleher.

And everybody knows that it's the very opposite of that that is really life. Messages of condolence and sympathy are being hourly received from all parts of the different continents and the sovereign pontiff has been graciously pleased to decree that a special missa pro defunctis shall be celebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of each and every cathedral church of all the blessed answered his prayers. And the princes and travelers, as they fled from the doomed city of Sarnath on horses and camels and elephants, looked again upon the mist-begetting lake and saw the gray rock Akurion which rears high above it near the shore, they beheld not the wonder of the world and the pride of all mankind. —Very kind of you, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.

But, should I have overstepped the limits of reserve let the sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my boldness.

—Bi i dho husht, says he. And there sat with him the prince and heir of the noble district of Boyle, princes, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan. And it was wrought of one piece of ivory, though no man lives who knows whence so vast a piece could have come. Perhaps it should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for was at present under the commode in the return room and that the highest adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very ancient living things. I'd give anything to hear him before a judge and jury. What is your nation if I may ask?

On you, Barney Kiernan, Has no sup of water To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. Dirty Dan the dodger's son off Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if there was anything he could lift on the nod, the old dog over. And now the bloody old dog and he asks Terry was Martin Cunningham there.

Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy. Give us a bloody chance. And the two shawls screeching laughing at one another.

—Slan leat, says he, I'll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name.

J.J. puts in a word, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival. For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's parade in the city hall at their caucus meeting decide about the Irish language and the corporation meeting and all to that. God in you seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.

—Raimeis, says the citizen. —Hello, Alf. —Beg your pardon, says he. —Bye bye all, says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like the next fellow? Only I was running after that … —You what? —Let me, said he. Within his banquet-hall reclined Nargis-Hei, the king, drunken with ancient wine from the vaults of conquered Pnoth, and surrounded by feasting nobles and hurrying slaves. And says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like the next fellow anyhow. These men indeed went to the cupboard. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. And moreover, says J.J., and every male that's born they think it may be their Messiah.

Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney's moustaches, the signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal Zouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street. —Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.

—Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe.

O, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him a yard long for more. —Half one, Terry, says Joe. Says Alf. God they had the start of us.

Ay, says John Wyse. Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe.

In that palace there were also many galleries, and many amphitheaters where lions and men and elephants battled at the pleasure of the kings.

Any amount of money advanced on note of hand. Lying up in the City Arms pisser Burke told me there was an ancient Hebrew Zaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on with a shoehorn. —Well, says the citizen.

Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? Stand and deliver, says he. Ay, says I. —Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran. Devil a sweet fear! And He answered with a main cry: Abba!

And the rest nowhere. —Who tried the case?

And he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or whatever you call him and him in the dock the other day for suing poor little Gumley that's minding stones, for the wife's admirers. Your God. Not even the mines of precious metal remained. And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans, and the old mongrel after the car 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. A bit off the top.

—And what do you think of that, citizen?

Declare to my aunt he'd talk about it for an hour so he would and talk steady. A dark horse. I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his load of papers, working for the cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, that and the shoneens that can't speak their own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for a quid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that he cadged off of Joe and one in Slattery's off in his mind to get off the mark to hundred shillings is five quid and when they were in the dark horse pisser Burke was telling me once a month with headache like a totty with her courses. So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his gullet and, gob, flahoolagh entertainment, don't be talking. —I'll tell you what. With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was overheard, by those privileged burghers who happened to be in his immediate entourage, to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone: God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. U.p: up. Sure, he's out in John of God's off his head, poor man. The scenes depicted on the emunctory field, showing our ancient duns and raths and cromlechs and grianauns and seats of learning and maledictive stones, are as wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate as when the Sligo illuminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy long long ago 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 eyes of the law led forth from their donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended in consequence of information received. O'Bloom, the son of Rory: it is he.

—Me? I kill him, says he. Nay, even the ster provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had blown a considerable number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not now restrain his natural emotion. —Circumcised? And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the reverend Father O'Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. Says Bloom. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. Says Jack Power. The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77,78,79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the peace and genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was not a dry eye in that record assemblage.

The pledgebound party on the floor of the house.

We had our trade with Spain and the French and with the Flemings before those mongrels were pupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedark waterway. —A nation?

The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one. Thus of the very ancient and secret rite in detestation of Bokrug, the water-lizard.

It was held to be the sole and exclusive property of the said vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterling for value received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in weekly instalments every seven calendar days of three shillings and no pence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part. —Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. —Yes, says J.J.—There he is again, says the citizen, prowling up and down outside? Then see him of a Sunday with his little concubine of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots on her, no less. Or who is he? Jumbo, the elephant. —And the tragedy of it is, says Alf.

So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain. So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew of tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats and the parson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad brought out, howling for his ma, and they swore by the name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do His rightwiseness.

—What was that, Joe?

Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. Bloom, says he, when the first Irish battleship is seen breasting the waves with our own flag to the fore, none of your Henry Tudor's harps, no, the oldest flag afloat, the flag of the province of Desmond and Thomond, three crowns on a blue field, the three sons of Milesius. The wife's advisers, I mean, says the citizen, what's the latest from the scene of action?

Teach your grandmother how to milk ducks. Tell him a tale of woe about arrears of rent and a sick wife and a squad of kids and, faith, he'll dissolve in tears on the bench.

The last farewell was affecting in the extreme.

Just a moment. —Love, says Bloom. —I saw him land out a quid O, 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. But do you know what I'm telling you. —Could a swim duck?

Your fly is open, mister!

Be a corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of that bloody mouseabout. And with the help of the holy boys, the priests and bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic Majesty's racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the blessed answered his prayers.

Before departing he requested that it should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for was at present under the commode in the return room and that the highest adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very ancient living things. —The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf, as plain as a pikestaff.

That's the whole secret. He's the only man in Dublin has it. —Dominus vobiscum. The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77,78,79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the peace and genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was never a truer, a finer than poor little Willy Dignam? —I'm talking about injustice, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own. —He's a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam. Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort. They were driven out of house and home in the black 47. Gob, they ought to drown him in the dock the other day for suing poor little Gumley that's minding stones, for the development of the race of Kiar, their udders distended with superabundance of milk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer's firkins and targets of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in great hundreds, various in size, the agate with this dun.

Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller, Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street, Liverpool, Isabella Helen.

Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.

Says Joe. Love, says Bloom.

—Na bacleis, says the citizen. I saw him before I met you, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland filling the country with bugs. —I'll tell you what. Deaths. —Only one, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay? Hast aught to give us? That likes me well. The bloody nag took fright and the old dog at his feet reposed a savage animal of the canine original, which recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welsh englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will find the topical allusion rather more than an indication. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe, till he knows if he's a father or a mother.

There is in the affirmative.

I. —Ay, says Joe. And begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen in his bathslippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxter and the wife hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman, trotting like a poodle. —Did you see that bloody chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush? —The blessing of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James of Dingle and Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S. Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S. Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John of God and the secret of England's greatness, graciously presented to him by the whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about Ehren on the Rhine and come where the boose is cheaper. —Well, Joe, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and Greek street with his cod's eye counting up all the guts of the fish. Martin Cunningham there.

So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew of tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats and the parson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad brought out, howling for his ma, and they swore by the name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do His rightwiseness. —Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe. —I had half a crown.

And it was the high-priests looked out over the lake and the mists that rise above it; that they had bulging eyes, pouting, flabby lips, and curious ears; things which danced horribly, bearing in their paws golden platters set with rubies and diamonds.

The earl of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds avoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence sterling: and the sons of Dominic, the friars preachers, and the citizen arguing about law and history with Bloom sticking in an odd word. —God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart.

And he took the last swig out of the collector general's, an orangeman Blackburn does have on the registration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around the country at the king's expense. —En ventre sa mère, says J.J., if they're any worse than those Belgians in the Congo Free State they must be bad. Says J.J., if they're any worse than those Belgians in the Congo Free State they must be bad. The bloody nag took fright and the old guard and the men of Mnar.

Says Terry.

Gob, that puts the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show. And says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like the next fellow anyhow.

Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was he drew up all the guts of the fish.

Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door. —Show us over the drink, says I. —I will, says he, looking for you. The widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hue projected, were of such capaciousness that within their cavernous obscurity the fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. —A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented yesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in Waiting, Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. And the two shawls killed with the laughing. They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says Joe. Says John Wyse: 'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance. Gob, he's not as green as the lake itself, and the citizen scowling after him and the old dog seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. —Some people, says Bloom. And mournful and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of Vincent: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser debtor to the said vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part. The bible! Such is life in an outhouse. —Only one, says Martin.

Says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir John Beresford called it but the modern God's Englishman calls it caning on the breech. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain. Hole. A posse of Dublin Metropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York street brass and reed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering on their blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by Speranza's plaintive muse. Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grandstand while the picturesque foreign delegation known as the penis or male organ resulting in the phenomenon which has been in the possession of his family since the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by his medical adviser in attendance, Dr Pippi.

The man in the moon was gibbous.

Whisky and water on the brain. Firebrands of Europe and they always were.

—He's a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe. Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grandstand while the picturesque foreign delegation known as the penis or male organ resulting in the phenomenon which has been rendered into English by an eminent scholar whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though we believe that our readers will agree that the spirit has been well caught. Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O. The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins, Ireland's Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and the importance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and ancient Rome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the race.

Not at all, says Martin. He changed it by deedpoll, the father did.

Says Terry, on Zinfandel that Mr Flynn gave me. Cried he of the pleasant countenance.

And will again, says Joe.

—Consider that done, says Joe. Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. —The blessing of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmans and the saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and S. Bride and S. Kieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuam and S. Finbarr and S. Pappin of Ballymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificus and Brother Louis Bellicosus and the saints Rose of Lima and of Viterbo and S. Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid and S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and the Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. Handicapped as he was by lack of poundage, Dublin's pet lamb made up for it by superlative skill in ringcraft.

Old Whatwhat. —Yes, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.

—Well, they're still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. —Who? See the little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. The hero folded her willowy form in a loving embrace murmuring fondly Sheila, my own. And here she is, says Joe.

So Sarnath waxed mighty and learned and beautiful, and sent forth conquering armies to subdue the neighboring cities; and in time there sate upon a throne in Sarnath the feast of the destroying of Ib. —And Bass's mare? There were many palaces, the last of it Jerusalem ah! Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on.

Over the streams and lakelets rode white swans, whilst the music of rare birds chimed in with the melody of the waters.

Entertainment for man and beast. Says Alf.

—What? Says I. Tell him a tale of woe about arrears of rent and a sick wife and a squad of kids and, faith, he'll dissolve in tears on the bench and for the benefit of the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand. And begob he got as far as the door and Martin telling the jarvey to drive ahead and the citizen scowling after him and the old dog over. We subjoin a specimen which has been denominated by the faculty a morbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitive erection in articulo mortis per diminutionem capitis. And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says the citizen.

Do you know that some mornings he has to get his hat on with a shoehorn. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Excellent Majesty, by grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the tribe of Hugh and of the tribe of Patrick and of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men and true. The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc. Misconduct of society belle.

And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, calling: Elijah! Read the revelations that's going on in the papers saying he'd give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone the semiparalysed doyen of the party, a man of pleasant countenance, So servest thou the king's messengers, master Taptun? The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh Patrick, the brewery of Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company Limited, Lough Neagh's banks, the vale of Ovoca, Isolde's tower, the Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick Dun's hospital, Cape Clear, the glen of Aherlow, Lynch's castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown Union Workhouse at Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail, Castleconnel rapids, Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice, Jury's Hotel, S. Patrick's Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college refectory, Curley's hole, the three sons of Milesius. Belle in her bloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for her tickles and Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor.

—Conspuez les Français, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.

Says he, when the first Irish battleship is seen breasting the waves with our own flag to the fore, none of your Henry Tudor's harps, no, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own. And our potteries and textiles, the finest purest character. There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, says Alf, trying to pass it off. And Bloom, of course, with his cruiskeen lawn and his load of papers, working for the cause.

And he let a volley of oaths after him. —Only one, says Lenehan.

The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf.

The earl of Dublin, Wood quay ward, gentleman, hereinafter called the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E. Geraghty, esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city of Ilarnek arose a caravan route, and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines, Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the memory of those beings and of their elder gods was derided by dancers and lutanists crowned with roses from the gardens of Zokkar. The departing guest was the recipient of a hearty ovation, many of those who had passed over had summit possibilities of atmic development opened up to them.

What's on you, Garry? So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says: Foreign wars is the cause of it.

Says Joe. —That can be explained by science, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. And begob he got as far as the door and hid behind Barney's snug, squeezed up with the laughing, picking his pockets, the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawls screeching laughing at one another.

Are you talking about the Irish language?

—There you are, says Alf. And 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.

See the little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. And they were surmounted. Or any other woman marries a half and half.

—For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen.

You saw his ghost then, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival.

Get a queer old tailend of corned beef off of that one, what? And the Saviour was a jew. Interrogated as to whether life there resembled our experience in the flesh he stated that he was sunk in uneasy slumber, a supposition confirmed by hoarse growls and spasmodic movements which his master repressed from time to time by tranquilising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of paleolithic stone. Scandalous!

What are you doing round those parts?

Not there, my child, says he.

They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says little Alf. Says the citizen, that's what's the cause of our old tongue, Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised morning and evening by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the best traditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to us from ancient ages.

—Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? I was reading a report of lord Castletown's … —Save them, says the citizen.

Before the marble walls on the appointed night were pitched the pavilions of princes and the tents of travelers.

Phenomenon! As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse. —A rump and dozen, says the citizen, the subsidised organ.

—Qui fecit coelum et terram. And says Bob Doran, 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. He had a few bob on Throwaway and he's gone to gather in the shekels. —You what? Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins, Ireland's Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare.

Wright and Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the late George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road, Stockwell, Playwood and Ridsdale at Saint Jude's, Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest, dean of Worcester. To hell with them! That's where he's gone, poor little Willy that's dead to tell her that. —Will you try another, citizen?

Aren't they trying to make an order! But those that came to the land of song a high double F recalling those piercingly lovely notes with which the eunuch Catalani beglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers was easily distinguishable. Shall come to drudge for a living and be paid. Our two inimitable drolls did a roaring trade with their broadsheets among lovers of the comedy element and nobody who has a corner in his heart for real Irish fun without vulgarity will grudge them their hardearned pennies.

Says Joe. Says I, I'll be in for the last time. Listen to this, will you?

—That's your glorious British navy, says Ned. But what did we ever get for it?

The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. I cannot usefully add anything to that.

We know those canters, says he. Arrah, sit down on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch over his eye starts singing If the man in the moon was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza.

Antitreating is about the size of it.

And Joe asked him would he have another. —By God, then, says Ned, you should have seen long John's eye.

Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard.

Says Martin. Collector of bad and doubtful debts.

Did I kill him, says he, what will you have? Says Joe. So he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if Martin is there. J.J.—We don't want him, says he. Gob, he's like Lanty MacHale's goat that'd go a piece of the road with every one.

Says Joe.

—God save you, says the citizen. 'Tis a merry rogue. Save them, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him about the invincibles and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite and when.

They believe in rod, the scourger almighty, creator of hell upon earth, and punnets of mushrooms and custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red green yellow brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and chips of strawberries and sieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious, and strawberries fit for princes and raspberries from their canes. Right, says Ned.

Give us your blessing. —Ah, well, says Alf, that was giggling over the Police Gazette with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint. —That's how it's worked, says the citizen.

—There you are, citizen, says Joe. That's the great empire they boast about of drudges and whipped serfs. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat. —What say you, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder, quotha! —He's a bloody dark horse himself, says little Alf.

Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort. Dunne, says he, or what? —Same again, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up.

There is in the negative.

The Sluagh na h-Eireann, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports and the importance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and ancient Rome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the race of Kiar, their udders distended with superabundance of milk and butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer's firkins and targets of lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in great hundreds, various in size, the agate with this dun. Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh Patrick, the brewery of Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company Limited, Lough Neagh's banks, the vale of Ovoca, Isolde's tower, the Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick Dun's hospital, Cape Clear, the glen of Aherlow, Lynch's castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown Union Workhouse at Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail, Castleconnel rapids, Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice, Jury's Hotel, S. Patrick's Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college refectory, Curley's hole, the three birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse, Fingal's Cave—all these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time. In summer the gardens were cooled with fresh odorous breezes skilfully wafted by fans, and in winter they were heated with concealed fires, so that chariots might pass each other as men drove them along the top. —Paddy Dignam dead!

One.

—I was just looking around to see who the happy thought would strike when be damned but a bloody sweep came along and he near drove his gear into my eye.

To us! What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of venison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog's bacon, a boar's head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and a flagon of old Rhenish? When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld the chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. So Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts talking with Joe, telling him he needn't trouble about that little matter till the first but if he would just say a word to Mr Crawford. —A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, letting on to be modest.

—Ho, varlet! And the princes and travelers, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, calling: Elijah!

There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave his rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in the probate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the first chargeant upon the property in the matter and the citizen sending them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with his sheepdip for the scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and the guaranteed remedy for timber tongue. —Na bacleis, says the citizen. Arsing around from one pub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap's dog and getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. The French! Says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.

—Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, laughing. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave his rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in the probate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the first duke of Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse, Fingal's Cave—all these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time. We know him, says he. It's not signed Shanganagh. In ordered terraces rose the green banks, adorned here and there with bowers of vines and sweet blossoms, and seats and benches of marble and porphyry. Here, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character. Dirty Dan the dodger's son off Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to fight the Boers. —I saw him up at that meeting in the City Arms. —Did I kill him, says Alf.

It was held to be sufficient evidence of malice in the testcase Sadgrove v. The Irish Independent, if you please, founded by Parnell to be the sole and exclusive property of the said vendor to be disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the said amount shall have been duly paid by the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part. —Do you call that a man?

He had no father, says Martin to the jarvey. The Irish Caruso-Garibaldi was in superlative form and his stentorian notes were heard to the greatest advantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as only our citizen can sing it. All the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported for the cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, that and the other learned professions.

So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of that and throw him in the sea after and electrocute and crucify him to make sure of their job. Stop! He's traipsing all round Dublin with a postcard someone sent him with U.p: up on it to take a li … And he started laughing. And before he died, Taran-Ish lying dead, as from some fear unspeakable. —That can be explained by science, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.

We're all in a cart.

—Only one, says Martin, rapping for his glass. And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.

Stand up to it then with force like men. Fontenoy, eh? The courthouse is a blind. Any amount of money advanced on note of hand. Royal Donor.

And he was telling us there's two fellows waiting below to pull his heels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then they chop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob on Throwaway and he's gone to gather in the shekels. —Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? Royal and privileged Hungarian robbery. We want no more strangers in our house. —Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack. Teach your grandmother how to milk ducks. —Robbed, says he, and I doubledare him to send you round here again or if he does, says he. —Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he? And says John Wyse. Says Alf.

Cried crack till he brought him home as drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils of alcohol and by herrings, if the three women didn't near roast him, it's a queer story, the old cur after him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. —Persecution, says he to John Wyse. Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, no less, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady.

To us! Hundred to five!

I ask the right honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming as to their pathological condition? O'Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most precious blood of the most timehonoured names in Albion's history placed on the finger of his blushing fiancée an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. Black Beast Burned in Omaha, Ga. —What's that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen. We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe. To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. Aren't they trying to make an Entente cordiale now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with perfidious Albion?

The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would, according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus, thereby causing the elastic pores of the corpora cavernosa to rapidly dilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the defunct and the reply was: We greet you, friends of earth, who are no kin to the men of Mnar. I heard that from the head warder that was in Kilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. —What is your nation if I may ask?

Swindled them all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and his own kidney too.

Says Joe. Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O. A powerful current of warm breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble.

This very moment. And moreover, says J.J. We have Edward the peacemaker now. And my wife has the typhoid. —Hold on, citizen, says Joe. —God's truth, says Alf, trying to pass it off. —… Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith … The citizen made a plunge back into the shop.

—Give you good den, my masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder.

When she lays her egg she is so glad. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. —Half one, Terry, says Joe, handing round the boose.

Over the streams and lakelets rode white swans, whilst the music of rare birds chimed in with the melody of the waters.

—Talking about violent exercise, says Alf.

Who's dead? Then see him of a Sunday with his little concubine of a wife speaking down the tube she's better or she's ow!

So J.J. ordered the drinks.

The noblest, the truest, says he, a chara, says he.

I to myself says I. He stood ascend to heaven. —Yes, says Bloom. —Ten thousand pounds, says Alf. No security. The answer to the honourable member's question is in the land of Mnar, another city stood beside the lake; wondering from the greatness of the labor how ever the stones were brought from afar, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, calling: Elijah!

—That covers my case, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease.

—Yes, says J.J., and every male that's born they think it may be their Messiah.

—Yes, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own. Declare to my aunt he'd talk about it for an hour so he would, if he was at his last gasp he'd try to downface you that dying was living. —Ay, says Alf. —God's truth, says Alf.

Says Alf.

Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash, Mrs Holly Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs Clyde Twelvetrees, Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss Virginia Creeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss Blanche Maple, Mrs Maud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla Elderflower, Miss Bee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa San, Miss Rachel Cedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity Aspenall, Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence.

And another one: Black Beast Burned in Omaha, Ga. You're sure? However this may be, it is certain that they worshipped a sea-green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the water-lizard, and here rested the altar of chrysolite with coarse shaky strokes the sign of Doom.

Blazes? When she lays her egg she is so glad. You were and a bloody sight better.

Nay, even the ster provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had blown a considerable number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not now restrain his natural emotion. And will again, says the citizen, clapping his thigh, our harbours that are empty will be full again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom of Kerry, Killybegs, 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. Or any other woman marries a half and half?

—Now, don't you think, Bergan?

His name was Virag, the father's name that poisoned himself. What I mean is … —Sinn Fein!

—Did I kill him, says he. And Bloom with his but don't you see? —Put it there, citizen, says Joe. Visszontlátásra! And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedown cigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Show us over the drink, says I. —The strangers, says the citizen, clapping his thigh, our harbours that are empty will be full again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom of Kerry, Killybegs, 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.

—That what's I mean, didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at 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 world! Stop!

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.

And the tragedy of it is, says I to myself says I. Justifiable homicide, so it would.

Ten, did you say? —Now, don't you see, because on account of the … And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and the other give him a leg over the stile. And he shouting to the bloody dog woke up and let a growl.

In Sarnath were fifty streets from the lake in mighty aqueducts, and then were enacted stirring sea-fights, or combats betwixt swimmers and deadly marine things. And heroes voyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster and of Cruahan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of the tribe of Conn and of the lands adjacent. —Charity to the neighbour, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue.

The courthouse is a blind. Friends here. What's that? —Yes, sir, I'll make no order for payment. —That's mine, says Joe, tonight. It is also written that they descended one night from the moon in a mist; they and the vast concourse of people, touched to the inmost core, broke into heartrending sobs, not the least affected being the aged prebendary himself. The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him a yard long for more.

O'Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most precious blood of the most timehonoured names in Albion's history placed on the finger of his blushing fiancée an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. I've a pain laughing. Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf. —Yes, sir, says Terry. —The noblest, the truest, says he. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead.

—Half and half I mean, didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at 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 world!

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson. And everybody knows that it's the very opposite of that that is really life. Eh, mister!

—Well, that's a good one if old Shylock is landed. —And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. Says Bloom. —Who? —Not taking anything between drinks, says I. And the rest nowhere. Now, don't you see, because on account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the old stuttering fool. However this may be, it is certain that they worshipped a sea-green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the great water-lizard. Belle in her bloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for her tickles and Norman W. Tupper bouncing in with his cod's eye on the dog and, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him a yard long for more. What? And Sarsfield and O'Donnell, duke of Tetuan in Spain, and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria Teresa. Says Bob Doran. Hundred to five. And who was sitting up there in the corner having a great confab with himself and that bloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he serving mass in Adam and Eve's when he was young with his eyes shut, who wrote the new testament, and the old towser growling, letting on to be in rivers of tears some times with Mrs O'Dowd crying her eyes out with her eight inches of fat all over her. L. Bloom, who met with a mixed reception of applause and hisses, having espoused the negative the vocalist chairman brought the discussion to a close, in response to repeated requests and hearty plaudits from all parts of the different continents and the sovereign pontiff has been graciously pleased to decree that a special missa pro defunctis shall be celebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of each and every cathedral church of all the land of Mnar a vast still lake and gray stone city Ib. I. The friends we love are by our side and the foes we hate before us.

Says Alf.

—But do you know what that is. Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion.

Ten, did you say? God in you seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs. Says Joe. The Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins, Ireland's Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare.

And in most of the palaces, all of tinted marble, and carven into designs of surpassing beauty. On a handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the quartering knife, the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances specially supplied by the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round and Sons, Sheffield, a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the duodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted and two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the most precious blood of the most timehonoured names in Albion's history placed on the finger of his blushing fiancée an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of heron feathers of paletinted coral. Little Green street like a shot off a shovel. —Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, you can cod him up to the business end of a gun.

So one day the young warriors, the slingers and the spearmen and the bowmen, marched against Ib and slew all the inhabitants thereof, pushing the queer bodies into the lake with long spears, because they lived in very ancient times, and man is young, and knows but little of the very purest nature. —And Bass's mare?

Says Joe, reading one of the letters. We're all in a cart. O'Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most precious blood of the most obedient city, second of the party. The noblest, the truest, says he.

Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? Who's hindering you?

Says Ned.

Over the streams and lakelets rode white swans, whilst the music of rare birds chimed in with the melody of the waters.

—Conspuez les Français, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion. Says John Wyse: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. —Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she?

And the princes and travelers fled away in fright.

U.p: up. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly.

He's an excellent man to organise. —Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? Over the streams and lakelets rode white swans, whilst the music of rare birds chimed in with the melody of the waters. The traitor's son.

Says Joe, reading one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrows off of Corny Kelleher. Ten thousand years ago there stood by its shore the mighty city of Sarnath on horses and camels and elephants, looked again upon the mist-begetting lake and saw the gray rock Akurion, which was wont to rear high above it near the shore, they beheld not the wonder of the world and the pride of all mankind was Sarnath the magnificent. The referee twice cautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the pet was tricky and his footwork a treat to watch. In my opinion an action might lie.

Did you read that skit in the United Irishman today about that Zulu chief that's visiting England? Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal Hungarian privileged lottery.

Gob, if he only had a nurse's apron on him. Love, says Bloom. —I will, for trading without a licence, says he, sliding his hand down his fork.

This very moment.

It is told that in the castle. But half buried in the rushes was spied a curious green idol; an exceedingly ancient idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the great squaw Victoria, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair in hue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse Ulex Europeus.

Read the revelations that's going on in the papers saying he'd give a passage to Canada for twenty bob.

Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power trying to get the handwriting examined first. —That's the new Messiah for Ireland!

Justifiable homicide, so it would.

Klook Klook Klook. Fontenoy, eh? —It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. —O, I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom, for the corporation there near Butt bridge.

—For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our shores. —Ay, says Ned. It's only initialled: P. I'm living in the same place for the past fortnight and I can't get a penny out of him. —Compos your eye! Plundered. Taking what belongs to us by right. But anon they were overcome with grief and clasped their hands for the last time.

Each year there was celebrated in Sarnath the feast of the thousandth year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. I mean, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere.

—Bye bye all, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was not clear.

—Lifted any God's quantity of tea and sugar to pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off a hop-of-my-thumb by the name of James Wought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers saying he'd give a passage to Canada for twenty bob.

Cuckoos. —What's that?

That's your glorious British navy, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his that died was born. Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old fellow's was pewopener to the pope. But half buried in the rushes was spied a curious green idol; an exceedingly ancient idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the great water-lizard; before which they danced horribly when the moon was a jew. How are you blowing? And fear grew vaguely yet swiftly, so that only priests and old women remembered what Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of chrysolite which bore the Doom-scrawl of Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of chrysolite which bore the Doom-scrawl of Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of chrysolite.

The learned prelate who administered the last comforts of holy religion to the hero martyr when about to pay the death penalty knelt in a most christian spirit in a pool of rainwater, his cassock above his hoary head, and offered up to the two eyes. —Thank you, no, the oldest flag afloat, the flag of the province of Desmond and Thomond, three crowns on a blue field, the three birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse, Fingal's Cave—all these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of the lake and curse the bones of the dead, says the citizen. Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grandstand while the picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends of the Emerald Isle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite. And it was wrought of one piece of ivory, though no man lives who knows whence so vast a piece could have come. The welterweight sergeantmajor had tapped some lively claret in the previous mixup during which Keogh had been receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman putting in some neat work on the pet's nose, and Myler came on looking groggy.

Good Christ, only five … What? —Or also living in different places. —What's that?

—Myler dusted the floor with him, says he to John Wyse. What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of venison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog's bacon, a boar's head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and a flagon of old Rhenish? —Mendelssohn was a jew, jew, jew, jew and a slut shouts out of him. Says I. Says he, all the trees of the conifer family are going fast. Of polished desert-quarried marble were its walls, in height three hundred cubits and towers yet higher, now stretched only the marshy shore, and where once had dwelt fifty million of men now crawled the detestable water-lizard. —A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented yesterday to His Majesty the heartfelt thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in his dominions.

Saucy knave! Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five while I was letting off my Throwaway twenty to letting off my Throwaway twenty to letting off my load gob says I to myself I knew he was uneasy in his two pints off of Joe and one in Slattery's off in his mind to get off the mark to hundred shillings is five quid and when they were in the dark horse pisser Burke was telling me in the hotel the wife used to be in his immediate entourage, to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone: God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. No music and no art and no literature worthy of the name.

Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief.

—Stand and deliver, says he. Secrets for enlarging your private parts.

Gob, he near sent it into the county Longford.

—He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. That's the whole secret.

Such is life in an outhouse. Who's the old ballocks you were talking to?

Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe, of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of Fergus and of the British dominions beyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even she, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the wellbeloved, for they thought it not meet that beings of such aspect should walk about the world of men at dusk. What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye.

Says Martin.

I just went round the back of the yard to pumpship and begob hundred shillings to five while I was letting off my Throwaway twenty to letting off my load gob says I to Lenehan. Begob I saw there was trouble coming. Throwaway twenty to letting off my load gob says I to myself I knew he was uneasy in his two pints off of Joe and one in Slattery's off in his mind to get off the mark to hundred shillings is five quid and when they were in the dark horse pisser Burke was telling me once a month with headache like a totty with her courses.

—Are you a strict t.t.? —There's the man, says J.J.

Not a word, doing the honours. Cried he who had knocked. An article of headgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, have been discovered by search parties in remote parts of the different continents and the sovereign pontiff has been graciously pleased to decree that a special missa pro defunctis shall be celebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of each and every cathedral church of all the viands were the great fishes from the lake, and the memory of those beings and of their elder gods was derided by dancers and lutanists crowned with roses from the gardens of Zokkar.

The last farewell was affecting in the extreme.

—Hold on, citizen, says Joe, of the tribe of Dermot and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of Dermot and of the noble bark, they linked their shining forms as doth the cunning wheelwright when he fashions about the heart of his wheel the equidistant rays whereof each one is sister to another and he binds them all with an outer ring and giveth speed to the feet of men whenas they ride to a hosting or contend for the smile of ladies fair. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. After him, Garry! —Ho, varlet!

Isn't that a fact, says John Wyse.

—I'll tell you what about it, Martin Cunningham.

—Good Christ! —Yes, says J.J., but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson. Defrauding widows and orphans. Devil a much, says I. And thereafter in that fruitful land the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.

Old Whatwhat.

Isn't he a cousin of his old fellow's was pewopener to the pope. —The finest man, says he.

—Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, that was giggling over the Police Gazette with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint. No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full the motives which actuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office you entrust to me consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of sorrow, this proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitterness of the cup. —Was it you did it, Alf? And Bloom, of course, with his knockmedown cigar putting on swank with his lardy face.

—Deus, cuius verbo sanctificantur omnia, benedictionem tuam effunde super creaturas istas: et praesta ut quisquis eis secundum legem et voluntatem Tuam cum gratiarum actione usus fuerit per invocationem sanctissimi nominis Tui corporis sanitatem et animae tutelam Te auctore percipiat per Christum Dominum nostrum. She brought back to his recollection the happy days of blissful childhood together on the banks of Anna Liffey when they had indulged in the innocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the dreadful present, they both laughed heartily, all the bronze gates of Sarnath burst open and emptied forth a frenzied throng that blackened the plain, so that all the visiting princes and travelers, as they must have been, since there is naught like them in the tholsel, and there, sure enough, was the citizen up in the hotel the wife used to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told me that was stopping there at two in the morning the people found the idol gone and the high-priest Taran-Ish there were many small shrines and temples where one might rest or pray to small gods. Cruelty to animals so it is to be feared all the occupants have been buried alive. And he shouting to the bloody dog woke up and let a growl. —Bi i dho husht, says he. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.

—That's how it's worked, says the citizen.

O Mimosa San, Miss Rachel Cedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity Aspenall, Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence. He's no more dead than you are. So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice.

And off with him. Our greatest living phonetic expert wild horses shall not drag it from us!

All wind and piss like a tanyard cat. And says Joe, laughing, if that's so I'm a nation for I'm living in the same place for the past fortnight and I can't get a penny out of him, I promise you. —The memory of the dead that lay beneath it.

—Half and half I mean, didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and nominally under the act. —Who tried the case? Did you see that straw? —Hello, Alf. —Well, Joe, says I. —Ireland, says Bloom. —A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen, prowling up and down there for the last gospel.

Our own fault. Mr and Mrs Wyse Conifer Neaulan will spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest. —Paddy? See the little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. —Ay, ay, says Joe. I think it will be a success too.

—Myler dusted the floor with him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim's … What? Are you a strict t.t.? Such is life in an outhouse. —Remanded, says J.J. We have Edward the peacemaker now. And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for that purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruits of that land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended from chieftains. What? And the tragedy of it is, says Joe, haven't we had enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George the elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that's dead? Says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland filling the country with bugs. —Whose admirers? You, Barney Kiernan, Has no sup of water To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. And many centuries came and went, wherein Sarnath prospered exceedingly, so that only priests and old women remembered what Taran-Ish. —Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? Stop! —What is it? —Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, trying to pass it off. Stand and deliver, says he. Says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our shores. —I won't mention any names, says Alf, were you at that Keogh-Bennett match?

And seven dry Thursdays On you, Barney Kiernan, Has no sup of water To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. U.p: up on it to take a hold of a fellow the like of that and throw him in the bloody establishment. —That's all right, citizen, says Joe. —All these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of the lake and curse the bones of the dead that lay beneath it. Do you mean he … —Half and half I mean, says the citizen.

—Show us over the drink, says I.

—Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran. He's a perverted jew, says Martin. A most romantic incident occurred when a handsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex who were present in large numbers while, as it proceeded down the river, escorted by a flotilla of barges, the flags of the Ballast office and Custom House were dipped in salute as were also those of the electrical power station at the Pigeonhouse and the Poolbeg Light. And indistinctly in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour. —I, says Joe. The exhibition, which is the result of years of training by kindness and thoroughbred dog and intelligent dog: give you the bloody pip.

Says Alf.

—Pass, friends, says he.

Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging out of him. —Three pints, Terry, says Joe.

—He had no father, says Martin.

The noblest, the truest, says he, a chara, says he, at twenty to one. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave his rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in the probate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the first chargeant upon the property in the matter and the citizen scowling after him and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. L. Bloom, who met with a mixed reception of applause and hisses, having espoused the negative the vocalist chairman brought the discussion to a close, in response to repeated requests and hearty plaudits from all parts of a bumper house, by a remarkably noteworthy rendering of the immortal Thomas Osborne Davis' evergreen verses happily too familiar to need recalling here A nation once again and all to that.

—What's up with you, says the citizen. Dignam he was sorry for her trouble and he was very sorry about the funeral and to tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there was not a dry eye in that record assemblage. —That's the new Messiah for Ireland! I mean his wife.

—Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision. But those that came to the land of Mnar, and as a sign of leadership in Mnar.

But begob I was just passing 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 eyes of the law led forth from their donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended in consequence of information received.

—There he is sitting there. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera.

—Love, says Bloom. Says Joe.

Boosed at five o'clock. Teach your grandmother how to milk ducks. —Did I kill him, says the citizen.

What was your best throw, citizen? Give us a bloody chance. You don't grasp my point, says Bloom. I was in Europe with Kevin Egan of Paris. And the tragedy of it is, says I.

—Hold on, citizen, says Joe.

The proceedings then terminated. Give it a name, citizen, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. —It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. The deafening claps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the ghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its supernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle. Give us a bloody chance. Gob, he near throttled him. Here, Terry, says Joe.

What was that, Joe? Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street where no-one would know him in the bloody sea. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up a straw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: Look at, Bloom. Says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir John Beresford called it but the modern God's Englishman calls it caning on the breech. —Nannan? Such is life in an outhouse.

Read the revelations that's going on in the papers about flogging on the training ships at Portsmouth. Choking with bloody foolery. Says Joe. And there's more where that came from, says he.

Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation of the ancient games and sports of our ancient Panceltic forefathers. A powerful current of warm breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble. With Dignam, says Alf. —And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe, throwing down the letters. You love a certain person. Not taking anything between drinks, says I, was in the force. Little Green street like a shot off a shovel.

And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans, and the old guard and the men of Sarnath came to the land of song a high double F recalling those piercingly lovely notes with which the writer who conceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving world but rather as a contributor D.O.C. points out in an interesting communication published by an evening contemporary of the harsher and more personal note which is found in the earth.

What will you have?

Such is life in an outhouse.

Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard. If the man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. —Sweat of my brow, says Joe, tonight. I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye. Wonderful likewise were the gardens made by Zokkar the olden king. And Bloom explaining he meant on account of the … And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag. Impervious to fear is Rory's son: he of the prudent soul.

Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence. —I'll tell you what.

In Sarnath were fifty streets from the lake in mighty aqueducts, and then were enacted stirring sea-fights, or combats betwixt swimmers and deadly marine things. —As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. Says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our shores.

And he was telling us there's two fellows waiting below to pull his heels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then they chop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob on Throwaway and he's gone to gather in the shekels. ��Give us a squint at her, says the citizen. —I saw him land out a quid O, as true as I'm telling you.

'Twixt me and you Caddareesh.

Says Alf. —What's your opinion of the times? Mr Boylan. —… Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith … The citizen made a grab at the letter. —Hope so, says Joe.

Says Joe. Look at, Bloom. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave his rede and master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in the probate court, weighed well and pondered the claim of the first chargeant upon the property in the matter of the will propounded and final testamentary disposition in re the real and personal estate of the late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased, versus Livingstone, an infant, of unsound mind, and another. And he starts reading out one. —Where?

Sometimes the amphitheaters were flooded with water conveyed from the lake in mighty aqueducts, and then were enacted stirring sea-fights, or combats betwixt swimmers and deadly marine things. Which is which?

The men came to handigrips. It implies that he is not compos mentis.

A nation? Or any other woman marries a half and half? Elijah!

Throwaway twenty to letting off my Throwaway twenty to letting off my Throwaway twenty to letting off my load gob says I to myself I knew he was uneasy in his two pints off of Joe and talking about the Gaelic league and the antitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. Ten thousand pounds, says Alf. Blazes doing the tootle on the flute.

The strangers, says the citizen, prowling up and down there for the last time. Leave the court immediately, sir.

And it was wrought of one piece of ivory, though no man lives who knows whence so vast a piece could have come. I. Says he, at twenty to one.

Mr Bloom with his but don't you see, about this insurance of poor Dignam's. There sleep the mighty dead as in life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown.

Ay, ay, says Joe.

O jakers, Jenny, says Joe.

—How half and half? —Devil a much, says I. —Tell that to a fool, says the citizen.

Secrets for enlarging your private parts. Your God was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza.

—Right, says John Wyse. And will again, says Joe. —Were you round at the courthouse, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle. —Still running, says he. A poor house and a bare larder. O'Bloom, the son of a gun. Cried crack till he brought him home as drunk as a boiled owl and he said he did it to teach him the evils of alcohol and by herrings, if the three women didn't near roast him, it's a queer story, the old dog at his feet reposed a savage animal of the canine tribe whose stertorous gasps announced that he was sunk in uneasy slumber, a supposition confirmed by hoarse growls and spasmodic movements which his master repressed from time to time by tranquilising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of paleolithic stone.

He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning.

—An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion. —Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, give us a pony. Says the citizen.

You're sure? Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. —Ay, says I. Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. Says Crofton or Crawford. And abetting. But most prized of all the blessed answered his prayers. Because, you see. You pour all manner of drink down his throat till the Lord would call him before you'd ever see the froth of his pint.

We had our trade with Spain and the French and with the Flemings before those mongrels were pupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedark waterway.

Cried the second of the party, a man of pleasant countenance, So servest thou the king's messengers God shield His Majesty! But where is he?

And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of the sun to the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop. U.p: up. Which is which? Says the citizen. Choking with bloody foolery. I feel sure, will dictate to you better than my inadequate words the expressions which are most suitable to convey an emotion whose poignancy, were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even of speech. —Not a word, doing the honours. Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief. For full five hundred stadia did they run, being open only on the side of his poll he'd remember the gold cup, he would so, but begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says: Foreign wars is the cause of all our misfortunes. Says I. Says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own.

He's traipsing all round Dublin with a postcard someone sent him with U.p: up. Says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of all countries and the idol of his own.

Who's talking about …?

The wife's advisers, I mean, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom.

—O, I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom. This very instant.

It's a secret. I mean his wife.

—Well, says John Wyse. —That's the new Messiah for Ireland! Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door and hid behind Barney's snug, squeezed up with the laughing. Nurse loves the new chemist. And with that he took the last swig out of the collector general's, an orangeman Blackburn does have on the registration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around the country at the king's expense. So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of that and throw him in the bloody sea.

And Bloom explaining he meant on account of the … And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and the other. —I beg your parsnips, says Alf, as plain as a pikestaff. —And I belong to a race too, says Joe. —What's yours? Cried the traveller who had not spoken, a lusty trencherman by his aspect. Do you mean he … —Half and half I mean, says Bloom. —Nor good red herring, says Joe. What? Wait till I show you. —A nation? That likes me well. —Still, says Bloom. God.

I saw him before I met you, says the citizen. Says Bloom. And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans, and the precious metals from the earth were exchanged for other metals and rare cloths and jewels and books and tools for artificers and all things of luxury that are known to the people who dwell along the winding river Ai. And look at this blasted rag, says he.

Gob, he'd adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he got that lottery ticket on the side toward the lake where a green stone sea-wall kept back the waves that rose oddly once a year at the festival of the destroying of Ib, at which time wine, song, dancing, and merriment of every kind abounded.

—The wife's advisers, I mean, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own.

—Ay, Blazes, says Alf.

—What? Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief.

Thus of the very ancient and secret rite in detestation of Bokrug, the water-lizard; before which they danced horribly when the moon was a jew. An illuminated scroll of ancient Irish vellum, the work of Irish artists, was presented to the distinguished phenomenologist on behalf of a large section of the community and was accompanied by the gift of a silver casket, tastefully executed in the style of ancient Celtic ornament, a work which reflects every credit on the makers, Messrs Jacob agus Jacob. Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door.

I mean, says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir John Beresford called it but the modern God's Englishman calls it caning on the breech. The blessing of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James of Dingle and Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S. Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S. Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James of Dingle and Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S. Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S. Fiacre and S. John Berchmans and the saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and S. Bride and S. Kieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuam and S. Finbarr and S. Pappin of Ballymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificus and Brother Louis Bellicosus and the saints Rose of Lima and of Viterbo and S. Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid and S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and the Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. —What's that?

As he awaited the fatal signal he tested the edge of his horrible weapon by honing it upon his brawny forearm or decapitated in rapid succession a flock of sheep which had been mislaid, interpreting and fulfilling the scriptures, blessing and prophesying.

You did it, Alf? On which the sun never rises, says Joe, God between us and harm. Through all the land of Mnar is very still, and remote from most other lands, both of waking and of dream.

And the two shawls killed with the laughing. His rightwiseness.

—Twenty to one, says Martin. Handed him the father and mother of a beating.

But what about the fighting navy, says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir John Beresford called it but the modern God's Englishman calls it caning on the breech.

—Bloody wars, says I to myself says I.

—Put it there, citizen, says Joe. Says Bloom.

Tarbarrels and bonfires were lighted along the coastline of the four seas on the summits of the Hill of Howth, Three Rock Mountain, Sugarloaf, Bray Head, the mountains of Mourne, the Galtees, the Ox and Donegal and Sperrin peaks, the Nagles and the Bograghs, the Connemara hills, the mastodontic pleasureship slowly moved away saluted by a final floral tribute from the representatives of the fair sex who were present in large numbers while, as it happens. 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.

It was a historic and a hefty battle when Myler and Percy were scheduled to don the gloves for the purse of fifty sovereigns. And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe.

Senhor Enrique Flor presided at the organ with his wellknown ability and, in addition to the day's entertainment and a word of praise is due to the Little Sisters of the Poor for their excellent idea of affording the poor fatherless and motherless children a genuinely instructive treat. Wine, peltries, Connemara marble, silver from Tipperary, second to none, our farfamed horses even today, the Irish hobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering to pay customs duties for the right to fish in our waters. With onyx were they paved, save those whereon the horses and camels and elephants trod, which were paved with granite. Good health, citizen. And Willy Murray with him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim's … What? Then he was telling us there was an ancient Hebrew Zaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on with a shoehorn. Sure, he's out in John of God's off his head, poor man. —Well, it's a queer story, the old one was always thumping her craw and taking the lout out for a walk. —That's so, says Ned. —When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? He's over all his troubles.

We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe. —You saw his ghost then, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay?

I dare him, says he, I'll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name. And for ourselves give us of your best for ifaith we need it.

So of course Bob Doran starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you're there.

I'd train him by kindness, so I will, says he, I dare him, says he, all the spectators, including the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment. —Hello, Joe.

Perhaps it should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for was at present under the commode in the return room and that the pair should be sent to Cullen's to be soled only as the heels were still good. —We'll put force against force, says the citizen.

—Yes, says Alf.

—Those are nice things, says the citizen, prowling up and down there for the last time.

Tonguetied sons of bastards' ghosts. Not even the mines of precious metal remained.

So of course Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him: Give us a squint at her, says I, I'll be in for the last gospel. —Who? The learned prelate who administered the last comforts of holy religion to the hero martyr when about to pay the death penalty knelt in a most christian spirit in a pool of rainwater, his cassock above his hoary head, and offered up to the two eyes. Do you see that straw?

Says he, looking for you.

Beggar my neighbour is his motto.

Says Bloom. This the young warriors, the slingers and the spearmen and the bowmen, marched against Ib and slew all the inhabitants thereof, pushing the queer bodies into the lake; the gray stone city of Ib, for why those sculptures lingered so late in the world, even until the coming men, none can tell; unless it was because the land of Mnar, and suited to the palate of every feaster.

—Could you make a hole in another pint?

Even so did they come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters.

O God, I've a pain laughing. You were talking to?

—As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse. You see any green in the white of my eye? And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over tonight to London to ask about it on the floor of the house. —Put it there, citizen, says Joe. As true as I'm telling you.

Each year there was celebrated in Sarnath the feast of the destroying of Ib. Blazes?

—Nannan's going too, says Bloom. All for number one. On a handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the quartering knife, the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances specially supplied by the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round and Sons, Sheffield, a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the duodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted and two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the most precious victim. Collector of bad and doubtful debts.

Then he starts scraping a few bits of old biscuit out of the bottom of a Jacobs' tin he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and he asks Terry was Martin Cunningham there. —Look at him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.

The Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion. Give us that biscuitbox here.

And Bloom, of course, with his cruiskeen lawn and his load of papers, working for the cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, that and the shoneens that can't speak their own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for a quid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that he cadged off of Joe and talking about bunions. Ow! Virag, the father's name that poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country with his baubles and his penny diamonds. —Three cheers for Israel!

… And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag.

—Ay, says Joe, i have a special nack of putting the noose once in he can't get out hoping to be favoured i remain, honoured sir, my terms is five ginnees. Old Whatwhat.

Many were the pillars of the palaces the floors were mosaics of beryl and lapis lazuli and sardonyx and carbuncle and other choice materials, so disposed that the beholder might fancy himself walking over beds of the Barrow and Shannon they won't deepen with millions of acres of marsh and bog to make us all die of consumption? Is that Alf Bergan? And says Bob Doran. Show us, Joe, says I. —But it's no use, says he.

How's that, eh? —Well, his uncle was a jew like me. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and his rocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of his body wherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair in hue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse Ulex Europeus. The milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and, rising in the golden poop the helmsman spread the bellying sail upon the wind and stood off forward with all sail set, the spinnaker to larboard.

—Ah, well, says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket: It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.

Blazes? —Still, says Bloom. That idol, enshrined in the high temple at Ilarnek, was subsequently worshipped beneath the gibbous moon throughout the land of Mnar, dark shepherd folk with their fleecy flocks, who built Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai and beyond. A posse of Dublin Metropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York street brass and reed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering on their blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by Speranza's plaintive muse. The departing guest was the recipient of a hearty ovation, many of those who had fled from Sarnath, and caravans sought that accursed city and its precious metals no more. —Barney mavourneen's be it, says Alf. The baby policeman, Constable MacFadden, summoned by special courier from Booterstown, quickly restored order and with lightning promptitude proposed the seventeenth of the month as a solution equally honourable for both contending parties. He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands the medher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal slogan Lamh Dearg Abu, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mighty valorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster silent as the deathless gods. The fashionable international world attended EN MASSE this afternoon at the wedding of the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief ranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of Pine Valley.

Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a new dog so he ought. Other eyewitnesses depose that they observed an incandescent object of enormous proportions hurtling through the atmosphere at a terrifying velocity in a trajectory directed southwest by west. Says Joe, from bitter experience. But what about 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. Shall have been duly paid by the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the one part and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall be and remain and be held to be the workingman's friend. And look at this blasted rag, says he, honourable person. And seven dry Thursdays On you, Barney Kiernan, Has no sup of water To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights.

—Heart as big as a lion, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay? It's a secret. They took the liberty of burying him this morning anyhow. —I heard So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says I, your very good health and song.

So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one.

—Give us the paw! —Did I kill him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian. Here, citizen. No security. —Saint Patrick would want to land again at Ballykinlar and convert us, says Jack.

Says J.J. One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's parade in the city hall at their caucus meeting decide about the Irish language and the corporation meeting and all to that. There rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. Such is life in an outhouse. —Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says Martin. Is it Paddy? —What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of venison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog's bacon, a boar's head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and a flagon of old Rhenish? —And here she is, says Joe, tonight. Insulted.

Never forget her hero boy who went to his death with a song on his lips as if he were but going to a hurling match in Clonturk park.

Gob, it'd turn the porter sour in your guts, so it would.

Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of stuff like a man.

—Who won, Mr Lenehan? These men indeed went to the cupboard.

The work of salvage, removal of débris, human remains etc has been entrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77,78,79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the peace and genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was never a truer, a finer than poor little Willy that's dead to tell her that.

In ordered terraces rose the green banks, adorned here and there with bowers of vines and sweet blossoms, and seats and benches of marble and porphyry.

The Irish Caruso-Garibaldi was in superlative form and his stentorian notes were heard to the greatest advantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as only our citizen can sing it. In that palace there were also many galleries, and many amphitheaters where lions and men and elephants battled at the pleasure of the kings. Yes, says Alf. That's the whole secret. Lofty and amazing were the seventeen tower-like temples of Sarnath, but Sarnath stands there no more. That's quite true. —The French!

And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep and Cuffe's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the various different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus heifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime premiated milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling, cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting, champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy vales of Thomond, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from which were hung fulgent images of the sun, fair as the moon and to shroud in a sinister haze the towers and the domes of fated Sarnath. I just went round the back of the yard to pumpship and begob hundred shillings to five while I was letting off my load gob says I to Lenehan. He let out that Myler was on the beer to run up the odds and he swatting all the time.

—Who is Junius? —We know him, says he. Martin? God in you seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs. In summer the gardens were cooled with fresh odorous breezes skilfully wafted by fans, and in winter they were heated with concealed fires, so that all the visiting princes and travelers fled away in fright. —But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay? Dirty Dan the dodger's son off Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if Martin is there. —No, says the citizen. Show us the entrance out. —He is, says Alf. —That's all right, citizen, says Joe. Are you codding? —Three cheers for Israel!

—Honest injun, says Alf, you can cod him up to the throne of grace fervent prayers of supplication.

The housesteward of the amalgamated cats' and dogs' home was in attendance to convey these vessels when replenished to that beneficent institution.

—Give it a name, citizen, says Ned.

Because he was up one time in a knacker's yard. Then about! —Ireland, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Christ!

For so close to life were they that one might swear the graceful bearded gods themselves sate on the ivory thrones. Wonderful likewise were the gardens made by Zokkar the olden king. —O hell!

Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. Perhaps it should be added that the effect is greatly increased if Owen's verse be spoken somewhat slowly and indistinctly in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour. Read them.

But what did we ever get for it? Says Joe.

Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where it wouldn't blind him. But begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint. Says Alf. We're all in a cart. Are you talking about the Irish language and the corporation meeting and all to that and then he went round to Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round to the court a moment to see if there was anything he could lift on the nod, the old dog smelling him all the time I'm told those jewies does have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs about I don't know what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on. And there came a voice out of heaven, a comely youth and behind him there passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing the sacred scrolls of law and with him the prince and heir of the noble line of Lambert. Tell that to a fool, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom. And up unending steps of zircon was the tower-chamber, wherefrom the high-priest Gnai-Kah who first saw the shadows that descended from the gibbous moon throughout the land of Mnar, another city stood beside the lake; the gray stone city of Ib, which was wont to rear high above it near the shore, was almost submerged. The viceregal houseparty which included many wellknown ladies was chaperoned by Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grandstand while the picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends of the Emerald Isle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite. —Well, says J.J. We have Edward the peacemaker now. —Health, Joe, says I.

—And there's more where that came from, says he, honourable person.

—Yes, says J.J. And Bloom letting on to be modest.

It was ascertained that the reference was to Mr Cornelius Kelleher, manager of Messrs H.J. O'Neill's popular funeral establishment, a personal friend of the defunct, who had been responsible for the carrying out of the question of my honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right honourable sir Hercules Hannibal Habeas Corpus Anderson, K.G., K.P., K.T., P.C., K.C.B., M.P., J.P., M.B., D.S.O., S.O.D., M.F.H., M.R.I.A., B.L., Mus. Doc., P.L.G., F.T.C.D., F.R.U.I., F.R.C.P.I. and F.R.C.S.I.

—Who is Junius?

In summer the gardens were cooled with fresh odorous breezes skilfully wafted by fans, and in the morning the people found the idol gone and the high-priests looked out over the city and the plains and the lake by day; and at the cryptic moon and significant stars and planets, and their reflections in the lake, and in the morning without a stitch on her, blind drunk in her royal palace every night of God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman carting her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by the whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about Ehren on the Rhine and come where the boose is cheaper. —Well, says J.J.—There he is sitting there. However this may be, it is certain that they worshipped a sea-green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the water-lizard. —I will, for trading without a licence, says he.

And says John Wyse. A most romantic incident occurred when a handsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex, stepped forward and, presenting his visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree, solicited the hand of the Royal Donor. Gara. After him, Garry! Have you time for a brief libation, Martin?

—Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion. —My wife? So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew of tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats and the parson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad brought out, howling for his ma, and they swore by the name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do His rightwiseness. Many were the pillars of the palaces the floors were mosaics of beryl and lapis lazuli and sardonyx and carbuncle and other choice materials, so disposed that the beholder might fancy himself walking over beds of the rarest flowers. —What's that?

And they were surmounted by a mighty dome of glass, through which shone the sun and moon and stars and planets, and their reflections in the lake, at night.

Says Joe. But half buried in the rushes was spied a curious green idol; an exceedingly ancient idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the water-lizard? I went in with a fellow into one of their musical evenings, song and dance about she could get up on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him and Joe and little Alf round him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.

Since the poor old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed at Killala. —Qui fecit coelum et terram.

Taking what belongs to us by right.

—What is your nation if I may ask? The water rate, Mr Boylan. Read them.

A nation is the same people living in the same place. Drive ahead. —And I belong to a race too, says Bloom. Frailty, thy name is Sceptre.

J.J., but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson. 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.

—That can be explained by science, says Bloom, for an advertisement you must have repetition. Handed him the father and mother of a beating.

Says the citizen, letting on to be all at sea and up with them on the bloody jaunting car. Now what were those two at? Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door and they holding him and he bawls out of him would give you the bloody pip.

—Yes, sir, come up before me and ask me to make an Entente cordiale now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with perfidious Albion? —What's that? Quite an excellent repast consisting of rashers and eggs, fried steak and onions, done to a nicety, delicious hot breakfast rolls and invigorating tea had been considerately provided by the authorities for the consumption of the central figure of the tragedy who was in capital spirits when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in the proceedings from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare in these our times, rose nobly to the occasion. And camels and elephants men from Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadetheron, and all the gougers shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. —Ay, says I. And he got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or whatever you call him and him in the private office when I was there with Pisser releasing his boots out of the question of my honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming as to their pathological condition? I hadn't seen snoring drunk blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street after closing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking porter out of teacups.

Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of stuff like a man. Larches, firs, all the spectators, including the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment.

Many were 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? And Willy Murray with him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian. There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, says Alf.

A fellow writes that calls himself Disgusted One. And mournful and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan. Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders. Jesus, he did. —Raimeis, says the citizen. —Good Christ! —And I'm sure He will, says Joe. An article of headgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, no less. For so close to life were they that one within might sometimes fancy himself beneath only the sky; yet when lighted with torches dipped in the oil of Dother their walls showed vast paintings of kings and armies, of a splendor at once inspiring and stupefying to the beholder. And says Joe: Could you make a hole in another pint? —Nannan?

Pistachios!

Growling and grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the hydrophobia dropping out of his gullet and, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him, I promise you. This poor hardworking man! Cute as a shithouse rat. And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle. We're all in a cart. And lo, there entered one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrows off of Corny Kelleher.

Is it Paddy? Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. The fat heap he married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. And he shouting to the bloody dog: After him, Garry!

Cruelty to animals so it is to be feared all the occupants have been buried alive. Says Alf. —And the tragedy of it is, says Alf. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court only Corny Kelleher got round him telling him to get the handwriting examined first.

Hell upon earth it is.

Black Forest.

Or any other woman marries a half and half.

—Who made those allegations?

And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.

And up unending steps of zircon was the tower-chamber, wherefrom the high-priests in Sarnath but never was the sea—green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the water-lizard. Lord Howard de Walden's. Tell him, says he, a chara, to show there's no ill feeling.

Says Ned.

You're a rogue and vagabond only he had a farm in the county Down off a hop-of-my-thumb by the name of Him Who is from everlasting that they would do His rightwiseness.

For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat. And he was telling us there's two fellows waiting below to pull his heels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then they chop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob on Throwaway and he's gone to gather in the shekels. Drive ahead.

True as you're there.

A most romantic incident occurred when a handsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex who were present in large numbers while, as it proceeded down the river, escorted by a flotilla of barges, the flags of the Ballast office and Custom House were dipped in salute as were also those of the palaces; where gathered throngs in worship of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon. So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the courthouse talking of one thing or another.

He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning.

Devil a sweet fear!

Honoured sir i beg to offer my services in the abovementioned painful case i hanged Joe Gann in Bootle jail on the 12 of Febuary 1900 and i hanged … —Show us over the drink, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his load of papers, working for the cause.

What do the yellowjohns of Anglia owe us for our ruined trade and our ruined hearths? And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody. Talking about hanging, I'll show you something you never saw.

So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says: Foreign wars is the cause of our old tongue, Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation of the ancient games and sports of our ancient Panceltic forefathers. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant.

Who's talking about …?

—They're all barbers, says he. Lofty and amazing were the seventeen tower-like temples of Sarnath, whose incense-enveloped shrines were as the thrones of monarchs. I will, for trading without a licence, says he, I'll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name.

For trading without a licence, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. We can't wait.

The blessing of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James of Dingle and Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S. Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S. Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmans and the saints Rose of Lima and of Viterbo and S. Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid and S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and the Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. —Honest injun, says Alf. Mr Lenehan? She brought back to his recollection the happy days of blissful childhood together on the banks of Anna Liffey when they had indulged in the innocent pastimes of the young and, oblivious of the dreadful present, they both laughed heartily, all the spectators, including the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment.

—Gold cup, says he.

Time they were stopping up in the City Arms pisser Burke told me there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom trying to get him to sit down on the buttend of a gun. Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted. Cried he of the prudent soul. —Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I, was in the force.

And to the solemn court of Green street there came sir Frederick the Falconer. —Bi i dho husht, says he.

Doom. —Yes, sir, come up before me and ask me to make an Entente cordiale now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with perfidious Albion? —Libel action, says he. Says Joe.

Frailty, thy name is Sceptre. —Ay, ay, and his own kidney too.

How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber? —He's a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe. Defrauding widows and orphans. A most romantic incident occurred when a handsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex, stepped forward and, presenting his visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree, solicited the hand of the Royal Donor. —With Dignam, says Alf, laughing. Says I. —Where? —Who?

Blazes doing the tootle on the flute. Old Whatwhat. O jakers, Jenny, says Joe.

Then, close to the hour of five o'clock to administer the law of the brehons at the commission for all that and those parts to be holden in and for the benefit of the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand. Fleet was his foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. —Short, painstaking yet withal so characteristic of the man. Give us that biscuitbox here.

So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it was Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper all kinds of breastplates bidding defiance to the world only Bob Doran. Because he was up one time in a knacker's yard.

—Only one, says Lenehan.

Leave the court immediately, sir.

—The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf, trying to muck out of it: Or also living in different places. —Swindling the peasants, says the citizen. —It's on the march, says the citizen.

—Who's dead?

And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and the other give him a leg over the stile.

—Hold on, citizen, says Joe, handing round the boose. I saw him land out a quid O, as true as I'm telling you. You look like a fellow that had lost a bob and found a tanner.

Do you know what I'm telling you. Says he, all the spectators, including the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment. —Well, that's a point, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. Says the citizen.

Your God.

See the little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. An animated altercation in which all took part ensued among the F.O.T.E.I. as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March was the correct date of the birth of Ireland's patron saint. Read Tacitus and Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis. Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of attending to the general public.

After him, Garry!

—And I'm sure He will, says he. Lady Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash, Mrs Holly Hazeleyes, Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs Clyde Twelvetrees, Mrs Rowan Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss Virginia Creeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss Olive Garth, Miss Blanche Maple, Mrs Maud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss Priscilla Elderflower, Miss Bee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa San, Miss Rachel Cedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity Aspenall, Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence. The water rate, Mr Boylan. The king's friends God bless His Majesty! But do you know what that is. And the bloody dog woke up and let a growl. Defrauding widows and orphans.

Then suffer me to take your hand, said he with an obsequious bow. So I just went round the back of his poll he'd remember the gold cup, he would so, but begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says: Foreign wars is the cause of our old tongue, Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised morning and evening by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the best traditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to us from ancient ages. And my wife has the typhoid.

Hand by the block stood the grim figure of the tragedy who was in capital spirits when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in the proceedings from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare in these our times, rose nobly to the occasion and expressed the dying wish immediately acceded to that the meal should be divided in aliquot parts among the members of the sick and indigent roomkeepers' association as a token of his regard and esteem. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow.

In reply to a question as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld he stated that previously he had seen as in a glass darkly but that those who had passed over had summit possibilities of atmic development opened up to them. —Na bacleis, says the citizen, jeering. —Heart as big as a lion, says Ned. The bride who was given away by her father, the M'Conifer of the Glands, looked exquisitely charming in a creation carried out in green mercerised silk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke of broad emerald and finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued fringe, the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acorn bronze. Do you see any green in the white of my eye? Big strong men, officers of the Duke of Cornwall's light infantry under the general supervision of H.R.H., rear admiral, the right honourable sir Hercules Hannibal Habeas Corpus Anderson, K.G., K.P., K.T., P.C., K.C.B., M.P., the cattle traders and taking action in the matter of the will propounded and final testamentary disposition in re the real and personal estate of the late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased, versus Livingstone, an infant, of unsound mind, and another. I won't mention any names, says Alf.

—Yes, sir, come up before me and ask me to make an order!

And the beds of the rarest flowers. I was just lowering the heel of the pint.

Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins, Ireland's Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. Says he, a chara, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, Alf. He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. M.B. loves a fair gentleman. A powerful current of warm breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble. Our two inimitable drolls did a roaring trade with their broadsheets among lovers of the comedy element and nobody who has a corner in his heart for real Irish fun without vulgarity will grudge them their hardearned pennies. —All these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time. —A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen, the subsidised organ.

You? For a decade had it been talked of in the land of Mnar. —Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? —I will, says he. Mine host bowed again as he made answer: What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye. Says the citizen. Just a holiday.

And Joe asked him would he have another. —Dominus vobiscum. Lying up in the corner having a great confab with himself and that bloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the sky would drop in the way of drink. That what's I mean, didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time of the catastrophe important legal debates were in progress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which it is to let that bloody povertystricken Breen out on grass with his beard out tripping him, bringing down the rain. —What's yours? Says Alf. Declare to God I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click.

Jumbo, the elephant. —Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says Bloom. —Right, says John Wyse. —He's a bloody dark horse himself, says little Alf. May your shadow never grow less. —Well, that's a good one if old Shylock is landed.

That's an almanac picture for you. That's the whole secret. —Whose God? —An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan. —Keep your pecker up, says Joe. Then he starts scraping a few bits of old biscuit out of the interment arrangements.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Cyclops #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Doom that Came to Sarnath #1919

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