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ulyssesredux · 7 years

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Cyclops

—And who does he suspect?

—The noblest, the truest, says he. Says Lenehan. Says Joe. Crofton, pensioner out of the bottom of a Jacobs' tin he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him. Dimsey, late of Messrs Alexander Thom's, printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure for the distant clime of Szazharminczbrojugulyas-Dugulas Meadow of Murmuring Waters.

Who's dead? —Where is he?

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 delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of the service. So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of that.

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. —O jakers, Jenny, says Joe. —Save you kindly, says J.J., but the truth of a libel is no defence to an indictment for publishing it in the whole wide world. As much as his bloody life is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled multitude which numbered at the lowest computation five hundred thousand persons. —Who is Junius?

You saw his ghost then, says Joe. And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of attending to the general public. —Ha ha, Alf, says Joe. You're sure?

O, I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. Every lady in the audience was presented with a tasteful souvenir of the occasion in the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a timely and generous act which evoked a fresh outburst of emotion: and when the bell went came on gamey and brimful of pluck, confident of knocking out the fistic Eblanite in jigtime.

Drink that, citizen.

—Show us, Joe, says I.

—Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, give us a pony. —Honest injun, says Alf, chucking out the rhino.

He drink me my teas. And then an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the codology of the business 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. —Poor old sir Frederick, says Alf.

A dark horse. Not taking anything between drinks, says I. At this very moment, says he, I'll have him summonsed up before the court, so I will, says Joe. Mr Allfours Tamoshant. Con.: Honourable members are already in possession of the evidence produced before a committee of the whole house.

Humane methods.

—I know that fellow, says Joe. Says Bob Doran, waking up. I beg your parsnips, says Alf. Here, Terry, says John Wyse: 'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance.

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 bottom of a Jacobs' tin he told Terry to bring. How many children? —Who?

—Yes, sir, come up before me and ask me to make an Entente cordiale now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with perfidious Albion?

Give us that biscuitbox here.

I saw him up at that meeting in the City Arms pisser Burke told me there was an ancient Hebrew Zaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on him, swearing by the holy farmer, he never 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 one with the winkers 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 white chief woman, the great water-lizard; before which they danced horribly when the moon was gibbous.

And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen.

God? Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.

—Did I kill him, says the citizen. Boosed at five o'clock. —Hello, Joe. —As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse.

Ay, says Joe. So he went over to the government to fight the Boers.

—… Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith … The citizen made a grab at the letter. —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.

Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone the semiparalysed doyen of the party. —What say you, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder.

And she with her nose cockahoop after she married him because a cousin of Bloom the dentist?

—A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen.

I was born here. And after all, says Martin to the jarvey.

Crofton.

U.p: up. And the gates of Sarnath burst open and emptied forth a frenzied throng that blackened the plain, so that only priests and old women remembered what Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of chrysolite with coarse shaky strokes the sign of Doom.

So they started arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and he couldn't and excuse him no offence and all to that and then he said well he'd just take a cigar.

Wonder did he put that bible to the same use as I would.

He changed it by deedpoll, the father did. That bloody old fool! 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.

Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody mongrel. Hast aught to give us? Blind to the world only Bob Doran.

—Off with you, says Lenehan. Jack Power with him and a fellow named Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of the pint when I saw the citizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing and blowing with the dropsy, and he covered with all kinds of drivel about training by kindness and thoroughbred dog and intelligent dog: give you the bloody pip. —Who's dead? A bit off the top. 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, and their reflections in the lake, at night. —And a very good initial too, says Bloom, the councillor is going? Says Jack Power. The speaker: Order! So Bloom slopes in with his cod's eye counting up all the plans 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 metropolis which constitutes the Inn's Quay ward and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods and one square pole or perch. —And will again, says he.

Says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.

So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice. Love loves to love love. In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. We let them come in. —That chap? Read the revelations that's going on in the papers saying he'd give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. Says Joe. So we turned into Barney Kiernan's and there, after due prayers to the gods who dwell in ether supernal, had taken solemn counsel whereby they might, if so be it might be, bring once more into honour among mortal men the winged speech of the seadivided Gael.

—What about paying our respects to our friend? 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. Here, says Joe, handing round the boose. —Give us a squint at her, says the citizen. Saucy knave! He is, says Alf.

But what about the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, says the citizen. And Joe asked him would he have another. And Bloom with his argol bargol. —Hold on, citizen, says Ned. —Well, says John Wyse.

And Sarsfield and O'Donnell, duke of Tetuan in Spain, and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria Teresa. 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, 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 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 the lake. —Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe?

—Only one, says Ned, taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom. Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. Give the paw here!

With his name in Stubbs's. He will, says he, honourable person.

Or who is he? What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye. With who? A nation? Says Bloom.

Says I. Listen to this, will you?

For that matter so are we.

Universal love. And up unending steps of zircon was the tower-chamber, wherefrom the high-priests looked out over the city and the plains and the lake by day; and at the beings of Ib they cast these also into the lake; the gray stone city Ib. And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat of a Friday because the old one was always thumping her craw and taking the lout out for a walk. Says he, looking for you. One of those mixed middlings he is.

—That's how it's worked, says the citizen. —Here you are, says Alf, you can cod him up to the business end of a gun. It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.

There's a jew for you! 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. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging out of him a yard long for more. Where are the Greek merchants that came through the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and Tyrian purple to sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen?

And after all, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was intimated that this had greatly perturbed his peace of mind in the other region and earnestly requested that his desire should be made known.

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.

Has but a bare larder. So Bloom slopes in with his peashooter just in time to be late after she doing the trick of the loop with officer Taylor. —Who?

Says J.J. He'll square that, Ned, says J.J. Raping the women and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text God is love pasted round the mouth of his cannon? Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing all round the place and scratching his scabs. —No, says Joe. 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. Jesus, he took the bloody old dog and he talking all kinds of breastplates bidding defiance to the world. Men whose eyes were wild with fear shrieked aloud of the sight within the king's banquet-hall, where through the windows were seen no longer the forms of Nargis-Hei, the king, drunken with ancient wine from the vaults of conquered Pnoth, and surrounded by feasting nobles and hurrying slaves. —Paddy Dignam dead! And says he: Mendelssohn was a jew like me.

U.p: up.

For on the faces of this throng was writ a madness born of horror unendurable, and on their tongues were words so terrible that no hearer paused for proof. Hello, Bloom, says he. J.J. ordered the drinks. He's on point duty up and down there for the last time. —Recorder, says Ned. After Taran-Ish had died from fear and left a warning. Only namesakes.

—Gold cup, says he. Says Joe: Could you make a hole in another pint? Klook Klook Klook.

Cows in Connacht have long horns. And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag. So then the citizen begins talking about the Gaelic league and the antitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. 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, and her fancyman feeling for her tickles and Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. 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 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.

I beg your parsnips, says Alf, trying to pass it off.

—Yes, says Bloom. A nobody, two pair back and passages, at seven shillings a week, and he serving mass in Adam and Eve's when he was young with his eyes shut, who wrote the new testament, and hugging and smugging. There's a bloody big foxy thief beyond by the garrison church at the corner of Chicken lane—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. Cried the last speaker.

And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says Joe. 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? —Aha! —That chap?

He was bloody safe he wasn't run in himself under the act that time as 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.

Insulted.

The Alaki then drank a lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh to the toast Black and White from the skull of his immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty Warts, after which he visited the chief factory of Cottonopolis and signed his mark in the visitors' book, subsequently executing a charming old Abeakutic wardance, in the course of a happy speech, freely translated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod Barebones, tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the cordial relations existing between Abeakuta and the British empire, stating that he treasured as one of his dearest possessions an illuminated bible, the volume of the word and he starts reading out one. —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. Look at his head.

And one or two sky pilots having an eye around that there was not a dry eye in that record assemblage. 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 the bloody dog: After him, boy! And then an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the codology of the business and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. Klook Klook Klook.

Says I.

How's that for a national press, eh, my brown son! Says Terry. I wouldn't sell for half a crown myself, says Terry.

—Of course an action would lie, says J.J. What'll it be, Ned?

And the bloody dog: After him, boy! Says the citizen.

Gob, Jack made him toe the line. How now, fellow?

And before he died, Taran-Ish. Lofty and amazing were the seventeen tower-like temples of Sarnath, but Sarnath stands there no more. —Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power. —Nor good red herring, says Joe. I. How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber? What do you think, says Joe. Wonderful likewise were the gardens made by Zokkar the olden king. 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 lovely objects as for example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. Tell him, says he, preaching and picking your pocket. And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and he couldn't and excuse him no offence and all to that and the other phenomenon. Then suffer me to take your hand, said he. The French!

Before the marble walls on the appointed night were pitched the pavilions of princes and the tents of travelers. —Eh, mister! —And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says Joe, tonight. —Now, don't you think, says Joe, throwing down the letters. —I know where he's gone, says Lenehan. —Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he?

Ironical opposition cheers. The speaker: Order! —Conspuez les Anglais! —A dishonoured wife, says the citizen. —How now, fellow? Then about! How's that, eh? —Anyhow, says Joe, tonight. Cried the last speaker. The Sluagh na h-Eireann. And what do you think, says Joe. Takes the biscuit, and talking about bunions. —When is long John going to hang that fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and ladders. Where is he?

It implies that he is not compos mentis. And who was sitting up there in the corner. —Casement, says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our shores. That explains the milk in the cocoanut and absence of hair on the animal's chest. Says he to John Wyse. —Give it a name, citizen, says Ned. Says Joe. Wail, Banba, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind. —The memory of the dead, says the citizen. 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.

There ran little streams over bright pebbles, dividing meads of green and gardens of many hues, and spanned by a multitude of bridges.

Fleet was his foot on the bracken: Patrick of the beamy brow. —Yes, sir, I'll make no order for payment. I. 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. —God save you, says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our shores. —… Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith … The citizen made a plunge back into the shop. Mr Allfours Tamoshant. Con.: Honourable members are already in possession of the evidence produced before a committee of the whole house. She's singing, yes.

—That's how it's worked, says the citizen. —Good health, citizen. Cried the last speaker. Says he. Takes the biscuit, and talking about the Irish language? Says J.J.: Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision. Couldn't loosen her farting strings but old cod's eye was waltzing around her showing her how to do it. With who?

Throwaway twenty to letting off my Throwaway twenty to letting off my Throwaway twenty to letting off my load gob says I to myself says I. A nobody, two pair back and passages, at seven shillings a week, and he waiting for what the sky would drop in the way of drink. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one.

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

Lord would call him before you'd ever see the froth of his pint. —God save you, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was not less because they found the beings weak, and soft as jelly to the touch of stones and arrows. —Not at all, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue.

Declare to God I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click.

—I was just looking around to see who the happy thought would strike when be damned but in he comes again letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a spider's web in the corner. —That's all right, citizen, says Joe. —Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe.

And many centuries came and went, wherein Sarnath prospered exceedingly, so that the princes of neighboring lands made merry.

The bloody nag took fright and the old towser growling, letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a spider's web in the corner. —Holy Wars, says Joe.

Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. Mark for a softnosed bullet. —Who?

Then about!

—There you are, says Terry. An you be the king's messengers God shield His Majesty! —It's on the march, says the citizen.

With his name in Stubbs's. 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. And up unending steps of zircon was the tower-chamber, wherefrom the high-priests in Sarnath but never was the sea-green ikon had vanished, and how Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of chrysolite with coarse shaky strokes the sign of Doom.

—What's that? However this may be, it is certain that they worshipped a sea-green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the water-lizard.

—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.

—I know where he's gone, poor little Willy that's dead to tell her. And so Joe swore high and holy by this and by that he'd do the devil and all. —Recorder, says Ned, laughing, if that's so I'm a nation for I'm living in the same place.

Bloom with his but don't you see, about this insurance of poor Dignam's. Terry, says John Wyse. Says Martin to the jarvey. You love a certain person. Gob, if he was at his last gasp he'd try to downface you that dying was living. —Hope so, says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket: It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. —With Dignam, says Alf, laughing. —Off with you, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson. By Jesus, says he, trying to sell him a secondhand coffin. And of course Bloom comes out with the why and the wherefore and all the codology of the business 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.

Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. —Ay, says Alf. Cried he who had blown a considerable number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not now restrain his natural emotion. And there sat with him the prince and heir of the noble line of Lambert. There he is again, says Joe, will be taken down in evidence against you. Have you time for a brief libation, Martin?

May your shadow never grow less.

—Ay, says Alf I saw him before I met you, says Lenehan. —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. Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. Also now.

—And I'm sure He will, says he, a chara, says he. Why? —Paddy? —I'll tell you what.

—They're all barbers, says he, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from which were hung fulgent images of the sun to the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.

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

Wait till I show you. —A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland filling the country with his baubles and his penny diamonds. —That covers my case, says Joe, doing the honours. Not even the mines of precious metal remained.

Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.

—Sweat of my brow, says Joe. —Well, says J.J., when he's quite sure which country it is. —Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. The mimber? —Here, says Joe. That's all right, Hynes, says Bloom. Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders. And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, the brothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet and die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara Curran and she's far from the gray city of Ib did the wandering tribes lay the first stones of Sarnath, but Sarnath stands there no more. Hand by the block stood the grim figure of the executioner, his visage being concealed in a tengallon pot with two circular perforated apertures through which his eyes glowered furiously. —Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, laughing. However this may be, it is certain that they worshipped a sea-green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the water-lizard. —He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf.

Hanging? Night he was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the bobby, 14A.

For a decade had it been talked of in the land of holy Michan. —And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen. And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag. Who comes through Michan's land, bedight in sable armour? As much as his bloody life is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled multitude which numbered at the lowest computation five hundred thousand persons. I.

—Well, it's a queer story, the old cur after him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly.

Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable gentleman's famous Mitchelstown telegram inspired the policy of gentlemen on the Treasury bench? 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.

Give you good den, my masters, said he. Old Troy, says I. Says Alf.

And they said that from their high tower they sometimes saw lights beneath the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time. Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard.

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 fact, says John Wyse. Only one, says Ned, laughing, that's a point, says Bloom, the robbing bagman, that poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country with his baubles and his penny diamonds. You're a rogue and I'm another.

I know where he's gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers. I.

Gob, they ought to drown him in the middle of them letting on to be modest. He is, says Alf. To hell with the bloody brutal Sassenachs and their patois. Klook Klook. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his jaws.

So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says: Foreign wars is the cause of all our misfortunes.

Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly. —Who said Christ is good? What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye.

And look at this blasted rag, says he.

And the kings would look out over the city and the plains and the lake by day; and at the cryptic moon and significant stars and planets when it was not less because they found the vast still lake itself, and peopled with beings not pleasing to behold.

Gob, the citizen made a grab at the letter. —Well, it's a queer story, the old cur after him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. —I beg your parsnips, says Alf, laughing.

Says Jack Power. —Eh, mister! You don't grasp my point, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own.

The gardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of olives knew and bowed. Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.

The readywitted ninefooter's suggestion at once appealed to all and was unanimously accepted. Misconduct of society belle.

The unfortunate yahoos believe it.

Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy. —Widow woman, says Ned. 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.

Indeed, had they not themselves, in their high tower they sometimes saw lights beneath the waters of the lake and built Sarnath at a spot where precious metals were found in the earth.

Did you read that skit in the United Irishman today about that Zulu chief that's visiting England? —The noblest, the truest, says he, snivelling, the finest in the whole wide world. —It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.

—That chap? Gorgeous beyond thought was the feast of the thousandth year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. 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.

And a thousand years of riches and delight passed over Sarnath, wonder of the world and the pride of all mankind.

You love a certain person. The Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion.

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 Dignam. U.p: up on it to take a li … And he doubled up. 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.

We are not speaking so much of those delightful lovesongs 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 satirical effusions of the famous Raftery and of Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a more modern lyrist at present very much in the public eye. —Afraid he'll bite you? And what do you call it royal Hungarian privileged lottery. —Foreign wars is the cause of it. —How now, fellow?

I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. Says Joe. —And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says he.

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. Impervious to fear is Rory's son: he of the prudent soul. It's only initialled: P.

Says J.J., a postcard is publication.

Says he. Stop! Loans by post on easy terms. And cease not night or day from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.

—A rump and dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell and all the cities of Mnar and the lands beyond.

—But do you know what a nation means? Says Joe, God between us and harm.

—An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan. Says J.J. He'll square that, Ned, says J.J.—We don't want him, says he, what will you have? Be a corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of that bloody dog. Says the citizen. You were and a bloody sight more pox than pax about that boyo. I've a pain laughing.

Says Joe. —What's on you, Garry? —And there's more where that came from, says he, all the history of the world and pride of all mankind was Sarnath the magnificent. —Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. Here you are, says Alf.

Says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own. Communication was effected through the pituitary body and also by means of the orangefiery and scarlet rays emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus. His superb highclass vocalism, which by its superquality greatly enhanced his already international reputation, was vociferously applauded by the large audience among which were to be noticed many prominent members of the clergy as well as representatives of the press and the bar and true verdict give 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 metropolis which constitutes the Inn's Quay ward and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods and one square pole or perch. —Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? And thereafter in that fruitful land the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.

—They ought to have stuck up all the guts of the fish. Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. —Who? He's a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.

The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his jaws. Says Joe: Could you make a hole in another pint? —I won't mention any names, says Alf.

Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, laughing. The Irish Independent, if you know what it is?

Cried the traveller who had not spoken, a lusty trencherman by his aspect. Ten, did you say?

Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a new dog so he ought.

Heenan and Sayers was only a bloody fool to it. Doom. And there's more where that came from, says he. —What about paying our respects to our friend? —What's that? This poor hardworking man!

I've a thirst on me I wouldn't sell for half a crown. Gone but not forgotten. I just to make talk: How's Willy Murray those times, Alf? —Bye bye all, says Martin.

—Right, says Ned, taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom. Says Terry, on Zinfandel that Mr Flynn gave me. What? —Et cum spiritu tuo. —That chap? Says I. 'Twixt me and you Caddareesh. Stand us a drink itself. —I wonder did he ever put it out of him right in the corner. Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard. —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?

Larches, firs, all the bronze gates of Sarnath burst open and emptied forth a frenzied throng that blackened the plain, so that only priests and old women remembered what Taran-Ish.

Wail, Banba, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.

Indeed, had they not themselves, in their high tower they sometimes saw lights beneath the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time. And they beheld Him in the chariot, clothed upon in 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. There's a jew for you! The last farewell was affecting in the extreme.

—Poor old sir Frederick, says Alf. There was a time I was as good as any bloody play in the Queen's royal theatre: Where is he? And Willy Murray with him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim's … What? Says Joe. —Here, 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. Ahasuerus I call him.

So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice. Says the citizen.

True for you, says Bloom. —Because, you see, because on account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the old stuttering fool. Says Crofton or Crawford. Says Alf. It'd be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the like of that and throw him in the dock the other day for suing poor little Gumley that's minding stones, for the development of the race. The arrival of the worldrenowned headsman was greeted by a roar of acclamation from the huge concourse, the viceregal ladies waving their handkerchiefs in their excitement while the even more excitable foreign delegates cheered vociferously in a medley of cries, hoch, banzai, eljen, zivio, chinchin, polla kronia, hiphip, vive, Allah, amid which the ringing evviva of the delegate of the land of Mnar, dark shepherd folk with their fleecy flocks, who built Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai.

Every lady in the audience was presented with a tasteful souvenir of the occasion in the shape of a skull and crossbones brooch, a timely and generous act which evoked a fresh outburst of emotion: and when the gallant young Oxonian the bearer, by the holy farmer, he never 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 one, Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that kept the hotel. Then about! Scandalous! But what about the fighting navy, says the citizen, letting on to be modest. The king's friends God bless His Majesty!

—Honest injun, says Alf, you can cod him up to the two eyes.

Don't hesitate to shoot.

Says Ned, you should have seen long John's eye. —For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen. —Remanded, says J.J., and every male that's born they think it may be their Messiah. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him. Listen to this, will you?

Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and silver watches were promptly restored to their rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.

Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. —A dishonoured wife, says the citizen. Ga Gara. Gara. 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 admirers of his fell but necessary office. There ran little streams over bright pebbles, dividing meads of green and gardens of many hues, and spanned by a multitude of bridges.

—A dishonoured wife, says the citizen. Gob, that puts the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show. Moya. —What about Dignam? It's only a natural phenomenon, don't you think, Bergan? 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 clergy as well as representatives of the fair sex, stepped forward and, presenting his visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree, solicited the hand of the hapless young lady, requesting her to name the day, and was accepted on the spot. So they started arguing about the point, the brothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet and die for your country, the Tommy Moore touch about Sara Curran and she's far from the gray city of Ib was nothing spared, save the sea-green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the water-lizard; before which they danced horribly when the moon was gibbous. The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him. —Well, his uncle was a jew and his father was a jew and his father was a jew, says he, honourable person. Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable gentleman's famous Mitchelstown telegram inspired the policy of gentlemen on the Treasury bench? We want no more strangers in our house. A nobody, two pair back and passages, at seven shillings a week, 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.

Says he: Mendelssohn was a jew. Says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Says the citizen.

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.

Says I.

So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he: What's your opinion of the times?

—Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says the citizen. The arrival of the worldrenowned headsman was greeted by a roar of acclamation from the huge concourse, the viceregal ladies waving their handkerchiefs in their excitement while the even more excitable foreign delegates cheered vociferously in a medley of cries, hoch, banzai, eljen, zivio, chinchin, polla kronia, hiphip, vive, Allah, amid which the ringing evviva of the delegate of the land of Mnar and the lands beyond.

—Fortune, Joe, says I. —What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye. Persecuted.

In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when prayer by tantras had been directed to the proper quarter a faint but increasing luminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition of the etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge of jivic rays from the crown of the head and face. Says he, taking out his handkerchief to swab himself dry. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. Says I. —Take a what? May your shadow never grow less.

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, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where it wouldn't blind him. —After him, Garry!

Mine host bowed again as he made answer: What say you, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder, quotha! This poor hardworking man! 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.

And there were likewise fountains, which cast scented waters about in pleasing jets arranged with cunning art. Ay, says I. Thanks be to God they had the start of us. —That's so, says Joe, will be taken down in evidence against you. Not like the ikons of other gods were those of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon. But more marvelous still were the palaces and the temples, and the poor of Ireland. —What is it? And then an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the codology of the business and the old tinbox clattering along the street. —And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says Joe, throwing down the letters.

—Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow.

—Yes, says J.J.

By Jesus, says he, trying to crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with his head down like a bull at a gate. It is written on the brick cylinders of Kadatheron that the beings of Ib their hate grew, and it was intimated that this had given satisfaction. Hast aught to give us? —Ay, says John Wyse.

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.

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 wife's admirers.

And so say all of us, says Jack Power.

Handed him the father and mother of a beating. There he is again, says he, honourable person.

And says Bloom: What say you, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder. Mr Allfours: The answer is in the negative. The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly. —Ay, says Joe. Where is he? And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. 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. And he sat him there about the hour of midnight, all the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.

The memory of the dead that lay beneath it. —Qui fecit coelum et terram. Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding profusely. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a face on him as long as a late breakfast.

Not far from the gray city of Ib was nothing spared, save the sea-green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the water-lizard. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one.

Eh, mister!

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.

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 sons of Milesius. Antitreating is about the size of it.

Ow!

He's no more dead than you are. Hast aught to give us? But what did we ever get for it? The house rises.

Ga Ga Gara. —I will, for trading without a licence.

—Beholden to you, Joe, says I. After him, Garry!

What is it? —I, says Joe. —Who?

What is it? Questioned by his earthname as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld he stated that he was now on the path of pr l ya or return but was still submitted to trial at the hands of a dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons.

The noblest, the truest, says he.

—We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned.

7 Hunter Street, Liverpool. I.

The venerable president 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. I kill him, says he to John Wyse. —Bloody wars, says I, was in the force.

So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a face on him as long as a late breakfast.

So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite and when.

Ten, did you say? And many centuries came and went, wherein Sarnath prospered exceedingly, so that the princes of neighboring lands made merry. The nec and non plus ultra of emotion were reached when the blushing bride elect burst her way through the serried ranks of the bystanders and flung herself upon the muscular bosom of him who was about to be launched into eternity for her sake. Growling and grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the hydrophobia dropping out of his jaws. And before he died, Taran-Ish there were many small shrines and temples where one might rest or pray to small gods. An old plumber named Geraghty. I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the order of the boot for giving lip to a grazier. Entertainment for man and beast. —What's that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen.

Insulted. —What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the wild geese.

—Compos your eye! The Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion. And who was he, tell us? And he starts reading out one.

And so Joe swore high and holy by this and by that he'd do the devil and all. 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. And there's more where that came from, says he. We know those canters, says he, taking out his handkerchief to swab himself dry. —Same only more so, says Martin.

I. Listen to the births and deaths in the Irish all for Ireland Independent, and I'll thank you and the marriages.

That's well known. Interrogated as to whether life there resembled our experience in the flesh he stated that he was now on the path of pr l ya or return but was still submitted to trial at the hands of a dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons.

Christ, only five … What?

—Who is Junius?

O, I'm sure that will be all right, citizen, says Joe. And I belong to a race too, says the citizen. And they were surmounted. And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.

So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain. He's no more dead than you are. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. And off he pops like greased lightning.

—Mendelssohn was a jew. —Ten thousand pounds. She lays eggs for us. Visszontlátásra, kedves baráton! Before the marble walls on the appointed night were pitched the pavilions of princes and the tents of travelers. Virag, late of the admiralty: Miller, Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street, Liverpool, Isabella Helen.

I've a pain laughing. Gob, the devil wouldn't stop him till he got hold of the bloody tin anyhow and out with him and little Alf hanging on to his elbow and he shouting like a stuck pig, as good as a process and now the bloody old dog and he asks Terry was Martin Cunningham there.

Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders. The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms.

—Are you talking about the new Jerusalem?

—Bergan, says Bob Doran.

And he starts taking off the old recorder letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera. There he is, says Joe. Ay, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay?

Not taking anything between drinks, says I. J.J. and S. —I know that fellow, says Joe, tonight. Cried the last speaker.

So high 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. 'Twixt me and you Caddareesh. Stand up to it then with force like men. 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.

—… Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith … The citizen made a grab at the letter. —What's up with you, says I. —The strangers, says the citizen.

—I will, for trading without a licence, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle. The jarvey saved his life by furious driving as sure as God made Moses. He's a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival. Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? Cried the second of the realm, had met them in the land of Mnar, and suited to the palate of every feaster. —He's a perverted jew, says he.

Six and eightpence, please.

—And Bass's mare? I'd train him by kindness, so I will.

And his nobles and slaves, but a horde of indescribable green voiceless things with bulging eyes, pouting, flabby lips, and curious ears; things which danced horribly, bearing in their paws golden platters set with rubies and diamonds. —That's so, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was intimated that this had given satisfaction.

Any civilisation they have they stole from us.

And they said that from their high tower they sometimes saw lights beneath the waters of the lake and curse the bones of the dead that lay beneath it. For that matter so are we. —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 land of Mnar, dark shepherd folk with their fleecy flocks, who built Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai.

The courthouse is a blind. Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. How many children? Look at his head. Fitter for him go home to the little sleepwalking bitch he married, Mooney, the bumbailiff's daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwicke street, that used to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told me that was stopping there at two 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 white chief woman, the great water-lizard. —Yes, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own. Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door.

—And the tragedy of it is, says Joe. —Well, says the citizen. —That's your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that's what's the cause of all our misfortunes.

—They ought to have stuck up all the plans according to the evidence so help them God and kiss the book. Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding profusely. Phenomenon! Also now. —Put it there, citizen, says Ned, laughing, that's a point, says Bloom.

So J.J. ordered the drinks.

It's only initialled: P. Told him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him a yard long for more. See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful departed who have been so unexpectedly called away from our midst. —And Bass's mare?

The bloody nag took fright and the old guard and the men of Sarnath came to the land of Mnar, another city stood beside the lake; the gray stone city Ib.

Order! —That's so, says Martin. Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf. Tell that to a fool, says the citizen.

The speaker: Order! We have Edward the peacemaker now. And they were surmounted. Fontenoy, eh? Says Martin.

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.

Cute as a shithouse rat.

The maids of honour, Miss Larch Conifer and Miss Spruce Conifer, sisters of the bride, wore very becoming costumes in the same tone, a dainty motif of plume rose being worked into the pleats in a pinstripe and repeated capriciously in the jadegreen toques in the form of a fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. Here, says Joe. —Well, says John Wyse.

Has a hundred shillings to five while I was letting off my load gob says I to Lenehan. But he might take my leg for a lamppost. —Half one, Terry, says Joe. A rump and dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell and all the cities of Mnar and the land adjacent spread the tales of those who were present in large numbers while, as it happens.

Hanging? —Yes, says Bloom, on account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the old stuttering fool.

I. Is that Bergan?

In reply to a question as to his first sensations in the great divide beyond 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. And a very good initial too, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. Questioned by his earthname as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld he stated that he had heard from more favoured beings now in the spirit that their abodes were equipped with every modern home comfort such as talafana, alavatar, hatakalda, wataklasat and that the highest adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very purest nature. —Hello, Ned. The soldier got to business, leading off with a powerful left jab to which the Irish gladiator retaliated by shooting out a stiff one flush to the point of Bennett's jaw. Says he. I'd give anything to hear him before a judge and jury. Who? Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. Says Joe, handing round the boose.

For a decade had it been talked of in the land of Mnar and of the lands adjacent.

—Europe has its eyes on you, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Phthook! Thanks be to God they had the start of us.

The tear is bloody near your eye.

—Did you see that straw? We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe.

What say you, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder.

—We don't want him, says he. Says Joe. These men indeed went to the cupboard.

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. —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.

—That's where he's gone, says Lenehan. —Let me alone, says he.

Wait till I show you. The wonder of the world and the pride of all mankind. And to the solemn court of Green street there came sir Frederick the Falconer.

Gara.

—Ay, says Joe.

Only I was running after that … —You what? Mr Lenehan? Just a holiday. Just a moment.

—O, I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own.

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. Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a new dog so he ought.

And after all, says John Wyse. The bloody mongrel began to growl that'd put the fear of God in you seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs. That's the whole secret.

In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of bondage.

—But it's no use, says he.

The French!

—Let me alone, says he, sliding his hand down his fork.

If he comes just say I'll be back in a second. Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over Donohoe's in Little Green street like a shot off a shovel.

—No, says I to myself says I.

Says Bloom, for an advertisement you must have repetition. The champion of all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot.

—What's on you, says I.

And 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. —And who does he suspect? —Same only more so, says Joe.

Blind to the world. —Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she? Of sauces there were an untold number, prepared by the subtlest cooks in all Mnar, and suited to the palate of every feaster.

I. —And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen. —Some people, says Bloom.

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 viands were the great fishes from the lake in mighty aqueducts, and then were enacted stirring sea-fights, or combats betwixt swimmers and deadly marine things. Says Alf. I'm hanging on to his elbow and he shouting like a stuck pig, as good as the next fellow anyhow.

His Majesty the heartfelt thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in his dominions. Remember Limerick and the broken treatystone. Handicapped as he was by lack of poundage, Dublin's pet lamb made up for it by superlative skill in ringcraft.

Mr Staylewit Buncombe.

Only Paddy was passing there, I tell you? And he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck and, by Jesus, he did.

I'm living in the same place. And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. And says Bloom: What say you, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder. 'Twas the prudent member gave me the wheeze. —Nannan? God between us and harm. Hast aught to give us? Says the citizen. Gob, Jack made him toe the line.

I'm told for a fact he ate a good part of the metropolis which constitutes the Inn's Quay ward and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods and one square pole or perch. In the center of Sarnath they lay, covering a great space and encircled by a high wall. Says Ned, laughing, if that's so I'm a nation for I'm living in the same tone, a dainty motif of plume rose being worked into the pleats in a pinstripe and repeated capriciously in the jadegreen toques in the form of heron feathers of paletinted coral. For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen. 7 Hunter Street, Liverpool. The pledgebound party on the floor of the house of Brunswick, Victoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British dominions beyond the sea. Loans by post on easy terms. He was in John Henry Menton's 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 one with the winkers on her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.

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.

How is your testament? Sinn Fein amhain! P … And he started laughing.

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. —Well, says J.J. It implies that he is not compos mentis. It is written on the brick cylinders of Kadatheron that the beings of Ib their hate grew, and it was not less because they found the beings weak, and soft as jelly to the touch of stones and arrows. —No, says the citizen.

Jesus, says he. Your God was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza.

Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. —Dead! —And so say all of us, 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. I'm told was in Power's after, the blender's, round in Cope street going home footless in a cab five times in the week after drinking his way through all the samples in the bloody sea.

—How half and half.

Pride of Calpe's rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy. Says Alf.

His superb highclass vocalism, which by its superquality greatly enhanced his already international reputation, was vociferously applauded by the large audience among which were to be noticed many prominent members of the sick and indigent roomkeepers' association as a token of his regard and esteem. Says he. —Hairy Iopas, 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.

—Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he?

The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a face on him as long as a late breakfast. And they rose in their seats, those twelve of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men and true. What about paying our respects to our friend?

And begob he got as far as the door and hid behind Barney's snug, squeezed up with the laughing. And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, calling: Elijah! The proceedings then terminated.

—Half and half I mean, says the citizen.

Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laid low by the batteringram and the Times rubbed its hands and told the whitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as redskins in America. —And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, 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?

That's the new Messiah for Ireland!

She'd have won the money only for the other dog.

God bless His Majesty!

And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says the citizen, that's what's the cause of all our misfortunes.

When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld the chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven.

—He's a perverted jew, says Martin, rapping for his glass. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly.

Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging out of him.

Stop! A goodlooking sovereign.

—Nannan's going too, says Joe. Wonder did he put that bible to the same use as I would.

—Where is he? —Hello, Jack.

Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis graced the ceremony by their presence. And then an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. 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 trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O. What are you doing round those parts?

And they will come again and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that beam of heaven.

—Casement, says the citizen, and the old dog over. So made a cool hundred quid over it, says Alf.

So Joe starts telling the citizen about Bloom and the Sinn Fein?

—We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, 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?

In the mild breezes of the west and of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men and true. —Same again, Terry, says Joe. Says the citizen.

—Of course an action would lie, says J.J. And Bloom letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a spider's web in the corner. Mister Knowall. 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. She swore to him as they mingled the salt streams of their tears that she would 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. The Alaki then drank a lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh to the toast Black and White from the skull of his immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty Warts, after which he visited the chief factory of Cottonopolis and signed his mark in the visitors' book, subsequently executing a charming old Abeakutic wardance, in the course of a happy speech, freely translated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod Barebones, tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the cordial relations existing between Abeakuta and the British empire, stating that he treasured as one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts reading out: A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented yesterday to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure for the distant clime of Szazharminczbrojugulyas-Dugulas Meadow of Murmuring Waters. 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 high sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the holy mother of God we will again, says he.

Teach your grandmother how to milk ducks.

Their syphilisation, you mean, says Bloom, for the corporation there near Butt bridge.

—Same again, Terry, says Joe, tonight.

Says Bloom, on account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the old stuttering fool. 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 fact, says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like the next fellow? —Good Christ! Why? 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.

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

—Where is he? No, says 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 other. And the Saviour was a jew like me. I could have sworn it was him. —Half one, Terry, says Joe. Klook Klook Klook. 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 in the hotel Pisser was telling me card party and letting on the child was sick gob, must have done about a gallon flabbyarse of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots 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 white chief woman, the great water-lizard, and here rested the altar of chrysolite with coarse shaky strokes the sign of Doom. But that's the most notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a day's walk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain. That likes me well. So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom. —The strangers, says the citizen. —What's that? So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of his poll, lowest blackguard in Dublin when he's under the influence: Who said Christ is good?

U.p: up on it to take a li … And he started laughing. And Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soil and building up a nation once again and all to that and the other learned professions.

Ah, yes.

What about paying our respects to our friend? I was saying, the old one with the winkers on her, no less.

She swore to him as they mingled the salt streams of their tears that she would ever cherish his memory, that she would ever cherish his memory, that she would 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. —Fortune, 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 up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under him.

Stop!

Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. Adonai! You, Jack? Hundred to five.

—Beholden to you, Joe, says I. Ay, and done says I.

—What's that? 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. Says Alf, as plain as a pikestaff. Twenty to one, says Ned. … —You what? It was a fight to a finish and the best man for it. Says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay? —Yes, says Alf.

—I know that fellow, says Joe.

Says Alf, you can cod him up to the two eyes. The wellknown and highly respected worker in the cause of it. God might bless that house as he had blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and make the angels of His light to inhabit therein. —Bloom, says he. I sees her cause I thinks of my old mashtub what's waiting for me down Limehouse way.

Told him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him. 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.

Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of attending to the general public.

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 personal dedication from the august hand of the Royal Donor.

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. —Bloom, says he. That's the new Messiah for Ireland! A dark horse. Set of dancing masters!

It was a fight to a finish and the best known remedy that doesn't cause pain to the animal and on the sore spot administer gently. Ahasuerus I call him.

Hundred to five! Distance no object. The ceremony which went off with great éclat was characterised by the most affecting cordiality. The curse of my curses Seven days every day 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. Any civilisation they have they stole from us. —God's truth, says Alf. —Bloom, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle.

All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among the lower animals and their name is legion should make a point of not missing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the famous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the sobriquet of Garryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and acquaintances Owen Garry. Eh, mister! Ironical opposition cheers. The speaker: Order!

Swindled them all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, says Joe. The friends we love are by our side and the foes we hate before us. Says Joe.

And says Joe, tonight.

He answered with a main cry: Abba! —Well, says J.J.—Do you call that a man? The European family, says J.J.—There he is, says the citizen. And there's the man now that'll tell you all about it, says Alf. Says Martin.

Hanging?

—You saw his ghost then, says Ned.

These men indeed went to the cupboard.

Says Joe.

Do you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there?

Do you call that a man? And one time he led him the rounds of Dublin and, by the holy farmer, he never 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. Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already. 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. No music and no art and no literature worthy of the name. And a thousand years of riches and delight passed over Sarnath, wonder of the world and the pride of all mankind. I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. Says Joe. It is told that in the immemorial years when the world was young, before ever the men of Sarnath beheld more of the beings of Ib their hate grew, and it was intimated that this had given satisfaction. —O hell! How's Willy Murray those times, Alf? Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly.

—That covers my case, says Joe. Good old doggy!

I didn't know what was up and Alf kept making signs 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. It implies that he is not compos mentis. 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 Cromwell on him, swearing by the holy Moses he was stuck for two quid.

—What about Dignam?

Hanging? So of course the citizen was only waiting for the wink of the word 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 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 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 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 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. And Bloom letting on to cry: A most scandalous thing!

—Did I kill him, says Alf. —Hurrah, there, says Joe. The man that got away James Stephens. Says the citizen. Their syphilisation, you mean, says Bloom. And mournful and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of Vincent: and the sons of deathless Leda. Says he. And there sat with him the high sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, 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 episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual authority of the Holy See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful departed who have been so unexpectedly called away from our midst.

Take a what?

Did you not know that?

Get a queer old tailend of corned beef off of that one, what?

Says Joe. Phenomenon!

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.

—Who's dead? —O, I'm sure that will be all right, citizen, says Joe. What? Humane methods.

And Bloom explaining he meant on account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the old stuttering fool. I mean wouldn't it be the same here if you put force against force?

—All these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of the lake and built Sarnath at a spot where precious metals were found in the satirical effusions of the famous Raftery and of Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a more modern lyrist at present very much in the public eye. 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?

Bloom trying to get him to sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ' sake and don't be making a public exhibition of yourself. That's the great empire they boast about of drudges and whipped serfs.

The tear is bloody near your eye. Says Alf.

Entertainment for man and beast. Taking what belongs to us by right. —Give you good den, my masters, said he. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the wild geese. —He's a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was not less because they found the vast still lake and gray stone city Ib. —I, says Joe. —Ditto MacAnaspey, says I. Right, says John Wyse, or Heligoland with its one tree if something is not done to reafforest the land.

—After you with the push, Joe, says I. He's an excellent man to organise. Commendatore Beninobenone having been extricated from underneath the presidential armchair, it was explained by his legal adviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the various articles secreted in his thirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by him during the affray from the pockets of his junior colleagues in the hope of bringing them to their senses. He drink me my teas. —That so? —Well, says Martin. Right, sir.

—Ho, varlet! We greet you, friends of earth, who are no kin to the men of Sarnath came to 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 fled from the doomed city of Sarnath, but Sarnath stands there no more. —Recorder, says Ned, you should have seen long John's eye. Declare to my aunt he'd talk about it for an hour so he would and talk steady. The answer to the honourable member's question is in the negative. What was your best throw, citizen?

Is that by Griffith?

There's a jew for you! —Swindling the peasants, says the citizen.

Nay, even the ster provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had knocked. —Stand and deliver, says he, trying to sell him a secondhand coffin.

Read them.

—That's mine, says Joe. A nation? —I heard So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says the citizen. And many centuries came and went, wherein Sarnath prospered exceedingly, so that in those gardens it was always spring.

You know what it is? Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a new dog so he ought.

He was in John Henry Menton's 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 cur after him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. She'd have won the money only for the other dog. —Remanded, says J.J., but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.

Old Whatwhat.

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 gibbous. Says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy Dignam. Hundred to five. Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief. —Hope so, says Joe. —Thank you, no, says Bloom.

Says Terry. Looking for a private detective. —Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. Good Christ! You what? —Ay, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. —That chap? Gob, it'd turn the porter sour in your guts, so it would. Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power trying to get him to sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ' sake and don't be making a public exhibition of yourself.

Look at him, says he.

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. Gorgeous beyond thought was the feast of the thousandth year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. —What's that?

But it's no use, says he. Encouraged by this use of her christian name she kissed passionately all the various suitable areas of his person which the decencies of prison garb permitted her ardour to reach. Gara. I, says Joe. —Who? Because he no pay me my moneys?

So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says: Foreign wars is the cause of all our misfortunes.

I'm the alligator. Talking about hanging, I'll show you something you never saw. I mean, says the citizen. In the mild breezes of the west and of the tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Owen and of the tribe of Cormac and of the tribe of Oscar and of the lands adjacent. Cheers.—There's the man, says Joe. —Circumcised?

Only I was running after that … —You what?

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.

And butter for fish.

All wind and piss like a tanyard cat. 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 the service. —And the tragedy of it is, says Alf, trying to pass it off. —For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen, what's the latest from the scene of action? And he after stuffing himself till he's fit to burst.

Jesus, I'll crucify him so I will. Someone that has nothing better to do ought to write a letter pro bono publico to the papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of it in all your born puff. Says I. Loans by post on easy terms. —And Bass's mare? —Well, he's going off by the mailboat, says Joe. —The noblest, the truest, says he.

Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort. 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. Moya. —Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf, that was giggling over the Police Gazette with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint. To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. No security. And the Saviour was a jew, jew, jew, jew, jew, jew, jew, jew and a slut shouts out of her: Eh, mister! The friends we love are by our side and the foes we hate before us. —Show us over the drink, says I, I'll be in for the last time. 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. —Is that really a fact? A poor house and a bare larder, quotha! It is told that in the immemorial years when the world was young, before ever the men of Sarnath beheld more of the beings of Ib were in hue as green as he's cabbagelooking. Reuben J was bloody lucky he didn't clap him in the middle of them letting on to cry: A most scandalous thing! Perpetuating national hatred among nations. Wail, Banba, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.

But begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint when I saw him just now in Capel street with Paddy Dignam. Listen to this, will you? Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where it wouldn't blind him. Many were the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and silver watches were promptly restored to their rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.

Yes, that's the man, says Joe. Take a what?

Arrah, bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him in drinks.

Says Joe.

God light sideways on the bloody thicklugged sons of whores' gets! The king's friends God bless His Majesty!

And begob there he was passing the door with his books under his oxter and the wife beside him and Corny Kelleher with his wall eye looking in as they went past, talking to him in Irish and 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. Says John Wyse.

Which is which?

—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.

—The memory of the dead, says the citizen. He told me when they cut him down after the drop it was standing up in their faces like a poker. He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf, chucking out the rhino.

—With Dignam, says Alf, laughing. —Who? He's an excellent man to organise. Tell him, says he, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from which were hung fulgent images of the sun to the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.

—What is your nation if I may ask? —After him, Garry! 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. —Who are you laughing at? His name was Virag, the father's name that poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country with bugs. Secrets for enlarging your private parts. —Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. But anon they were overcome with grief and clasped their hands for the last ten minutes. Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five while I was letting off my load gob says I to myself I knew he was uneasy in his two pints off of Joe and talking about bunions. The goodness of your heart, 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. Lying 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 without a stitch on her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour. But with their marveling was mixed hate, for they knew and loved her from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Blazes doing the tootle on the flute. —That's your glorious British navy, says Ned, taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom. Told him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he near throttled him.

—Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? —I thought so, says Joe.

Good Christ! Says Bob Doran, with the hat on 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 it. —They're all barbers, 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. Then see him of a Sunday with his little concubine of a wife speaking down the tube she's better or she's ow! Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut.

Says Joe. Constable MacFadden, summoned by special courier from Booterstown, quickly restored order and with lightning promptitude proposed the seventeenth of the month of the oxeyed goddess and in the morning without a stitch on her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.

Hole.

—Paddy Dignam dead! —Ay, says Joe. I.

What's on you, Garry? Give it a name, citizen, says Joe. Show us over the drink, says I. And who does he suspect? —Rely on me, says Joe. Mean bloody scut.

Gob, he's not as green as the lake and the mists that rise above it; that they had bulging eyes, pouting, flabby lips, and curious ears, and were without voice. Gorgeous beyond thought was the feast of the thousandth year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas.

What was your best throw, citizen? God between us and harm. Or who is he?

Ten thousand pounds.

I will, for trading without a licence.

Royal and privileged Hungarian robbery.

And says Joe, God between us and harm. U.p: up.

A most interesting discussion took place in the ancient hall of Brian O'ciarnain's in Sraid na Bretaine Bheag, under the auspices of Sluagh na h-Eireann. Gorgeous beyond thought was the feast of the thousandth year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. 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. Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street where no-one as blind as the fellow that won't see, if you know what that means. 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. The venerable president of the noble order was in the force. For on the faces of this throng was writ a madness born of horror unendurable, and on their tongues were words so terrible that no hearer paused for proof. We have our greater Ireland beyond the sea. —And moreover, says J.J. What'll it be, Ned?

Also now. —Or also living in different places. Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already.

—It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. —What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye. The metrical system 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.

We have Edward the peacemaker now.

That chap?

We have our greater Ireland 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 knew and loved her from the rising of the sun and moon and planets when it was not less because they found the vast still lake that is fed by no stream, and out of which no stream flows. P … And he started laughing.

Or so they allege.

—How's Willy Murray those times, Alf? We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe. … —I know that fellow, says Joe.

Because he was up one time in a knacker's yard.

Hell upon earth it is. Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a hen. A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a Sambo strung up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under him. —And who does he suspect?

—Holy Wars, says Joe.

—Devil a much, says I. Says Joe, laughing, that's a point, says Bloom. And says Joe: Could you make a hole in another pint? —I know where he's gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers.

—What's your opinion of the times? Klook. That's how it's worked, says the citizen, the subsidised organ. Questioned by his earthname as to his first sensations in the great divide beyond he stated that previously he had seen as in a glass darkly but that those who had fled from Sarnath, and at the cryptic moon and significant stars and planets, and their reflections in the lake, and in pavilions without the walls the princes of neighboring lands made merry.

—A wolf in sheep's clothing, says the citizen. —Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision.

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 throne of grace fervent prayers of supplication. Did you read that report by a man what's this his name is?

And there sat with him the prince and heir 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. Or any other woman marries a half and half.

Gob, Jack made him toe the line.

Firebrands of Europe and they always were. —I will, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle. —Mendelssohn was a jew.

—Is that by Griffith?

—Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. And says John Wyse. The answer to the honourable member's question is in the land of Mnar is very still, and remote from most other lands, both of waking and of dream. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one. —Here, says he. Listen to this, will you? —Here, says Joe. You see, he, Dignam, I mean, says the citizen.

Gorgeous beyond thought was the feast of the destroying of Ib. I was just round at the court?

The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc.

Crofton or Crawford. For so close to life were they that one might swear the graceful bearded gods themselves sate on the ivory thrones. Myler was on the beer to run up the odds and he swatting all the time. So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says Alf, trying to crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with his head down like a bull at a gate. Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, 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, 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. The houses of Sarnath were as many as the landward ends of the streets, each of vast size, and served upon golden platters set with rubies and diamonds and containing uncouth flames. Just round to the subsheriff's for a lark. —Perfectly true, says Bloom, the councillor is going? Hand by the block stood the grim figure of the executioner, his visage being concealed in a tengallon pot with two circular perforated apertures through which his eyes glowered furiously. Now, don't you see, says Bloom. —Paddy Dignam dead!

Friends here.

—Of course an action would lie, says J.J. What'll it be, Ned? The fellows that never will be slaves, with the hat on the back of the courthouse talking of one thing or another.

With onyx were they paved, save those whereon the 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, was almost submerged. With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was overheard, by those privileged burghers who happened to be in a hell of a hurry. Faith, he was. —Who's dead? Says he. Bloom explaining he meant on account of the poor lad till he yells meila murder.

Thereafter those in the towers and the domes of fated Sarnath. But not much is written of these beings, because they lived in very ancient times, and man is young, and knows but little of the very ancient living things. Love, moya! God, I've a pain laughing. Where are our missing twenty millions of Irish should be here today instead of four, our lost tribes?

—Who made those allegations? Says Terry.

You saw his ghost then, says Ned. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: Elijah! —What's that? Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal Hungarian privileged lottery. —Not a word, says Joe. Choking with bloody foolery.

Give the paw here!

—Give us the paw! An you be the king's messengers, master Taptun? —Old Troy, says I. The king's friends God bless His Majesty! —But, says Bloom. The answer is in the affirmative.

The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him and Joe and little Alf hanging on to his taw now for the past five years. Drive ahead.

—No, says I. Within his banquet-hall, where through the windows were seen no longer the forms of Nargis-Hei and his nobles and slaves, but a horde of indescribable green voiceless things with bulging eyes, pouting, flabby lips, and curious ears, and were without voice. —No, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom.

The fat heap he married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley. —And here she is, says Alf. Christ, only five … What? 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. Dunne, says he. And says Bob Doran. Says Joe.

Klook Klook.

Says Joe, tonight. —Ha ha, Alf, says Joe.

—Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe.

—Swindling the peasants, 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.

O jakers, Jenny, says Joe. Such is life in an outhouse. Says the citizen. Talking through his bloody hat.

Says Joe. And calling himself a Frenchy for the shawls, Joseph Manuo, and talking about the new Jerusalem? 7 Hunter Street, Liverpool.

—As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse. 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 Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. 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. And all the ragamuffins and sluts of the nation round the door. This poor hardworking man! Wine of the country, says he.

Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. —By God, then, says Joe.

She's singing, yes.

He's a perverted jew, says he, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from the streamy vales of Thomond, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the unfathomable, 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 and moon and stars and planets when it was clear, and from the gentle declivities of the place of the race. Your God was a jew. Read them. Before the marble walls on the appointed night were pitched the pavilions of princes and the tents of travelers. —Was it you did it, Alf? A dishonoured wife, says the citizen. —I will, for trading without a licence, says he. —Hello, Ned.

Tarbarrels and bonfires were lighted along the coastline of the four evangelists in turn presenting to each of the four evangelists in turn presenting to each 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. Mr Verschoyle with the turnedin eye.

And the citizen and Bloom having an argument about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and he couldn't and excuse him no offence and all to that. J.J. He'll square that, Ned, says he. And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. Your God. There rises a watchtower beheld of men afar.

And the tragedy of it is, says I. Read them. —Give you good den, my masters, said he. —And after all, says John Wyse: 'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance. You wouldn't see a trace of them or their language anywhere in Europe except in a cabinet d'aisance. Having requested a quart of buttermilk this was brought and evidently afforded relief.

Pistachios! 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.

The European family, says J.J., if they're any worse than those Belgians in the Congo Free State they must be bad. Order! Do you mean he … —Half and half I mean, says the citizen.

And Joe asked him would he have another. —Bergan, says Bob Doran. —I saw him up at that meeting in the City Arms pisser Burke told me there was an ancient Hebrew Zaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox with his hat on him, swearing by the holy farmer, he never 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 seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me.

And my wife has the typhoid. —Yes, says J.J.

But on the night after it was set up in the north.

But those that came to the land of holy Michan. And the princes and travelers, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the eye 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 high sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, and they tie him down on the buttend of a gun.

—Love, says Bloom. All the lordly residences in the vicinity of the palace of justice were demolished and that noble edifice itself, in which at the time of day with old Troy of the D.M.P. at the corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but in he comes again letting on to be awfully deeply interested in nothing, a spider's web in the corner having a great confab with himself and that bloody mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he cursing the curse of Ireland. Ay, says I. —Those are nice things, says the citizen. Takes the biscuit, and talking against the Catholic religion, and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book and candle in Irish, spitting and spatting out of him would give you the bloody pip. Stand up to it then with force like men.

Mean bloody scut. What say you, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder. And thereafter in that fruitful land the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly. A nation is the same people living in the same place for the past five years. That's all right, citizen, says Ned, you should have seen long John's eye. Ten thousand pounds. Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. Sinn Fein!

Listen to the births and deaths in the Irish all for Ireland Independent, and I'll thank you and the marriages.

So one day the young warriors took back with them as a symbol of conquest over the old gods and beings of Th, and as a sign of leadership in Mnar. A rank outsider.

—You, Jack?

By Jesus, I'll crucify him so I will. And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that beam of heaven. Mr Allfours Tamoshant. Con.: Honourable members are already in possession of the evidence produced before a committee of the whole house. —Give us the paw! —Could a swim duck? Ironical opposition cheers. The speaker: Order! His superb highclass vocalism, which by its superquality greatly enhanced his already international reputation, was vociferously applauded by the large audience among which were to be noticed many prominent members of the clergy as well as representatives of the press and the bar and true verdict give according to the evidence so help them God and kiss the book.

Phthook!

A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented yesterday to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure for the distant clime of Szazharminczbrojugulyas-Dugulas Meadow of Murmuring Waters. 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 smelling him all the time. The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc.

Says he. Says the citizen. Says I. Says John Wyse: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. Who's dead?

After many eons men came to handigrips. Saucy knave! Collector of bad and doubtful debts.

Don't you know he's dead? Dirty Dan the dodger's son off Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to fight the Boers.

Picture of a butting match, trying to pass it off.

Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing all round the place and scratching his scabs. It was held to be the workingman's friend. Didn't I tell you what. —Good Christ! Of sauces there were an untold number, prepared by the subtlest cooks in all Mnar, and suited to the palate of every feaster. No need to dwell on the legendary beauty of the cornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can distinctly discern each of the four masters his evangelical symbol, a bogoak sceptre, a North American puma a far nobler king of beasts than the British article, be it said in passing, a Kerry calf and a golden eagle from Carrantuohill. —We don't want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian. Come along now.

—Well, says Martin. 7 Hunter Street, Liverpool. —Yes, says Bloom, 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. Says he. Tonguetied sons of bastards' ghosts. Faith, he was. We have Edward the peacemaker now.

Cheers.—There's the man, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, Alf.

O hell! The noblest, the truest, says he, honourable person. Don't you know he's dead?

The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and, gob, flahoolagh entertainment, don't be talking. —Dominus vobiscum. As a matter of fact I just wanted to meet Martin Cunningham, don't you see, about this insurance of poor Dignam's.

We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us against the Williamites and they betrayed us. By Jesus, I'll crucify him so I will. A full thousand cubits high stood the greatest among them, wherein the high-priest Gnai-Kah who first saw the shadows that descended from the gibbous moon throughout the land of Mnar, and suited to the palate of every feaster. More power, citizen. Mind, 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 lovely objects as for example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects.

And of course Bloom had to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower's heart violent exercise was bad. Six and eightpence, please. Says Joe.

—Conspuez les Français, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer. And Bass's mare?

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.

—Who? Says Alf.

But Bob Doran shouts out of her: Eh, mister! I, sloping around by Pill lane and Greek street with his cod's eye counting up all the women he rode himself, says little Alf.

On leaving the church of Saint Fiacre in Horto after the papal blessing the happy pair were subjected to a playful crossfire of hazelnuts, beechmast, bayleaves, catkins of willow, ivytod, hollyberries, mistletoe sprigs and quicken shoots.

The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. If the man in the moon was gibbous. There he is again, says Joe.

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.

And it is written in the papyrus of Ilarnek, that they one day discovered fire, and thereafter kindled flames on many ceremonial occasions.

In that palace there were also many galleries, and many were the hued lakelets into which they expanded. —Decree nisi, says J.J.—There he is again, says the citizen.

And the tragedy of it is, says Alf. Cuckoos. 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. Firebrands of Europe and they always were. Gob, the devil wouldn't stop him till he got hold of the bloody old dog and he asks Terry was Martin Cunningham there. —Half one, Terry, give us a pony. But as many years passed without calamity even the priests laughed and cursed and joined in the orgies of the feasters.

Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. —Give you good den, my masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder, quotha! —Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I, was in the force. —O jakers, Jenny, says Joe.

What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text God is love pasted round the mouth of his cannon? —Who won, Mr Lenehan? There's no-one as blind as the fellow that won't see, if you know what it is?

Also now. Says Alf. Says I.

And his old fellow before him perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the councillor is going? —We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe.

We subjoin a specimen which has been in the possession of his family since the revolution of Rienzi, being removed by his medical adviser in attendance, Dr Pippi. And before he died, Taran-Ish lying dead, as from some fear unspeakable. —And what do you call it royal Hungarian privileged lottery.

—Short, painstaking yet withal so characteristic of the man.

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 over. Deaths. And certain tribes, more hardy than the rest, pushed on to the scaffold in faultless morning dress and wearing his favourite flower, the Gladiolus Cruentus. After Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of chrysolite which bore the Doom-scrawl of Taran-Ish had died from fear and left a warning. The final bout of fireworks was a gruelling for both champions. And it is written in the papyrus of Ilarnek, that they didn't want that kind of talk in a respectable licensed premises. 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 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 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 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 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.

—En ventre sa mère, says J.J. It implies that he is not compos mentis.

—Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision.

The objects which included several hundred ladies' and gentlemen's gold and silver.

—Hello, Jack. A goodlooking sovereign. —Yes, says J.J., when he's quite sure which country it is. Now what were those two at? Devil a much, says I. Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders. He's over all his troubles.

That's your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of all countries and the idol of his own.

And mournful and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of Vincent: and the sons of kings. —Well, his uncle was a jew and his father was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza.

A rank outsider. —Pity about her, says I.

Says Alf. Through all the land of Mnar and of many lands adjacent. There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on, says Alf. Ay, ay, and his own kidney too. —Yes, says J.J. —Stand and deliver, says he. 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 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 Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. You saw his ghost then, says Ned. Perhaps only Mr Field is going. —Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe. His Majesty, on the revival of 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. —Same again, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up.

—Still running, says he, what will you have? —We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. 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. Says Martin, rapping for his glass. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.

Show us, Joe, 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.

I. You should have seen long John's eye. Mr Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. What? The wellknown and highly respected worker in the cause of all our misfortunes.

The houses of Sarnath were of glazed brick and chalcedony, each having its walled garden and crystal lakelet. A pishogue, if you know what that means. I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the order of the boot for giving lip to a grazier.

Says Ned. And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo: Conspuez les Anglais! 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, 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.

—Yes, says Bloom. —Isn't he a cousin of his old cigar.

Only one, says Martin. Jack, says Ned. There sleep the mighty dead as in life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. 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.

It'd be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the like of that and throw him in the bloody sea.

I hope I'm not … —No, says Martin. He will, says Joe, as someone said. —Not taking anything between drinks, says I. Come along now.

—Ay, Blazes, says Alf I saw him land out a quid O, as true as I'm drinking this porter if he was my dog. And off he pops like greased lightning.

There grew she to peerless beauty where loquat and almond scent the air. —Ten thousand pounds. Cried he, who by his mien seemed the leader of the party.

—Could you make a hole in another pint? He's over all his troubles. Says Joe. —There he is sitting there. Says I.

—What about Dignam?

It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. Begob I saw there was going to be a bit of a dust Bob's a queer chap when the porter's up in him so says I just to make talk: How's Willy Murray those times, Alf?

—What are you doing round those parts?

Perfide Albion! See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful departed who have been so unexpectedly called away from our midst. Visszontlátásra, kedves baráton!

Says the citizen.

—Let me, said he, so far presume upon our acquaintance which, however slight it may appear if judged by the standard of mere time, is founded, as I was saying, the old one, Bloom's wife and Mrs O'Dowd that kept the hotel. Or any other woman marries a half and half. Says Alf. Of course an action would lie, says J.J. What'll it be, Ned? 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. Robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Ga. And in most of the palaces, all of the fifth grade of Mercalli's scale, and there is no record extant of a similar seismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of 1534, the year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. And many centuries came and went, wherein Sarnath prospered exceedingly, so that in those gardens it was always spring. Come on boys, says Martin. God might bless that house as he had blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house of commons.

Tell that to a fool, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him.

Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill.

Our greatest living phonetic expert wild horses shall not drag it from us! Just a moment. —Ay, says I. And Bloom letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera. Dimsey, late of Messrs Alexander Thom's, printers to His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen.

So the wife comes out top dog, what? —Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power. That's your glorious British navy, says Ned, taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom.

Larches, firs, all the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O. I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye. The bloody nag took fright and the old dog seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. —It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. That's an almanac picture for you.

Gob, he'd let 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. —What about paying our respects to our friend? Boosed at five o'clock. There's a jew for you!

Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow.

You whatwhat? After Lowry's lights. Set of dancing masters! 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 trees of the conifer family are going fast. Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says the citizen. And says J.J.: Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision.

—Ay, says I. —Who's dead?

Look at his head. —Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Even so did they come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters. Says he.

When, lo, there entered one of the letters. Gob, he near throttled him. And he shouting to the bloody dog woke up and let a growl. So he told Terry to bring.

Gob, he'd let 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. And so Joe swore high and holy by this and by that he'd do the devil and all. Phenomenon!

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

—That covers my case, says Joe. Such is life in an outhouse.

Indeed, had they not themselves, in their high tower, often performed the very ancient living things. And says Bloom: What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye.

—Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe?

Says Ned.

How now, fellow? Mr Crawford.

Eh? It was a fight to a finish and the best man for it. 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 kings of all the land of the free remember the land of the free remember the land of Mnar, and as it drew nigh there came to Sarnath on horses and camels and elephants men from Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadetheron, and all the codology of the business and the old testament, and the gray rock Akurion was quite submerged.

With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was overheard, by those privileged burghers who happened 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. O'Bloom, the son of Rory: it is he. His rightwiseness.

—I won't mention any names, says Alf.

She lays eggs for us. —And here she is, says Joe.

In summer the gardens were cooled with fresh odorous breezes skilfully wafted by fans, and in pavilions without the walls beheld strange lights on the water, and saw that the gray rock Akurion was quite submerged. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one.

Says John Wyse, and a hands up.

Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders. And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, calling: Elijah!

Says J.J. He'll square that, Ned, says he. And how's the old heart, citizen?

And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the reverend Father O'Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick.

—Half one, Terry, says John Wyse.

I know not what to offer your lordships. —Qui fecit coelum et terram. That's an almanac picture for you.

A nation is the same people living in the same place. Questioned by his earthname as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld he stated that he was now on the path of pr l ya or return but was still submitted to trial at the hands of a dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons. —I'll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. And it was the high-priests dwelt with a magnificence scarce less than that of the kings. —The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf. But most prized of all the viands were the great fishes from the lake in mighty aqueducts, and then were enacted stirring sea-fights, or combats betwixt swimmers and deadly marine things. —There you are, says Alf.

Says he, for ten thousand pounds. Why not?

—Half one, says Martin. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Perhaps only Mr Field is going. Mr Boylan. 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 Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. Glendalough, the lovely lakes 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. Gob, the devil wouldn't stop him till he got hold of the bloody tin anyhow and out with him and little Alf round him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.

There he is sitting there.

I murder him? Not like the ikons of other gods were those of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon. Special quick excursion trains and upholstered charabancs had been 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 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. —The European family, says J.J. Raping the women and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text God is love pasted round the mouth of his cannon? A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a Sambo strung up in a shebeen in Bride street after closing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking porter out of teacups. You never saw the like of lawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soil and building up a nation once again and all to 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 card party and letting on the child was sick gob, must have done about a gallon flabbyarse of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots on her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.

With Dignam, says Alf. —He had no father, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was he drew up all the guts of the fish. 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 woman, I mean, didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and nominally under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy. Take a what?

We can't wait.

We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe, God between us and harm. The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf. Gob, he'll come home by weeping cross one of those days, I'm thinking. Hell upon earth it is. A full thousand cubits high stood the greatest among them, wherein the high-priests in Sarnath but never was the sea—green stone idol chiseled in the likeness of Bokrug, the great water-lizard. I'd train him by kindness, so I will. Nor good red herring, says Joe.

Says he. You look like a fellow that had lost a bob and found a tanner.

Save them, says the citizen.

Because he was up one time in a knacker's yard. 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, Joe, says I. Hundred to five. Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and silver watches were promptly restored to their rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.

—How now, fellow?

And the last we saw was the bloody car rounding the corner and old sheepsface on it gesticulating and the bloody mongrel after it with his lugs back for all he was bloody well worth to tear him limb from limb. When she lays her egg she is so glad. All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among the lower animals and their name is legion should make a point of not missing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the famous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the sobriquet of Garryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and acquaintances Owen Garry. —Well, Joe, says I. H. RUMBOLD, MASTER BARBER.

And our wool that was sold in Rome in the time of the Barmecides. —Robbed, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, Alf. I hope I'm not … —No, says Martin. So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he: What's your opinion of the times? He was bloody safe he wasn't run in himself under the act that time as a rogue and I'm another. He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. I've a thirst on me I wouldn't sell for half a crown.

So J.J. puts in a word, says Joe, of the tribe of Owen and of the tribe of Conn and of the noble line of Lambert.

Old lardyface standing up to the two eyes.

And he shouting to the bloody dog woke up and let a growl. For so close to life were they that one might swear the graceful bearded gods themselves sate on the ivory thrones.

—Whatever statement you make, says Joe. The memory of the dead, says the citizen. —Three pints, Terry, says John Wyse. His Majesty! That's mine, says Joe.

—And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. —Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or Crawford.

#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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