#and if i said i kin ben from descendants

[versusvirtuous]

Me fighting the urge to make a blog just about Ben from Descendants

[breanime]

Vampire! Boys!

warning: mentions of blood, mentions of steam

Billy Russo: Billy had walked the earth for centuries, taking what he wanted and building his empire as he went. When he met you, he was just looking for another fun affair, but you were... special. Intoxicating. He found himself not even bothering to glamour you, he just revealed himself to you, trusting that you wouldn’t try to destroy him--and you didn’t. If anything, you loved him more. And the taste of you--the taste was fantastic. Billy had to remind himself not to drain you when he had his fangs in you--which was also out of the norm for him. He’d killed many a human in his time, never regretting his actions, but with you, he wanted to keep you, no matter how delicious you were. So one day, as you came down from his attentions, his hand covering the two small holes in your neck, he smiled as he looked at you. “I want you to know,” he began, “that I don’t do this often, but... You’ve changed things... My perspective... So....” He leaned close, his dark eyes making your breath hitch in your throat. “...Do you love me?” He watched you nod. “Do you want to be with me... for all eternity?” When you nodded again, his smile grew, and you watched his fangs glimmer before he descended on you. 

Logan Delos: Logan’s entire existence had been dedicated to pleasure. So when he met you, he wasn’t concerned with destiny or fate--all he wanted was to have some fun. But the more time he spent with you, the more he started to fall for you, and the first time you let him drink from you... God, it was like seeing the sun again. He was actually shaking from the force of it, of you... And it was then that Logan realized that all of his lovers, all of his conquests were just ways to pass the time until he got to you. You tasted so good, so perfect, when Logan pulled back, all he could do was stare at you for a moment--feeling more human as he looked at you then he did when he was still alive... He grabbed you then, making love to you while your blood was still wet and warm on his lips. 

Jax Teller: Jax was a well-known vampire, the Tellers were some of the oldest vamps in the city, so you knew what he was when he approached you. But he had a smile and a swag that was just so... human, it almost made you forget what he was. Almost. But then he leaned in close to you, his blue eyes strikingly clear in the night sky, and said “I’ve been wanting to get my fangs in you for so long, darlin’.... What do you say?” You said yes, and as soon as his fangs penetrated your skin, you were crying out in pleasure--you’d been bitten before, but it never felt so orgasmic. Jax held you tight, and you could feel his grin against your skin as he fed. He was careful not to take too much, and when he felt your knees weaken, he pulled back, smiling. He picked you up, licking his lips. “Let’s get you home, sweetheart... and see how much you can take.” 

Coco Cruz: The entire town knew to avoid Coco Cruz. He was a vampire, and a violent one at that. But you were curious, and brave, so when you marched up to his home and introduced yourself, you caught him off guard. Coco didn’t like consorting with humans, but he liked you. And he loved your taste. “Fuck,” he groaned, his mouth on your neck and his hand on your breast, “baby... I can’t get enough of you.” You wiggled underneath him, turned on and getting weaker by the second. He chuckled when he pulled back, sensing your mood. As he held you, Coco knew that he would never be able to let you go. You were his now. He’d do anything to protect you, anything to make you happy...even interact with other humans. 

Angel Reyes: Angel was the only vampire you’d ever met who wore silver, even though it burned him. But the bracelet he wore on his wrist was his mother’s, and that fact was one of the many reason that you fell for him. Angel never tried to hide what he was from you, and when he drank your blood, he would always cuddle you afterwards. He was reluctant, at first, when you asked him to turn you... He didn’t want to condemn you to a life in the shadows, but he also didn’t want to have to sit back and watch you die from old age. The two of you talked about it at length, and he finally agreed. Once he turned you, the two of you traveled the world together, quickly becoming legends in your own right. 

Miguel Galindo: The Galindo clan was known all over the world. They were a prominent family when they were human, and their power and wealth only grew once they became vampires. Miguel was said to be the most powerful of all of his kin, and when you first met him, you could feel his strength in the air. He wasn’t what you expected; he was suave and controlled--charming. So much so that you ended up in his bed--because Miguel Galindo did NOT sleep in a coffin. But when he first fed from you, you saw a different side of him. Miguel was careful not to hurt you, but he was rougher than he’d ever been. His fangs felt incredible in your flesh, and you sighed as he drank, his hands roaming your body, his touch possessive and firm. Afterwards, he fed you grapes as you lay in his lap, smiling down at you. “You’re mine now,” he said, and for a second, you thought he was just being sweet, but when you looked up at him, you saw how dark his eyes had gotten, “I marked you,” he explained, “You’re mine. And you will be, for the rest of our lives.”

Nick Amaro: It was hard for Nick to be a Latino vampire in the NYPD, and you respected him for being so outspoken about it. He refused to drink from humans, consuming animal blood or the synthetic blood the government produced, but he was still dangerous-- a fact that only made you want him more. His fangs come out when he’s in a high emotional state, the first time you saw him was when he was interrogating a particularly disgusting suspect. You saw them again the first time you made love--his fangs descended as he came, and it was sexy as hell. You’d been together for five years before you brought up the subject of him drinking from you. There’d been a pause in the production of synthetic blood, and animal blood could only do so much for him. Nick refused, at first, but the more you talked about it with him, the more he started to consider it. And the night he drank from you, you both cried--it felt unbelievable good for both of you, despite the small prick of pain. It was another year before you asked him to turn you, and he was more than happy to fulfill that request. 

Johnny Tuturro: Johnny was of a rare breed of vampires. He could go out in the sun without burning, making him invaluable to his superiors. He had a strict moral code, and so when the two of you met, he promised that he wouldn’t feed off of anyone but you, if that’s what you wanted. You did. Johnny would lay you on the beach, the soft sound of waves in the background, as he bit into you, both of you moaning lowly at the feel of his fangs inside of you. Johnny was always sure to be gentle with you, and he would roll around in the sand, inside of you in more ways than one. Afterwards, he would watch the sun come up with you, his arms around you. “Did you know,” his voice was low and careful, “that anyone I turn can walk in the sun?” You looked up at him, and you could see the question he wasn’t asking behind his eyes. You answered it with a kiss. “I would walk with you anywhere, Johnny Tuturro...”

Rio: Rio made no secret of his being a vampire, if anything--he loved the notoriety. And so when you came to interview him, you weren’t surprised by the way he answered your questions, his ease with discussing the violent side of him as well as his more human side. You were, however, surprised at his charm. You’d met and interviewed plenty of vampires in your career, but none had ever effected you the way Rio did. You found yourself forgetting questions and stumbling over your words, his smile distracting you. He liked to be close to you, a hand on your waist here or his fingers brushing the hair off of your face there. He was a vampire, and yet his touch felt warm to you. Your interview with him lasted several months, and it seemed like every day you crossed a line with him. You started telling him personal things, started letting him into your home, allowed him to touch you, to be close to you. You weren’t sure, for a while, if he had glamoured you or not--a testament to his powers, because you weren’t easy to glamour--but he hadn’t. Your fascination with him and your allowance of him past your boundaries was all natural. The first time he kissed you, you were trembling. And the first time he drank from you, you cried in ecstasy. Rio liked to drink from your inner thigh and pelvis as much as he loved to drink from your neck, and soon you found yourself submitting to him, giving him total control. And Rio took it graciously, kissing you softly as he held you close. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said, his head buried in your neck, his tongue flicking your pulse point, “Do you, mama?” You felt the sharpness of his fangs and the hardness in his pants as he held you, and you shivered in his grasp. He smiled, lifting his head up to look down at you. “You’re mine.” And then his fangs stabbed into your neck, and you held onto him, eyes rolling in the back of your head...and you thanked him. 

*******************************************************************************************

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think! I LOVE vampires! The Rio one got long, sorry. I didn’t realize how much I wanted vampire Rio until now...

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[mostlydeadlanguages]

The Triumphs of Deborah and Jael (Judges 4 & 5)

Image: "Jael & Sisera," by Conterfeyter

I love these two chapters of the Bible.

The first chapter is a straightforward story about how two women help Israel triumph over their oppressors: Deborah, a prophetess and judge, and Jael, a courageous nomadic woman.  It's a sorely needed counterpoint to the treatment of women elsewhere in the book of Judges — and a reminder that even in the ancient world, women could be snarky badasses.

The second chapter is a gorgeous and very difficult poem which roughly retells the same events.  There's still some debate over which chapter was written first, but most scholars view this chapter (the “Song of Deborah”) as a very ancient text, the predecessor of the prose version.  If I were to footnote every grammatical difficulty or obscure vocabulary in this chapter, I would be writing until next year; I've merely highlighted a few of the most challenging cruxes.  Despite its difficulties, though, it's a raw, powerful epic that intertwines cosmic theophany, military adventure, and personal intimacy.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Judges 4

Once again, the Israelites acted wickedly in YHWH's sight. (Ehud had died.)  So YHWH delivered them up to Jabin, the king of Canaan, who reigned in Hazor.  The commander of his troops was Sisera, who lived in Forest-of-the-Gentiles.  Then the Israelites cried out to YHWH, because he had nine hundred iron chariots, and he had been brutally oppressing the Israelites for twenty years.

Now, Deborah was a female prophetess, a "woman of torches" [1]; she was judging Israel at that time.  She would sit beneath the Palm of Deborah — between Ramah and Bethel, in the hills of Ephraim — and the Israelites went up to her for judgment.

She summoned Barak ben Abinoam from Kedesh in Naphtali, and she said to him, "Hasn't YHWH, the God of Israel, given a command?  Go and muster at Mount Tabor, and take ten thousand men with you from Naphtali and Zebulun.  Then, at the river Kishon, I will muster for you Sisera, commander of Jabin's troops, with his chariotry and his horde — and I will give him into your hand."

Barak said to her, "If you go with me, then I'll go.  But if you don't go with me, I won't go."

So she said, "I will most certainly go with you!  Nevertheless, there will be no honor for you on the path you are traveling — for YHWH will deliver up Sisera by the hand of a woman."  Then Deborah got up and went with Barak to Kedesh.  Barak summoned Zebulun and Naphtali to Kedesh, so that ten thousand men marched at his heels.  And Deborah went up with him.

Meanwhile, Heber the Smith had split off from the Smiths — the descendants of Hobab, the father-in-law of Moses — and pitched his tent at Oak-in-Zaanannim, which is at Kedesh.  They told Sisera that Barak ben Abinoam had gone up to Mount Tabor, so Sisera summoned all his chariotry, nine hundred iron chariots, along with all the people with him, from Forest-of-the-Gentiles to the river Kishon.

Then Deborah said to Barak, "Get up!  This is the day when YHWH will surely give Sisera into your hand.  Doesn't YHWH himself go out before you?"

Barak went down Mount Tabor, with ten thousand men following him.  And YHWH threw Sisera and all his chariotry and all his horde into chaos before the blade of Barak.  Sisera got off his chariot and fled on foot, while Barak chased after the chariotry and the horde as far as Forest-of-the-Gentiles.  The entire horde of Sisera fell before the sword; not one remained.

Meanwhile, Sisera fled on foot to the tent of Jael, the wife of Heber the Smith — for there was peace between Jabin, the king of Hazor, and the kin of Heber the Smith.  Jael came out to greet Sisera, and she told him, "Tarry, my lord; tarry with me, and don't be afraid."  So he tarried with her and entered the tent, and she hid him under a covering.

He said to her, "Please, give me a little water to drink, for I am thirsty."  So she opened a leather bottle of milk and gave him a drink, then hid him again.  "Stand at the tent's entrance," he told her, "and if someone comes and asks, 'Is there a man here?', say 'No.'"

But Jael, Heber's wife, took a tent peg and held a hammer in her hand.  She came to him  stealthily, and she drove the peg into his temple until it penetrated the ground, while he was unconscious.  He breathed his last and died.

Just then, Barak appeared, chasing Sisera.  Jael came out to greet him, and she told him, "Come — I will show you the man you seek."  So he came in to her — and Sisera was there, lying dead, with the peg in his temple.

Thus God humiliated Jabin, king of Canaan, on that day, in front of the Israelites.  Then the hand of the Israelites pushed harder and harder against Jabin, king of Canaan, until they exterminated Jabin, king of Canaan.

                                                            Judges 5

Deborah sang this with Barak ben Abinoam on that day: When caliphs are in chaos [2] in Israel,         when the people volunteer —         bless YHWH! Listen, you kings!         Hear, you dignitaries! I myself, to YHWH —         I myself, I will sing —         I will belt out to YHWH, God of Israel. YHWH, when you came forth from Seir,         when you strode from the land of Edom, Earth quaked —         yes, and Heaven sprinkled,         yes, and clouds sprinkled water. Mountains rippled before YHWH, the One of Sinai,         before YHWH, God of Israel. In the days of Shamgar ben Anat,         in the days of Jael, routes vanished,         and travelers on pathways         traveled circuitous routes. Heroism vanished, [3]         in Israel it vanished,         until you arose, Deborah,         until you arose, a mother in Israel. God chose a new people — [4]         then war was at the gates! Could a shield be seen, or a spear,         among forty thousand in Israel? My heart belongs to Israel's officers,         the volunteers of the people.         Bless YHWH! You riders of tawny donkeys,         you who sit on tapestries,         and you who walk the road:         proclaim it! Louder than pebbles between the water-currents, [5]         there they recount YHWH's loving-loyalties,         the loving-loyalties of his heroism in Israel. Then the people of YHWH came down to the gates. "Awake, awake, O Deborah!         Awake, awake, declare a song! Get up, Barak, and capture your captives,         you son of Abinoam." Then the remnant of the nobles came down,         the people of YHWH came down to me with the warriors. From Ephraim were those with roots in Amalek,         after you, Benjamin, with your peoples. From Machir, the officers came down,         and from Zebulun, those who wield generals' rods. The commanders of Issachar were with Deborah;         Issachar was true to Barak.         In the valley, they chased after his strides. In the clan of Reuben were great rations of heart.         Why did you sit down with your saddlebags         to listen to the piping of the flocks?         In the clan of Reuben were great rationales of heart. [6] Gilead stayed across the Jordan,         and Dan — why did he sojourn with the ships? Asher sat on the seashore,         staying at his harbors. Zebulun: a people that defied death,         and Naphtali, upon the heights of the land. The kings came; they warred.         Then the kings of Canaan warred at Taanach, by the waters of Megiddo.         They took no plunder of silver. From Heaven, the stars warred;         from their courses, they warred against Sisera. The river Kishon washed them away;         the primordial river, the river Kishon.         Tread firmly, my soul! Then the horse hooves hammered         with the galloping, galloping of his stallions. "Curse Meroz," said YHWH's messenger;         "Curse bitterly its inhabitants. For they did not come to help YHWH,         to help YHWH with the warriors." Most blessed of women be Jael,         wife of Heber the Smith —         of women in tents, most blessed. "Water," he asked; milk, she gave.         In a noble bowl, she brought him cream. She reached her hand for the peg,         her right hand for the worker's mallet; she hammered Sisera, she crushed his head,         she smashed and stabbed his temple. Between her legs, he sank, he fell, he lay;         between her legs, he sank, he fell.         Where he sank, there he fell — ruined. Through the window, she gazed down;         Sisera's mother lamented through the lattice. "Why is his chariot delayed in coming?         Why is the clatter of his war-chariots tardy?" The wisest of her noblewomen responds;         even she can answer the words herself. "Aren't they retrieving and dividing the spoils?         One cunt — two cunts! — for every man; [7] dyed cloth as spoil for Sisera,         dyed embroidered cloth as spoil,         two dyed embroidered clothes on every neck as spoil." Thus may all your enemies perish, YHWH!         But your loved ones are like the rising of the sun in its strength. Then the land was quiet for forty years.

[1] "Woman of torches" — or "woman of Lappidoth," or "wife of Lappidoth."  Since "lappidoth" (torches) is neither a personal nor a place name elsewhere, I choose to translate it here as a metaphorical epithet.

[2] "When caliphs are in chaos" — this line is most often translated as "when locks grow long"; it relies on some very obscure vocabulary.  I read it as a wordplay that connects two homophones: the noun for a powerful leader, and the verb for running amuck.

[3] "Heroism vanished" — This whole verse is very difficult and complicated by the fact that the word I translate as "vanished" is a near auto-antonym (it can mean either "to cease" or "to grow fat"), and it's not clear whether the same meaning is intended throughout.  The word I translate as "heroism" is sometimes translated as "peasantry."

[4] "God chose new people" — This is the straightforward translation of this line, but because of its theological difficulty (how could God turn against Israel?), it usually gets reversed as "[people] chose new gods."  As I understand it, "new people" means "a new set of enemies for Israel."

[5] "Louder than pebbles between the water-currents" — Another set of very obscure vocabulary.  I imagine this image as the roaring of water splashing over pebbles.

[6] "In the clan of Reuben were great rations of heart / great rationales of heart."  This is either a wordplay or a scribal error; the lines are identical except for two similar words.  Some translators emend the first line, so that the two lines are an exact repetition, decrying Reuben's equivocation.  I view it as a pun: Reuben supposedly has a big portion of courage, but in the end, he dilly-dallied.

[7] "One cunt — two cunts" — This Hebrew word literally means "womb," but here it clearly refers to female war-captives for sexual slavery.  "Cunt" is the most common English word that conveys both meanings, although it is more crude than the Hebrew word would have seemed.

[motherofjedi]

Leia’s Final Gift

After Ben brought me back from the other side, I felt an elation that spread through my entire being. I knew I had died - I had heard Ben screaming and weeping while I was between worlds...and I knew he had used his own life force to bring me back. From that moment, I knew everything was going to be alright.

But then Ben's eyes went dim...they closed and he fell back. I caught him just in time to slowly lower his head to the ground.  Panic seized my heart with an iron grip.  No, I thought.  This wasn't right.  My heart raced as my hands went to his face, his hair, his hands, helpless...  Ben was gone and I was alone again.  I felt that I had finally just met Ben Solo, having known 'Kylo Ren' for so long now, and now he had been ripped away.  I knew that I wouldn't mourn Kylo Ren...but I would have very much loved to have known Ben Solo.

Grief tore at me from the inside, tears streaming down my cheeks as I gripped his clothes and wept into his chest.  He had selflessly given his life for my own...but I couldn't imagine going on without him.  I rested my head on his chest, my sobs echoing in the destroyed theater, with nothing but the wreckage to keep me company.  Then, faint at first, and then stronger, I heard something...felt something that hadn't been there moments before:  a heartbeat.

I was so shocked I almost didn't notice the Millennium Falcon descend into the amphitheater.  I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude, my tears now tears of pure joy.  I had come so close to swearing allegiance to the Sith as ‘Empress Palpatine’ in order to save my friends. If Ben had not come, it might have happened, but I didn’t want to think about that just then...

The Falcon landed, and Poe’s ship just behind it. A swarm of people came running out, seeing the damage to the throne, the destroyed amphitheater, the bodies of the Sith worshipers...and us.

Finn and Jannah reached us first. Poe soon followed.

‘Rey! What happened? Are you alright?’ Finn asked.  I nodded.

‘He’s gone,’ I began. ‘Palpatine is dead.’

The words felt so strange leaving my lips. Palpatine was dead. And I had done it. To my own kin... And yet, I felt apart from the decrepit emperor. He had murdered my parents. He was the reason I had lived a life of want and solitude prior to meeting BB-8. A part of me died with him when I passed to the other side. I had returned with renewed clarity, and I decided in that moment that I would never carry that name with me ever again.

People started fussing over me and asking many questions before Finn calmed them, telling them to give me some air. I was weak and slightly dazed. But it was important to convey a vital message before anything else happened...

I pointed to Ben. ‘He needs help.’

‘What?!’ exclaimed Poe.

‘We’re bringing him.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘He helped me defeat Palpatine,’ I said insistently. ‘He saved my life. Ben Solo has returned to the Light. We’re bringing him.’

Several people looked very concerned, while others seemed convinced, especially Finn. He and Poe lifted me from the ground and helped me walk inside the Falcon. Jannah and another member of her tribe picked Ben up and carried him to the ship. I hobbled over to him, feeling as though I was going to pass out any moment. I was fueled by pure adrenaline and an intense need to keep Ben alive. The Falcon took off and we traveled back to Ajan Kloss. I stayed with Ben for the entire trip, answering questions from others, receiving treatment, and making sure my equal in the Force received the best care possible. I fell asleep on a table next to him.

I learned later from Ben that it had been Leia who had given the rest of her life force to Ben, allowing him to return.  He had spoken with her in the World Between Worlds and she knew that I needed him now more than ever.  I will be forever grateful to my Master for that.

[reylo-on-the-side]

Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker and the Death of Romance

***** Contains spoilers, do not read if you have yet to watch the film *****

Having had a few days to think about TROS I can now coherently put into words everything that I did not appreciate about the film. This may read as if  I’m slamming the film, which is not my intention as I really enjoyed it, but there are some things which did not make sense for me, that did not add up, and my feelings for this film compared to the first two were lacking in places. In all, I did not get the sense of fulfillment and purpose you’re supposed to get at the end of a Star War’s saga, I feel quite empty and hollow and I have many questions which I feel should have been answered. 

I want to start with our closing scene where Rey, Poe and Finn are clinging to one another, happy that they’ve all made it through the last battle. This scene was wonderful and amazing because we have three best friends truly happy that they’re alive and together. But I did not feel the ‘joy’ I think I was meant to feel because I kept asking myself, what have these characters got to show for it at the end of the film? 

I’ll start with Finn. Oh glorious Finn! So many things were not answered about Finn. He’s broken free of the Republic and has gained freedom from his former stormtrooper life, but is this all we can say? Finn is clearly force-sensitive, displaying many moments of force awareness throughout the film. He has previously held and fought with a light saber, and in addition to this, he was able to pinpoint where the signal was coming from in the penultimate battle (TROS) and he knew the exact moment when Rey died on Exogul because he felt it (he didn’t have to say, we saw it on his heartbroken face!) So the big question is, was this what Finn wanted to tell Rey when they were sinking into the quicksands and moments from death? Did he want to tell her that he understood, because he was strong with the force too? Or was it simply (others speculate) that he wanted to tell her he loved her? Finn had a potential romance with Rose, but his feelings for her are platonic and so his romance arc is abandoned in this film. Does he have feelings for Poe instead? The pair are close and there is chemistry between them. If Finn does have feelings for Poe, then perhaps he was going to tell Rey he was force-sensitive.

The fact is we don’t know because the opportunity is lost, but it must have been heavy-going because Finn couldn’t say what he wanted to say in front of Poe (later on).This makes me think that Finn wanted to tell Rey that he loved her. While we know Rey doesn’t share these feelings for Finn, the unasked question still floats to the forefront of Finn’s storyline. He has found love among friends in the saga, but not romantic love, and we kind of get the feeling that this is what he is looking for, otherwise there wouldn’t have been this unasked question in the first place. The closing scene of Finn with his two best friends was just shrouded in unfinished story for me, and I felt that Finn (assuming this saga is well and truly at a close) should have had his moment to say those words to Rey. If it wasn’t a big deal and relevant to his story arc, then why even give it screen time? Coming through a war after untold hardships at the hands of the Republic, our guy Finn really did deserve more. 

Moving onto Poe, our lovable rogue. Seeing him at the end of the film is such a relief, but when I asked myself the question, what was Poe’s story arc for, I couldn’t actually give anyone an answer! He’s always been a drifter, and has fallen into the resistance as easily as falling into bed. But what does he want? What is he going to do now? Is he going to go back to being a spice trader? I can hardly imagine this after seeing him standing alongside General Leia Organa for the whole trilogy.

In terms of backstory and romance, we find out a little more about Poe’s former life as a spice trader, and the film hints at a relationship between himself and a former companion, Zorii Bliss during their time on Kijimi. But despite Zorii giving Poe her master key to gain him guaranteed entry out of Kijimi, the close of the film demonstrates that all ships have sailed between them and there is no future, at least romantically, for the pair. So Poe won’t be settling down with her anytime soon and living a quieter life. So what then? 

I kind of feel that after everything, there should be an assurance for our closest and much-loved characters at the close of any saga, otherwise we cannot say what their struggles were for, what they were fighting for. Yes, they are all alive and living freely, but is this enough? In a franchise like star wars which reads very much as a fairytale, ‘a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,’ then yes, these stories are meant to end ‘they all live happily ever after,’ and with that usually comes a guaranteed romantic future for our lead characters. Romance certainly isn’t everything within a film, and Star Wars films notoriously feature a tragic romance of some sort, but there are also moments where romance triumphs - Han Solo and Leia Organa. 

It is here that I’d like to mention Rose (poor girl) who went from being a main character in The Last Jedi to a glorified extra in The Rise of Skywalker. I think Rose had about five lines of dialogue which is absolutely staggering after the heart-breaking loss of her sister, and her unrequited love for Finn. It’s another instance where romance is dropped like a hot cake, and I cannot help but feel like the writers have serious chips on their shoulders where romance is concerned. It’s also another example of how a (formerly) leading character had her story arc dropped for unknown reasons - is Rose happy? Has she found a new family? Are her and Finn still close? (she was not present in the group hug at the films close) so where is she now? What will she do? It’s frustrating that someone so instrumental in the destruction of Canto Bight and such a powerhouse in the second film is not given any thought in the saga’s sequel. 

Thanks to Rose we even have a message which underscores so many actions of characters throughout the saga. She tells Finn they will win the war not by ‘fighting what we hate, but by saving what we love,’ which heralds the absolutely heart-rending final moments between our Alderan Prince, Kylo Ren, now Ben Solo and our heroine, Rey. 

What can I even say about this pair which hasn’t been said already? Absolutely needless. When I hark back to the film’s close of Rey, Finn and Poe holding one another, what was the point of Rey’s storyline, of her sacrifices? Rey is paper-thin at the film’s close. How much more can one person give? Rey lost her family, then she lost Luke, then she lost Leia, and then she loses the only boy she loved and perhaps ever will love? While she is now a trained Jedi and has the answers to the mystery of her family abandoning her on Jacoo, is this enough? Rey seemingly ends the saga in the same way she began, a lone hermit, living in isolation, in the ruins of the former world, utterly alone on a godforsaken desert planet. Is this a fair trade after everything she has been through? Even with the answers about her heritage and her parents true identities  (sorry but what a shoddily shoved-in backstory) I don’t think this is enough. I felt as empty and broken as she did at the films closure. 

How do I feel about Rey being a Palpatine? Nothing whatsoever. I’m waiting for a heroine who literally comes from nothing, who is literally no one, whose worthless parents really were ‘filthy junk traders who sold her for drinking money.’ I much preferred this to be the case, rather than actually - you’re a Palpatine! Why can’t a heroine be born to nothing and rise to greatness, why does power have to come hand-in-hand with an age-old name which is whispered with fear? And Palpatine? We get a crusty bin bag flailing around on a crane hook, a complete shade of this former Sith self. After the big reveal, I spent the rest of the film reeling about the thought that someone actually had sexual relations with him (very reminiscent of Voldemort and Bellatrix in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child). Perhaps we should have seen it coming, Disney have a penchant for bad romances (Descendants). But villains having babies in Star Wars, when it’s clear from the former films that  Palpatine has no romantic inclinations whatsoever, I didn’t appreciate the reveal for what it was. 

And finally I’d like to say a few things about someone who is absent from the friend huddle at the close of the film - probably the most dynamic and interesting star wars character the sagas have graced us with - Kylo Ren / Ben Solo. What a tragic story. 

The film reveals that Ben and Rey are dyad, which is as strong a connection you can have with anyone in the universe. They are two sides of the same coin, their life lines interwoven like a tapestry, almost the one and the same person, ying and yang, soulmates - all of the other terms we can think of. More to the point, the pair are equals, in terms of life experiences, strength, personality and capabilities. 

Rey and Ben seemingly begin as opposites, light and dark, good and evil. As the films progress, it becomes clear that this is not the case. Ben has the capacity for love, tenderness, peace and rationality, just as much as Rey has the capacity for hatred, violence, war and irrationality. When we watch the pair react across multiple scenes, many of Rey’s reactions are not kin with being a Jedi. When she finds out about Palpatine killing her parents, her immediate instinct is to find him and kill him. Is this a Jedi reaction? No. It is human. The same emotions which led Annakin Skywalker to butcher a whole tribe of sand people for the kidnapping and killing of his mother Shmi. 

At other points in the film, Rey demonstrates recklessness, taking a skimmer out into uncertain waters against the advice of others, putting her life at risk. She is impatient, impulsive and driven by revenge in the same way Kylo Ren is demonised for. And let us not forget the fight scene in the ruins of the former Deathstar, when her and Kylo Ren grapple with one another and try to best eachother’s force ability with their sabers. When I rewatch this scene, it is very clear that Kylo is not striking to kill. His movements are actually very defensive, he’s letting Rey take her fury out on him and he isn’t on the offensive at all. There are several moments he could have easily killed Rey, and it isn’t until the final moment when Rey is on the ground that he moves to make a kill, and Leia’s intervention stops him. What is absolutely staggering is when Kylo is disarmed by his mother’s intervention, Rey doesn’t stop. She takes up Kylo’s saber and stabs him with it, literally striking him down in hatred, which is not what Jedi are meant to do. Think of all the instances where Vader and Palaptine (previous films) goad Jedi into ‘striking them down,’ so they can ‘feel their hate.’ Rey’s actions allude to her failing of being a true Jedi and actually taking life. Yes, Rey does heal Kylo Ren, or Ben as he has now become. But does this action atone for her attempting to destroy him in the first place? We can argues this both ways, but I think we could only argue that it does atone for her actions, if at the films closure, Ben’s healing of Rey was enough to atone for his. 

Ben comes back from absolute damnation. He rejects Kylo Ren, throws his saber into the sea and makes peace with his father Han Solo. He then storms into Palpatine’s palace with nothing but a blaster (very reminiscent of his father) and comes to the aid of Rey. Incredible fight scene aside, when Ben heals Rey in the same way she healed him, this should have atoned for all of Ben’s previous sins, in the same way that Rey’s healing of Kylo did for her. But this does not happen, instead we have to face the heart-crushing truth that Ben dies giving Rey his life force, and while a Jedi, his happy ending with the girl he loves is withheld from him, from Rey and from us. 

This is where the film failed for me, and the over-arching message of redemption and forgiveness just fizzled into nothing. The simple fact is that Ben and Rey did not get the same treatment. Slowly, over the course of the film, Rey strays from the ‘light’ and becomes a shade of grey. Ben mirrors this, straying from the ‘dark’ towards the light and becoming his own shade of grey. And yet only one of them walks away from the penultimate war. 

I have described the reasons I find this unfair from Rey’s side - her character traits, her previous actions, so I will now approach this from Ben’s side. Ben has had an equally, unhappy childhood, as lonely and estranged as Rey had. He was sent into Jedi training at a young age, leading to feelings of not being loved by his parents Ben and Leia. It is clear from previous films that Han was ‘not around’ for son and off doing what Han does best. Leia was still a general, and it’s safe to say that while she loved her son, he did not, or would not ever had had her attentions. So Ben is sent away to his Uncle to train as a Jedi, already feeling worthless in his parents eyes, and unloved. He expects to be treated as a nephew by his Uncle Luke, who does not warm to him at all. Luke treats Ben Solo with the same distance as a teacher does any student, and so Ben does not find familial love here either. He is then betrayed by Luke, which all comes to the surface in The Last Jedi. 

Luke feared Ben Solo’s power, and seeing his potential, decides to kill him (I love how Leia never finds out about this) if she had I’m pretty sure she’d have more to say to her brother. Luke then blames Ben Solo for the destruction of the Jedi temple and turns all of his other students against Ben. Luke never really gets punished for these acts (I never forgave him, not even for his attempts in the film to placate Kylo). During all of this, Snoke becomes a personal influence on Ben Solo, playing on Ben’s loneliness, feelings of worthlessness, and slowly turning Ben towards the dark. And can you blame Ben for saying yes, and wanting a friend? I can’t blame him at all. 

Kylo’s attempts to be his Grandfather are born from wanting to identify with someone in his family, to have a feeling of belonging. And like Annakin Skywalker, Kylo Ren is plagued by doubt. When he kills Han Solo, he never really walks away from his father. He is consumed by guilt and self-loathing which twists him even further, and pushes him down the path to the dark-side when in actual fact he doesn’t want to go there - he feels he has no choice. His parents rejected him, and he feels all he can do is more to make them reject him further. And yet when he has the chance, he does not kill his mother, Leia. He finds himself reaching out to Rey, drawn to her loneliness and isolation, and wanting to be there for her. Despite all of his deeds, his ability to have restraint, to be understanding, to be gentle, never fade away. Like Rey, as the films progress, he becomes his own shade of grey. 

For this reason, I cannot accept the closure of The Rise of Skywalker. All three films have pointed to the connection between Rey and Ben, of their absolute compatibility, of their being one another’s match in every way possible. They were supposed to bring balance to the force, and if they were truly equal, how can they bring balance to the force if one of them dies?! It make’s no sense. Especially as I’ve pointed out when Rey heals Ben, it somehow washes her clean, and yet when Ben heals Rey, it costs him is life! 

Yes, before Ben dies they share a wonderful kiss, and each of them find the ‘belonging’ which has been promised to them at earlier instances in the saga. But is knowing you have found your one true love enough at the end? Thinking of Han and Leia’s sacrifices, of their deaths, along with the tragic history of the skywalker family, I cannot accept that Ben’s death was deserved. His parents wanted him to ‘come home,’ and have a life, they absolutely wanted the best for him. Ben was an extraordinary character, with an incredible story arc, and as someone who has experienced such tragedy, to come through it and redeem themselves, it is very uncharacteristic and anti-star wars for them to not have their happy ending. 

So when the film closes on Rey, Finn and Poe, with Ben absent and Rose no where to be seen, I did not have closure, I did not have fulfillment and I did not feel like I had reached the end of a Star Wars chapter. I honestly feel like I’ve ripped the film to shreds and that was not my intention. I’m a huge star wars fan and thoroughly enjoyed the film, but the decisions the writers have made - for me - are very jarring with the true message inherent within the star wars franchise. 

I cannot put my finger on the message the writers were trying to get across with this final film. It clearly isn’t ‘love conquers all,’ or ‘the faithful will be rewarded,’ or anything close. There are unanswered questions, abandoned story arcs, and the shot of Rey staring at the sunsets on Tattoine only served to say that being a Jedi is awful, everyone you care about dies, your life will be hard and lonely - but hey - you get a funky gold light saber! 

[setnamora]

Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker and the Death of Romance

***** Contains spoilers, do not read if you have yet to watch the film *****

Having had a few days to think about TROS I can now coherently put into words everything that I did not appreciate about the film. This may read as if  I’m slamming the film, which is not my intention as I really enjoyed it, but there are some things which did not make sense for me, that did not add up, and my feelings for this film compared to the first two were lacking in places. In all, I did not get the sense of fulfillment and purpose you’re supposed to get at the end of a Star War’s saga, I feel quite empty and hollow and I have many questions which I feel should have been answered.

I want to start with our closing scene where Rey, Poe and Finn are clinging to one another, happy that they’ve all made it through the last battle. This scene was wonderful and amazing because we have three best friends truly happy that they’re alive and together. But I did not feel the ‘joy’ I think I was meant to feel because I kept asking myself, what have these characters got to show for it at the end of the film?

I’ll start with Finn. Oh glorious Finn! So many things were not answered about Finn. He’s broken free of the Republic and has gained freedom from his former stormtrooper life, but is this all we can say? Finn is clearly force-sensitive, displaying many moments of force awareness throughout the film. He has previously held and fought with a light saber, and in addition to this, he was able to pinpoint where the signal was coming from in the penultimate battle (TROS) and he knew the exact moment when Rey died on Exogul because he felt it (he didn’t have to say, we saw it on his heartbroken face!) So the big question is, was this what Finn wanted to tell Rey when they were sinking into the quicksands and moments from death? Did he want to tell her that he understood, because he was strong with the force too? Or was it simply (others speculate) that he wanted to tell her he loved her? Finn had a potential romance with Rose, but his feelings for her are platonic and so his romance arc is abandoned in this film. Does he have feelings for Poe instead? The pair are close and there is chemistry between them. If Finn does have feelings for Poe, then perhaps he was going to tell Rey he was force-sensitive.

The fact is we don’t know because the opportunity is lost, but it must have been heavy-going because Finn couldn’t say what he wanted to say in front of Poe (later on).This makes me think that Finn wanted to tell Rey that he loved her. While we know Rey doesn’t share these feelings for Finn, the unasked question still floats to the forefront of Finn’s storyline. He has found love among friends in the saga, but not romantic love, and we kind of get the feeling that this is what he is looking for, otherwise there wouldn’t have been this unasked question in the first place. The closing scene of Finn with his two best friends was just shrouded in unfinished story for me, and I felt that Finn (assuming this saga is well and truly at a close) should have had his moment to say those words to Rey. If it wasn’t a big deal and relevant to his story arc, then why even give it screen time? Coming through a war after untold hardships at the hands of the Republic, our guy Finn really did deserve more.

Moving onto Poe, our lovable rogue. Seeing him at the end of the film is such a relief, but when I asked myself the question, what was Poe’s story arc for, I couldn’t actually give anyone an answer! He’s always been a drifter, and has fallen into the resistance as easily as falling into bed. But what does he want? What is he going to do now? Is he going to go back to being a spice trader? I can hardly imagine this after seeing him standing alongside General Leia Organa for the whole trilogy.

In terms of backstory and romance, we find out a little more about Poe’s former life as a spice trader, and the film hints at a relationship between himself and a former companion, Zorii Bliss during their time on Kijimi. But despite Zorii giving Poe her master key to gain him guaranteed entry out of Kijimi, the close of the film demonstrates that all ships have sailed between them and there is no future, at least romantically, for the pair. So Poe won’t be settling down with her anytime soon and living a quieter life. So what then?

I kind of feel that after everything, there should be an assurance for our closest and much-loved characters at the close of any saga, otherwise we cannot say what their struggles were for, what they were fighting for. Yes, they are all alive and living freely, but is this enough? In a franchise like star wars which reads very much as a fairytale, ‘a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,’ then yes, these stories are meant to end ‘they all live happily ever after,’ and with that usually comes a guaranteed romantic future for our lead characters. Romance certainly isn’t everything within a film, and Star Wars films notoriously feature a tragic romance of some sort, but there are also moments where romance triumphs - Han Solo and Leia Organa.

It is here that I’d like to mention Rose (poor girl) who went from being a main character in The Last Jedi to a glorified extra in The Rise of Skywalker. I think Rose had about five lines of dialogue which is absolutely staggering after the heart-breaking loss of her sister, and her unrequited love for Finn. It’s another instance where romance is dropped like a hot cake, and I cannot help but feel like the writers have serious chips on their shoulders where romance is concerned. It’s also another example of how a (formerly) leading character had her story arc dropped for unknown reasons - is Rose happy? Has she found a new family? Are her and Finn still close? (she was not present in the group hug at the films close) so where is she now? What will she do? It’s frustrating that someone so instrumental in the destruction of Canto Bight and such a powerhouse in the second film is not given any thought in the saga’s sequel.

Thanks to Rose we even have a message which underscores so many actions of characters throughout the saga. She tells Finn they will win the war not by ‘fighting what we hate, but by saving what we love,’ which heralds the absolutely heart-rending final moments between our Alderan Prince, Kylo Ren, now Ben Solo and our heroine, Rey.

What can I even say about this pair which hasn’t been said already? Absolutely needless. When I hark back to the film’s close of Rey, Finn and Poe holding one another, what was the point of Rey’s storyline, of her sacrifices? Rey is paper-thin at the film’s close. How much more can one person give? Rey lost her family, then she lost Luke, then she lost Leia, and then she loses the only boy she loved and perhaps ever will love? While she is now a trained Jedi and has the answers to the mystery of her family abandoning her on Jacoo, is this enough? Rey seemingly ends the saga in the same way she began, a lone hermit, living in isolation, in the ruins of the former world, utterly alone on a godforsaken desert planet. Is this a fair trade after everything she has been through? Even with the answers about her heritage and her parents true identities  (sorry but what a shoddily shoved-in backstory) I don’t think this is enough. I felt as empty and broken as she did at the films closure.

How do I feel about Rey being a Palpatine? Nothing whatsoever. I’m waiting for a heroine who literally comes from nothing, who is literally no one, whose worthless parents really were ‘filthy junk traders who sold her for drinking money.’ I much preferred this to be the case, rather than actually - you’re a Palpatine! Why can’t a heroine be born to nothing and rise to greatness, why does power have to come hand-in-hand with an age-old name which is whispered with fear? And Palpatine? We get a crusty bin bag flailing around on a crane hook, a complete shade of this former Sith self. After the big reveal, I spent the rest of the film reeling about the thought that someone actually had sexual relations with him (very reminiscent of Voldemort and Bellatrix in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child). Perhaps we should have seen it coming, Disney have a penchant for bad romances (Descendants). But villains having babies in Star Wars, when it’s clear from the former films that  Palpatine has no romantic inclinations whatsoever, I didn’t appreciate the reveal for what it was.

And finally I’d like to say a few things about someone who is absent from the friend huddle at the close of the film - probably the most dynamic and interesting star wars character the sagas have graced us with - Kylo Ren / Ben Solo. What a tragic story.

The film reveals that Ben and Rey are dyad, which is as strong a connection you can have with anyone in the universe. They are two sides of the same coin, their life lines interwoven like a tapestry, almost the one and the same person, ying and yang, soulmates - all of the other terms we can think of. More to the point, the pair are equals, in terms of life experiences, strength, personality and capabilities.

Rey and Ben seemingly begin as opposites, light and dark, good and evil. As the films progress, it becomes clear that this is not the case. Ben has the capacity for love, tenderness, peace and rationality, just as much as Rey has the capacity for hatred, violence, war and irrationality. When we watch the pair react across multiple scenes, many of Rey’s reactions are not kin with being a Jedi. When she finds out about Palpatine killing her parents, her immediate instinct is to find him and kill him. Is this a Jedi reaction? No. It is human. The same emotions which led Annakin Skywalker to butcher a whole tribe of sand people for the kidnapping and killing of his mother Shmi.

At other points in the film, Rey demonstrates recklessness, taking a skimmer out into uncertain waters against the advice of others, putting her life at risk. She is impatient, impulsive and driven by revenge in the same way Kylo Ren is demonised for. And let us not forget the fight scene in the ruins of the former Deathstar, when her and Kylo Ren grapple with one another and try to best eachother’s force ability with their sabers. When I rewatch this scene, it is very clear that Kylo is not striking to kill. His movements are actually very defensive, he’s letting Rey take her fury out on him and he isn’t on the offensive at all. There are several moments he could have easily killed Rey, and it isn’t until the final moment when Rey is on the ground that he moves to make a kill, and Leia’s intervention stops him. What is absolutely staggering is when Kylo is disarmed by his mother’s intervention, Rey doesn’t stop. She takes up Kylo’s saber and stabs him with it, literally striking him down in hatred, which is not what Jedi are meant to do. Think of all the instances where Vader and Palaptine (previous films) goad Jedi into ‘striking them down,’ so they can ‘feel their hate.’ Rey’s actions allude to her failing of being a true Jedi and actually taking life. Yes, Rey does heal Kylo Ren, or Ben as he has now become. But does this action atone for her attempting to destroy him in the first place? We can argues this both ways, but I think we could only argue that it does atone for her actions, if at the films closure, Ben’s healing of Rey was enough to atone for his.

Ben comes back from absolute damnation. He rejects Kylo Ren, throws his saber into the sea and makes peace with his father Han Solo. He then storms into Palpatine’s palace with nothing but a blaster (very reminiscent of his father) and comes to the aid of Rey. Incredible fight scene aside, when Ben heals Rey in the same way she healed him, this should have atoned for all of Ben’s previous sins, in the same way that Rey’s healing of Kylo did for her. But this does not happen, instead we have to face the heart-crushing truth that Ben dies giving Rey his life force, and while a Jedi, his happy ending with the girl he loves is withheld from him, from Rey and from us.

This is where the film failed for me, and the over-arching message of redemption and forgiveness just fizzled into nothing. The simple fact is that Ben and Rey did not get the same treatment. Slowly, over the course of the film, Rey strays from the ‘light’ and becomes a shade of grey. Ben mirrors this, straying from the ‘dark’ towards the light and becoming his own shade of grey. And yet only one of them walks away from the penultimate war.

I have described the reasons I find this unfair from Rey’s side - her character traits, her previous actions, so I will now approach this from Ben’s side. Ben has had an equally, unhappy childhood, as lonely and estranged as Rey had. He was sent into Jedi training at a young age, leading to feelings of not being loved by his parents Ben and Leia. It is clear from previous films that Han was ‘not around’ for son and off doing what Han does best. Leia was still a general, and it’s safe to say that while she loved her son, he did not, or would not ever had had her attentions. So Ben is sent away to his Uncle to train as a Jedi, already feeling worthless in his parents eyes, and unloved. He expects to be treated as a nephew by his Uncle Luke, who does not warm to him at all. Luke treats Ben Solo with the same distance as a teacher does any student, and so Ben does not find familial love here either. He is then betrayed by Luke, which all comes to the surface in The Last Jedi.

Luke feared Ben Solo’s power, and seeing his potential, decides to kill him (I love how Leia never finds out about this) if she had I’m pretty sure she’d have more to say to her brother. Luke then blames Ben Solo for the destruction of the Jedi temple and turns all of his other students against Ben. Luke never really gets punished for these acts (I never forgave him, not even for his attempts in the film to placate Kylo). During all of this, Snoke becomes a personal influence on Ben Solo, playing on Ben’s loneliness, feelings of worthlessness, and slowly turning Ben towards the dark. And can you blame Ben for saying yes, and wanting a friend? I can’t blame him at all.

Kylo’s attempts to be his Grandfather are born from wanting to identify with someone in his family, to have a feeling of belonging. And like Annakin Skywalker, Kylo Ren is plagued by doubt. When he kills Han Solo, he never really walks away from his father. He is consumed by guilt and self-loathing which twists him even further, and pushes him down the path to the dark-side when in actual fact he doesn’t want to go there - he feels he has no choice. His parents rejected him, and he feels all he can do is more to make them reject him further. And yet when he has the chance, he does not kill his mother, Leia. He finds himself reaching out to Rey, drawn to her loneliness and isolation, and wanting to be there for her. Despite all of his deeds, his ability to have restraint, to be understanding, to be gentle, never fade away. Like Rey, as the films progress, he becomes his own shade of grey.

For this reason, I cannot accept the closure of The Rise of Skywalker. All three films have pointed to the connection between Rey and Ben, of their absolute compatibility, of their being one another’s match in every way possible. They were supposed to bring balance to the force, and if they were truly equal, how can they bring balance to the force if one of them dies?! It make’s no sense. Especially as I’ve pointed out when Rey heals Ben, it somehow washes her clean, and yet when Ben heals Rey, it costs him is life!

Yes, before Ben dies they share a wonderful kiss, and each of them find the ‘belonging’ which has been promised to them at earlier instances in the saga. But is knowing you have found your one true love enough at the end? Thinking of Han and Leia’s sacrifices, of their deaths, along with the tragic history of the skywalker family, I cannot accept that Ben’s death was deserved. He was an extraordinary character, with an incredible story arc, and as someone who has experienced such tragedy, to come through it and redeem themselves, it is very uncharacteristic and anti-star wars for them to not have their happy ending.

So when the film closes on Rey, Finn and Poe, with Ben absent and Rose no where to be seen, I did not have closure, I did not have fulfillment and I did not feel like I had reached the end of a Star Wars chapter. I honestly feel like I’ve ripped the film to shreds and that was not my intention. I’m a huge star wars fan and thoroughly enjoyed the film, but the decisions the writers have made - for me - are very jarring with the true message inherent within the star wars franchise.

I cannot put my finger on the message the writers were trying to get across with this final film. It clearly isn’t ‘love conquers all,’ or ‘the faithful will be rewarded,’ or anything close. There are unanswered questions, abandoned story arcs, and the shot of Rey staring at the sunsets on Tattoine only served to say that being a Jedi is awful, everyone you care about dies, your life with be hard and lonely - but hey - you get a funky gold light saber!

[postedbygaslight]

You’ll Be the One to Turn - Part 23: The Matron

Did I cry like a baby writing this? Maybe. Maybe you’re the one crying.

Maz Kanata had lived long enough to have seen her share of storms. She knew what it felt like to be at the edge of one.

The base at Vedic III was a hive of movement and bustle, and the bluish gray of night had fallen. Maz had watched the ships take off from the airstrip, each of them climbing those steep angles, aloft on the blades of blue and orange and red that painted the sky. And then they each blinked from view, pulled along the sudden currents of hyperspace.

War was a part of life, Maz thought. Just as birth and death, it would always be. After all, the essence of being was to seek one’s needs and wants, and what was war but the ultimate expression of that search? It was the distillation of collective will, and the consequence of that will as it bent to exert itself, pitched relentlessly against the needs and wants of others.

She had seen the cost of war, and the toll it exacted was never slight. In her youth, it had been the Sith Empire, stretching its blackened claws from star system to star system, descending on the innocent and the undefended without cause or mercy. Then, there had always been some black-frocked demon bearing a crimson blade and calling himself Darth this or Darth that. She could scarcely recall the number of her kin and friends had fallen to those beasts. And though they had eventually been driven back, Maz knew, deep in her bones, that in some dark region of the galaxy there was still one cruel trickster or another who’d murdered and plundered his way to calling himself Emperor. And she knew there would be yet others who would recognize that power even while seeking to usurp it.

Evil, Maz knew, was banal. And simple. And uninspired. But true evil was rare. More common were the ills of indifference, or misplaced conviction, or the slow rot of jealousy. The First Order, like the Empire before it, carried forth the power of the Dark Side like a battle standard. But the men and women who toiled under its yoke, and even those who championed its ideals, were not truly evil. As Maz looked to the sky, marveling at the sight of the stars set beside the majesty of Vedic Prime, she let out a soft sigh. The universe, and all its wonders, would continue on, and, in the long run, the concerns of a few small beings grasping to the cusp of the great mystery would have all the consequence of a mote of dust on the wind.

But such were thoughts for philosophers. And theorists. And, she thought, laughing to herself, Jedi Masters. She’d often wondered, as she’d grown older and more in tune with the subtle flow of the Force, what it would be like to be able to submerge herself in it, to explore its depths and boundaries. But, more often recently, she’d been thankful that it was only a gentle whisper on her shoulder. She’d seen the damage wrought by misread premonitions. At her age, and with her disposition, when the Force spoke to her, it only did so when its will was clear.

Which was why Maz Kanata was on Vedic III at all.

She hopped down off of the concrete block she’d been sitting on and walked the several steps down into the main command center. Being short of stature, Maz had learned, had its advantages. It allowed her to observe unnoticed. And, currently, with all the support staff and officers busy with mission logistics and tactical coordination, no one seemed to notice her as she strolled through the corridors.

Maz took a moment to glance into the main war room, the holo projection of Taris still on display, and saw the young general, Dameron, standing in the midst of his comrades, thumbing his chin nervously. She regarded him, and thought he looked the same as last she saw him: headstrong, idealistic, with a strong jaw and sharp eyes, and still having not failed enough in his short life to have learned where his strengths resided. Something told her he’d learn from his mistakes some day. But he had yet to make the mistakes that would finally teach the lesson.

She continued down the hall, knowing her destination. When the Force had first begun whispering to her of this task, she’d balked at it. But then she began to understand. And by the time she’d hailed Chewbacca, asking for a lift to the base, she’d come to terms with what role she was meant to play in this stage of events. When she’d seen Rey on the tarmac, the message had come through clear and strong. And yet, even though she’d been alive twenty times longer than most of the people on this moon, she was still apprehensive, and felt unworthy, unequal to this responsibility.

But that was the way of the Force. It did not ask if you were worthy. If you were worthy, you were asked. And so, she opened the door she’d been approaching all along, and stepped inside.

“Hey, Maz.”

Leia Organa was sitting in bed. She looked like she’d been expecting company, with the blanket pulled up onto her lap, and a chair pulled up at the bedside next to her. Regal and poised as always, Maz thought, as she crossed the room and climbed into the chair.

“Leia. I’m not going to lie. You’ve looked better.”

“If you’d said anything else, I would have known you were lying anyway.”

Leia looked tired. She had her hair pulled into a simple braid, and she wore a plain gray evening coat over a loose gown. But she favored Maz with a soft smile and her eyes danced with the same vitality and spark they had when she was young.

“How are you, child?”

“Better,” Leia said, nodding.

“I know you don’t mean your illness,” Maz said, tilting her head toward her. “I talked to Rey. On the airstrip.”

“She’s something, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

The two women sat for a few quiet moments. Maz knew that what Rey had told Leia was of great importance. And while Maz only knew the shape of the things they spoke of, the fundamental elements were known to her: Rey had been meant to find Ben Solo in the darkness, and to offer him a hand to pull him back toward the Light. But Maz had seen something more in Rey’s eyes, and knew that the hand had indeed been offered, but that something deeper had taken root. And Leia knew it, too.

These were things both Maz and Leia knew need not be said aloud. They both knew why Maz had come, and it seemed that both of them welcomed each other in their roles while not wanting to acknowledge the reality of it. Not just yet, anyway.

“You know,” Leia said, addressing the inevitable, “I’ve felt ready for this since I was young. Like it was always chasing me. And all those times I fought so hard to get away from it, I knew I was just going to charge right back in. Like I was daring it to try again.”

Maz laughed at that.

“Now I know why you ended up with Han.”

“We were always on the edge of something, he and I,” Leia recalled, smiling her warm, sad smile. “Always moving toward something. Or running away from another. But he was there when it counted. And he made me forget why I cared so much about so many stupid little things.”

Maz had met Han Solo when he’d been very young, before he’d ever met Leia. She’d liked him from the start, and knew he was meant for greater things than grift and smuggling. But she’d never have guessed he’d have ended up with a princess. That had surprised her.

“Oh, I loved him, Maz,” Leia said, and tears gathered in her eyes, but her memory of her husband was not grief-stricken. She was thinking of the happy times, of love and life, and of things only known to the two of them. “As much as anyone could love someone else, I loved him.”

“He was your other,” Maz replied, removing her goggles. “And the Force did not join you to have you separated so long.”

“I know. We spent so much time apart. And for the life of me, I can’t remember why. It made sense in the moment. And we both had the things we thought we needed to do. But, looking back, I just—“

Leia stopped short, and tears had begun to creep down her cheeks, but she sniffed and wiped a tear away, laughing at something from another time.

“Do you remember, Maz? That time, after the trade dispute on Ord Mandell. When Han and I came to your place on Takodana.”

“Ah, yes. You were both so young then. So brash and fiery.”

“And stupid. And both of us right. Always.”

“You were pregnant.”

“I didn’t know it yet. And Han had run into that swindler. Oh, what was his name? The Twi’lek with the piercings and the awful breath. Reeker? Recker?”

“Roa’keer, I think.”

“That’s the one. Oh, I hated when one of those ‘associates’ from his past would just pop up, and they always had the job of a lifetime lined up. Or some other nonsense.”

“In my experience,” Maz reflected, shaking her head, “there’s never a job so good that it would define a whole life. But, I’ve lived a lot longer than most, so I might have unrealistic standards.”

Leia smiled, and laughed softly, before continuing.

“Well, anyway, Han had run into Roa’keer, or whoever, and he wanted to run off to some backwater in the Outer Rim. Said it would take two days, tops. And I was so angry with him.”

“I remember. You broke one of my antique mugs.”

“If it makes it better, I was aiming for him. I didn’t mean to hit the wall.” Leia smirked at the memory, and her face brightened as the remembrance of things past took hold within her. “I thought he’d left. And I remember wanting to scream. I probably did scream. But I hadn’t even chartered a ship back to Chandrila before he came back inside. With that look he always had. When he knew he’d disappointed me. And for as much as we scrapped and argued, I could never stay mad at him.”

Leia’s smile faded, and her gaze shifted to a middle distance as the weight of things settled again on her shoulders. Maz leaned over the bedside and placed her small hand on Leia’s. Leia looked up at her, and this time grief had taken hold of her. It was a sadness so profound that Maz could almost feel its impression in the Force, a cold undertow in a warm stream, pulling down, always down, into dark waters.

“Maz, we made such a mess of things. With Ben.”

Maz looked her in the eyes and her expression became grave, but touched by serenity, and Maz felt as though when she opened her mouth, the Force was speaking through her.

“Ben has to walk his own path. I don’t know where that path will lead him. I’ve watched men of every stripe rise and fall, fail and triumph. And as I’ve seen that, I’ve seen the way the Force guides everything. I don’t think it’s done with your boy. He still has a part to play in all this.”

“I believe that,” Leia said, hope blooming again in her eyes. “I didn’t. But I believe it now.”

It was silent again for a few long seconds. Both women knew they’d been avoiding what they were meant to do.

“Have you known long?” Maz asked, and Leia shook her head slightly, but then nodded.

“When Rey came to me yesterday. I knew what it meant.“

The enormity of things struck Maz in that moment. She knew that Leia was dying, and that she would not live much longer. But she also knew that the world could change quickly, and that time remained for her to still see and do, to make a difference, and to find a deeper, more enduring peace.

“You could choose a different path,” Maz said slowly. “It is still before you. The Jedi like to talk of destiny. But destiny is only the sum of our choices.”

“It’s time,” Leia replied, her voice soft and breaking. “I want to win this fight. I want to be in a place I can call home. I want to see Ben again. I want so, so many things. But it’s time. Poe. Finn. Rose. Rey. And Ben. Even Ben. It’s their story now.”

Maz breathed out a contented sigh and smiled, nodding.

“You know,” she said, her small hand still resting on Leia’s, “stories don’t end. As long as there’s still someone to tell them. And yours, I think, will be told long after all of this around us is gone.”

Leia nodded, and her eyes glassed with tears. And when Maz spoke, she once more felt the low whisper of the Force in her ear.

“He’s still out there. Han,” Maz said, now taking Leia’s hand and holding it firmly. “When you feel the flow of time fall into you, and the Light calls, you will find him again.”

Tears flowed freely down Leia’s face, and her eyes, now filled with grateful joy, communicated a wordless thank you.

“Luke always said that the Force would guide me. If I would only look and listen,” Leia said, the tears slowing, and a serene glow settling in around her. “And I see it now. It’s always been there.”

Maz Kanata had lived over a thousand years. She had conditioned herself to accept the wondrous alongside the wretched. But what she saw next was the first thing in her long life that truly left her astonished. Leia Organa gave her a content and lasting smile, closed her eyes, and faded from view like dust swept from blades of light, her loose gown and evening coat folding onto the bed, empty.

Maz sat alone in Leia’s room a long time. She felt neither longing nor sadness. Maz had done what she was meant to do. To sit at Leia’s bedside, to hold her hand, and to be there for her as she made her choice. The Force had called Leia home. And no pain or sorrow could touch her again.

At length, Maz stood up from the chair. She took her hand away from the empty space where her friend had been. And returned to the gathering storm clouds of the real.

[travelworldnetwork]

By Justin Calderon

8 January 2019

There is a competitive nature that permeates through Malta so raw and unbridled that it’s written into the skyline of its capital, Valletta, and permeates across all walks of life on the archipelago.

I’m talking about pika – a Maltese word that roughly means ‘a neighbourly rivalry’, but is one of those terms that feels like a fool’s errand when foreigners try to interpret it.

Pika is, as Professor George Cassar, who teaches heritage and cultural tourism at the University of Malta explained, what drives Maltese to outdo their immediate rivals. Usually, this rivalry involves followers of different saints within the same town – a ‘this-town-isn’t-big-enough-for-both-of-us’ attitude – and ranges from benign sportsmanship to premeditated aggression.

View image of Malta’s competitive nature is written into the skyline of its capital, Valletta (Credit: Credit: Hemis/Alamy)

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“Pika is what drove the Maltese in 1958 to tear down and rebuild the Carmelite Basilica that today defines Valletta’s horizon with a 42m-high dome, just to overshadow the Anglican Cathedral next door,” he said.

Pikais also what brought about a man getting hit over the head with a flowerpot, according to the Times of Malta, during a festival in August last year. Meanwhile, just less than two weeks later, two parishes exchanged sacrilegious insults about their rivals’ Virgin Mary statue – ‘Ours is the most beautiful statue. Yours is the ugliest in Malta’; also an example of pika.

That these last two events took place so close in time is no coincidence. Every year, Malta’s festa season, when villages celebrate their patron saints by throwing big feasts, peaks between June and September. At this time, pika summons the islands’ hot-blooded Mediterranean spirit to the fore, as parishes compete in a paradoxically sacrilegious celebration of the sacred. Rivalries have become so intense that festas have had to be partially cancelled, the most recent in 2004, due to the threat of violence.

View image of In 1958, pika drove the Maltese to tear down the Carmelite Basilica and rebuild it to feature a 42m-high dome (Credit: Credit: Zoonar GmbH/Alamy)

Year after year, followers of respective patron saints attempt to outspend and outdo their neighbouring parish in a contentious crusade for showmanship that seems truly fit for the descendants of the Knights Hospitaller, the medieval sect of Catholic warriors from Jerusalem that ruled Malta for about 300 years from 1530. To this day, Maltese festa pageantry, artefacts and ornaments take cues from the Baroque style that defined the 17th- and 18th-Century architecture of the Order of St John, such as the hand-held carriage that transports the statue of the saint to the festa’s main stage, and the hand-carved wooden centrepiece for the Sunday feast. In recent years, festas have included competing theatre companies and a new record for hoisting 711 flags in a village.

“Various parts of Malta are hotter on the pika register than others,” Cassar had informed me. So I visited one of these towns last November hoping to get a better grasp on the concept. Located in central Malta, the town of Qormi hosts an intense rivalry between followers of St George and St Sebastian that has built up a reputation over the past years, and I went to learn why.

Mario Cardona, a St Sebastian supporter, anthropologist and professor at the Malta College of Arts, Science and Technology, picked me up at my hotel in northern Malta for the 30-minute drive to Qormi, about halfway across the island. (When there is no traffic, Malta can feel incredibly small.)

View image of As Malta’s festival season approaches, pika summons the islands’ hot-blooded Mediterranean spirit to the fore (Credit: Credit: Justin Calderon)

The following of saints in Malta dates back to the Middle Ages, including the cult of St George in Qormi, Cardona told me as we drove. But St Sebastian wasn't venerated here until 1813, when the plague hit Malta and villagers vowed to build a statue of the patron saint of epidemics in exchange for delivery from the outbreak.

We pulled up to a fork in the road in the centre of a town painted the colour of desert sand, redolent to this traveller of the rocks that compose Jerusalem, and certainly closer in appearance to cities on the southern side of the Mediterranean. After all, the Arabs left a mark on Malta that lingers until today via the island’s language, which is by far more Arabic in origin than Italian. Yet Malta is still very much a European nation, one that has long remained loyal to the Roman Catholic Church.

Rivalries exhibited on Malta have an additional spark of vitriol that is something uniquely Maltese

“Pika is Mediterranean,” said Cassar, explaining that Spain and Italy also are wont to display colourful festival rivalries. “But the closest example to our festa is the Sicilian type.” For example, like Maltese celebrations, Sicilian festas carry the statue of the patron saint along the streets of the town – and Sicilians are also very partial to over-the-top firework displays.

Yet, the rivalries exhibited on Malta have an additional spark of vitriol that is something uniquely Maltese.

View image of The following of saints in Malta dates back to the Middle Ages (Credit: Credit: Hemis/Alamy)

We arrived at a building whose beige stone façade was adorned with hundreds of large light bulbs and a draped green banner – the colour favoured by followers of St Sebastian in Qormi.

Beneath the banner, Cardona’s fellow St Sebastian supporters were waiting for me, including the president of their association, known in Malta as a ‘band club’.

Band clubs are volunteer organisations that are found throughout islands. As their name suggests, they are gathering halls for marching bands – a legacy of British military bands – but they’re also social clubs, equipped with bars, pool halls and even a radio station, as well as informal religious links to the church with their own chaplain and chapel.

Band clubs in Malta are also the epicentre of the most competitive forms of pika. Just by visiting the St Sebastian band club, I joked that they could use this interview as material for next year’s festa, which aroused a wide-eyed expression in one man, who appeared to already be cooking up a dubious plan how to outshine the neighbouring St George band club the following summer.

View image of Followers of respective patron saints attempt to outspend and outdo their neighbouring parish during Malta’s festa season (Credit: Credit: Victor Paul Borg/Alamy)

Last year, St Sebastian’s festa was predictably extravagant. In the week-long celebrations, according Cardona, their band club spent €100,000 on sumptuous feasts, gigantic fireworks displays and imported entertainment, including a special appearance by UK X Factor winner Ben Haenow in Qormi – a town of about 16,000 people.

“Pika is the need to keep making things bigger in order to outdo your rival,” Cardona told me. “It’s having to satisfy a need to constantly prove to yourself, to your kin and to outsiders. Rather than going for what is beautiful and entertaining, we go for what would be a first in our village.”

The size of Malta, the EU’s smallest nation with a population of around 430,000, may offer the best clue as to why rivalries here are so intense. “Geographical smallness intensifies rivalry and pika, as people can easily monitor what their neighbours are doing, thinking and saying,” Cassar said. “The competitive instinct in human beings does the rest.”

View image of Band clubs are at the heart of Maltese festas, as well as the epicenter of the most competitive forms of pika (Credit: Credit: Justin Calderon)

On the second floor of the St Sebastian band club, in a room resembling a hall in an Italian museum that included an €80,000 crystal chandelier and a painting of Grand Master Manuel Pinto da Fonseca from the Order of St John, Cardona and three other men continued to mull over the current state of pika on the islands.

“When the festa season comes, everyone likes to spend as lavishly as possible,” chimed Charles Saliba, secretary of the St Sebastian band club. In some ways, it’s bigger than Christmas; the village festas draw back the Maltese diaspora and are a time when old friends reunite.

“How much influence does the church have in your affairs today?” I probed while examining a long timeline of portraits of Catholic chaplains hung on the wall behind Cardona.

“The church takes the charge of the internal sacred part of the feast, and the band club organises its own feast. Sometimes the church priest will get involved if he doesn't like some lyrics we have written,” giggled Charles Spiteri, the band club’s president, alluding to the church’s attempts to censor the more profane material that rival parishes tend to publish, including songs, posters and banners about their saint.

View image of In Qormi, a rivalry exists between residents who follow St George and those who follow St Sebastian (Credit: Credit: Hemis/Alamy)

“My personal opinion,” said the fourth man, John Camilleri, “and maybe they don't agree with me; I don't care much.” They all laughed. “I blame the church for a big part of the pika in Malta.”

“It’s true!” applauded the band club president.

“In Maltese festas, favouritism is exhibited by priests supporting one saint over another, who elect their favoured parish to hold the grandest feast while their rivalries are forced to hold a less-decorated ‘secondary feast’,” Camilleri explained.

“Some priests even count lightbulbs in the secondary feast to see that they didn't have as many as the primary feast. Secondary feasts cannot light up the dome of a church, either,” he said. “This creates a lot of pika.”

View image of No church leader has ever really managed to control Maltese pika during the festa season (Credit: Credit: parkerphotography/Alamy)

In 2002, the Archdiocese of Malta tried to reign in the unruliness of Maltese festas, fearing that they were damaging church decorum, but the attempt ultimately fell flat. Efforts to set up a censorship board to eliminate all provocative materials from the festas and other measures failed, and the church official that led the campaign became “rather disliked” on the islands, Cassar explained diplomatically.

This is nothing new in Malta. “No bishop has ever really managed to control Maltese pika. It’s always the one against the many – and without its faithful the church is nothing,” Cassar affirmed.

It’s having to satisfy a need to constantly prove to yourself, to your kin and to outsiders

Yet, although festa expense and showmanship seems to be ever increasing, the level of decorum seems to have improved in Malta in recent decades, with or without the exhortations of the church. Camilleri remembers much more vulgar festas in his youth. “On one occasion, they painted chickens red (the colour of their band club) and threw them on their opponents to say that they were chickens,” he chuckled. “On another occasion, when a march of a rival band was passing by, someone threw urine over the people from the balcony.”

Thank the saints those days are long gone.

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[indomitablekushite]

❦A LOVE STORY❦ "Joseph Antoine would have found the 21st century as baffling as ballets to a bulldog. He wouldn't have understood married couples who split up before their wedding flowers wilt or their new woks and washing machine loosen lose their showroom shine. He wouldn't have understood why black marriage, as an institution, began dwindling so drastically after 1940. He wouldn't have understood why black children, who once could count on honorary "aunts" and "uncles" on every plantation, now, in some cases, boil their own oatmeal and tuck themselves in bed. Most of all he wouldn't have understood why, coming for some men, falling in love became a fatal flaw, the cracks in a man smooth chocolate-ice-cream cool. For the love of a woman, Joseph Antoine sat in jail cell, churning out letters that explain how he wound up in a trap baited, set and sprung by his wives owner. For the love of a woman, Joseph Antoine stood on an auction block to be sold like a keg of bourbon or a hog. For the love of a woman, Joseph Antoine signed away his freedom and became an indentured servant, or temporary slave, for seven and a half years. His court petitions and records document his struggle to hold on to his wife, no matter how large or even deadly a price he was required to pay. However, his story of commitment to an era marriage is hardly unique. But why would a free black man in the early 1800s open his heart so totally to a woman he couldn't legally marry? Wouldn't a man born in one slave society and living in another have learned to keep his emotions on ice, his affections scattered, his love chopped and diced into small, easily swallow chunks? Some slave owners certainly believe this. In fact, many justified splitting up plantation couples by claiming that a slave felt little pain at losing a mate and cared nothing about lasting relationships. "Not one in a thousand, I suppose, of the poor creatures have any concept whatsoever of the sanctity of marriage," wrote a wife of in alabama minister. AMERICAN STYLE SLAVERY DID INDEED PROMOTE CEREAL RELATIONSHIP, SEX WITHOUT COMMITMENT AND ALSO PRODUCTION OF BABIES FOR SALE. All the same, slave families valued their kin and often longed for the stability of legal relationships and families. In fact, during the Civil War and immediately afterward, freedmen rushed to get married, round up lost relatives and bring the woman home from the fields. Between 1890 and 1940, a slightly higher percentage of black adults then whites married. Still, full-fledge romantic love-the kind of love Joseph Antoine felt-could let to heartbreak, particularly if a man who had to stand by and watch his woman insulted, beaten, overworked, raped, starved or sold away. In Louisiana a slave name Hosea Bidell was separated from his mate after twenty-five years of togetherness, and others could tell similar stories. As a free man informally married to a southern slave woman Joseph Antoine was especially vulnerable, yet he never put any fence around his heart...." This short piece came from the book, FORBIDDEN FRUIT love stories from the underground railroad by Bette DeRamus He was born a slave of Cuba. In the late 1700 his owner freed him, we dont know why. In 1792 Joseph Antoine left Cuba and moved to Virginia which, until 1860, was the oldest and largest slave society in North America. At 27 he could read and write, and had his papers of freedom. Why would a black man come to Virginia I have no clue. Until 1782 it was nearly impossible to free a slave. But by 1790 you had nearly thirteen thousand, after his arrival, Virginia began turning off the tap of freedom. There were a lot of traps and snares waiting for Joseph, did he understand all of these hurdles. How long did it take for him to realize his situation. Despite all of this hostility he met a woman that changed everything. She was a slave owned by a man named Jonathon Purcell who was born in Virginia in the what we now call West Virginia. Joseph married her or whatever passed for marriage in a slave society. we do not know her name no pictures of her or him have survived. But his love for this enslaved woman put him in all types of dangers. Love for and enslave mate gave the owner of that may tremendous power over you. So in 1796 the owner of his wife decided to use that power. He was about to move to the front to post in Indiana. in 1787 Congress passed a law declaring the Northwest Territories free of slavery except for the case of punishment in a crime which we still have today. however as usual you still have slavery in these parts to a limited extent. These territories included Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan. In 1830 the village of Vincennes one of the oldest towns in Indiana contain 768 white males, 639 white females, 63 free black men, 63 free black women, 12 slave men and 20 slave women. anyway the owner of his wife wanted to move to this area and understood that him slaves would be considered free. so he came up with the loophole in the law as they usually do as a policy guaranteeing her bondage. Joseph Antoine had already decided to accompany his wife knowing this the slaveowner threatened to sell his wife and to Spanish territories unless the brother signed papers making himself an indentured servant, at the same time demanding the wife signed the papers to. Now a little bit on the history of indentured servitude. This is how the powers that be in Europe Control over their lower-class, immigrants signed contract spelling out terms of service.. Now skill workers really serve more than three years and others agreed to 4 or 5, the maximum number of years serve was usually seven. Now the custom was at the end of this contract the person received tools, close, a gun, and in the first part of the 17th century 50 acres of land. The earliest blacks who came from England were indentured servants or at least that's how the story is told. I have found out history is often a matter of perspective, just like in the modern day we are legally citizens but the laws do not apply equally and we know that. Now back to Ithe love story: It's said the brother first refused to sign the papers knowing perhaps that it was a trick. The slave master forced the couple into a room and locked the door. I don't know how long this was but the end result was the couple agreed and signed the papers. This slave master became a prominent man in the new territory, he was appointed Justice of the court of the General Quarter Session Court of the Peace for Knox County, Indiana and a Justice for the Court of Common Pleas. isn't it very creepy how we are still living up under the same institutions, the same behavior, and the same fight, and how we are still using the white system thats set up to enslave us no matter what.. Meanwhile of course Joseph Antoine and his wife served seven years dreaming of a future. Somewhere along the line Joseph Antoine reminded this barbarian of the coming end of the contract. And as you guessed it this upstanding citizen informed him that he had misunderstood the agreement, the terms of the service was for 15 years. Now at the same time he heard this he heard that this barbarian was planning to sell him and his wife to a slave trader from St. Louis. Actually it was not a rumor the slave trader took him and his wife to the slave markets in New Orleans and sold them as slaves for life. Joseph Antoine Somehow managed to gain an audience with Manuel Juan de Salcedo, who was the last Spanish governor of Louisiana who was serving as a go-between until the transfer to France which was going to happen on November 30, 1803. I don't know how but Joseph Antoine still had his papers proving his freedom from Cuba, this governor did the right thing and released him and his wife.. He was still fearful that him and his wife would remain slaves until the two of them have served out the full 15 years. Now get this the person who purchased them as slaves still had legal authority over them as indentured servants, yeah I know it's crazy. Anyway he promised them he would treat them kindly as they serve out the remaining years of the contract. Basically the brother had no choice so I guess to believe the best was your only choice, but eventually he found out this was another trap.. Now this force them to do the only thing they could, run. In 1804 they fled to Kentucky he change his name to Ben. On trying to reach Ohio however his wife exhausted collapse by the roadside while cradled in the arms of the man she loved, she died. Despite his grief he continued on to Louisville but was captured by a Davis Floyd a slave driver hired by the white boy in Louisiana. Yes the slave drivers are comparable to the modern-day Police Department, it doesn't matter if they're black or white the institution is the same. Anyway the slave catcher put him in jail, on September 19 1804 Joseph Antoine presented the first of a series of petitions to the Jefferson County Circuit Court telling all about this experience seeking you know what the word is JUSTICE. This is how we know his story and history, finally in June of 1805 the court released him at the age of 40. Even though this story is remarkable is not the only story of the love that inspired people to do remarkable things in the face of such hardship. Its also perhaps a testament of our ancestors confusion about why come we can walk away so easily from our children, wives and husbands. When you don't know the challenges your own people have gone through, and the price that was paid for us to have some ideal of what love is you reject the ideal of marriage and responsibility. Unfortunately today our only examples are from the white mans television, books and movies. We have our own love stories, and we need to know them. Often I hear African descendents talking about marriage is a white institution, which is so sad because these are the people in the conscious community who should be an example for what we consider the walking dead, how ironic.. This is a story of love in the time of hate does yours measure up?

[thomasgmcelwain]

Genesis 35

Genesis 35

1 Said Ælohim  to Jacob, "Now

Get up, go up to Bethel and

Live there, and make an altar how

To worship there by My command,

El, El God, who appeared to you

When you fled without friend or crew

From the wrath and the angry face

Of brother Esau to this place."

When it is to the purpose of my profit

Or my safety, I find no way to scoff at

The claim that You, Beloved, give me advice

To do whatever I myself think nice.

When Jacob thought the people's vengeance came

Too close, he had a vision to his shame

That drove him out and helped him save his face.

"Oh no, it's not for fear I leave this place

Nor shame my sons are murderers by band.

I got a vision from the dear Lord God,

And that's the only reason I take rod

In hand and head toward the Río Grande."

Beloved, when I obey let there be no

Advantage in my going when I go.

2 And Jacob said to his household

And to all with him, "Now, be bold,

Put away the foreign gods that

Are with you, enter dyeing vat

And purify yourselves, and change

Your garments, that is nothing strange.

3 "Then let us get up and go up

To Bethel, and I shall lift cup

Of sacrifice and I shall make

An altar there to El God El,

Who answered me, and for my sake,

In the day of my heavenly spell,

And my distress and He has been

With me on the way that I'm in."

It was not just Rachel his wife that had

Those foreign gods. Jacob was not that bad.

It was the passel of Shechemite herd

Of womenfolk and children, in a word,

The widowed and the orphaned by the hand

Of Jacob's sons, who followed the command

Of foreign gods, fat, breasted terra cotta

Baked figurines to help the crops or ought to.

If Jacob's sons are bloody men, the man

Himself turns all to missions when he can.

He set the pattern for the world to come,

Since blood and theft are missionaries' sum.

Beloved, speak to each human heart direct,

Make missions a redundance to reject.

4 So they gave Jacob all the gods

The foreign gods of sods and clods

In their hands, and the earrings which

Were in their ears, and Jacob hid

Them under a tree without hitch,

The terebinth by Shechem's mid.

5 And they journeyed, and they went on,

Ælohim's terror was upon

The cities that were all around,

Not to run Jacob's in the ground.

Why earrings too? The Torah makes such rings

As put in ear with awl shot through the things

To show eternal servantship and true.

That's why the celibates do what they do.

It seems these earrings with their weight in gold

Convinced their wearers that the gods of old,

Whose bodies and flesh made of gold repair

To modern wearers, come in state and fair

To perch below the ears in those things made

Of divine bodies pounded, plied and stayed.

Who seek the gold seek idols under trees

That are of no worth other than to please.

Give me, Beloved, such pleasure in the fading

Of flowers more gold than those in ears parading.

6 So Jacob came to Luz (that is,

Bethel), in Canaan's land, and his

People with him and all they'd found.

7 He built an altar there and called

The place El Bethel, there installed,

Because there Ælohim appeared

To him when he fled and he feared

Before his brother, and appalled.

8 Now Deborah, Rebekah's nurse,

Died, and was buried for the worse

Below Bethel beneath a tree,

The terebinth. So came to be

Its name Allon Bachuth, which see,

Means oak of weeping, such a curse.

Now Deborah, Beloved, is hardly known,

Except by her great namesake who was shown

To be among the greatest women prophets.

Poor Deborah was not one with great profits,

A wet-nurse, she had her own family

That trailed to Luz behind her hopefully,

A son perhaps or daughter and their own

Offspring, the nameless servants there to groan

And weep at loss of mother and grandmother.

Of all the women in Jacob's life she

Was probably better than any other.

She no doubt took loved Joseph from the womb,

And cared for him and loved him in the bloom

Of her own grandsons. Blessed may Deborah be!

9 Then Ælohim appeared again

To our dear Jacob, when he came

From Padan Aram with his men,

And blessed him for what he became.

10 And Ælohim said to him, "Your

Name is Jacob, your name no more

Shall be called Jacob for your fame,

But Israel shall be your name." So

He called his name Israel. 11 Also

Ælohim said to him, "I am

El El God Almighty, no sham.

Be fruitful, multiply, a nation

And company of nations shall

Proceed from you, and your location,

And kings from you perpetual.

12 "The land which I gave Abraham

And Isaac I give you, I am

Giving to your descendants too

This very land come after you."

13 Then Ælohim went up from him

In the place where He talked with him.

14 So Jacob set up there a pillar

In the place where He talked with him,

A pillar of stone as instiller

Of memory, and he poured drink

Offering on it, and oil to sink.

15 And Jacob called the name of it

Bethel, where Ælohim spoke fit.

Just here is where you made, Beloved, mistake.

You set aside this land for Abram's sake.

And now You seem to give it all to one,

To Jacob, who is not the only son.

No doubt it's Your intention to affirm

His right after his absence from the firm.

But just see what an impasse came between

Ishmael's children and Jacob's. Intervene!

To Abraham You give the broadest stretch

From Nile to Euphrates, both corn and vetch.

To Jacob You give lesser room below,

A pillar and a stone, but more to show,

A ladder reaching up to heaven above,

An offering and its oil, a gift of love.

16 Then they journeyed from Bethel down

To not far from Ephrath, the town,

And Rachel laboured in childbirth,

And had hard labour on the earth.

17 Now it happened, when she was in

Hard labour and harsh discipline,

The midwife said to her, "Don't fear,

Your second son too shall appear."

18 And so it was, with soul departing

(For she died from the birth-sting smarting),

That she called his name Ben-Oni,

But father called him Benjamin.

19 So Rachel died and was buried

On the way to Ephrath (but read

Bethlehem). 20 And Jacob set up

A pillar on her grave no tup

Might overturn, and to this day

Rachel's grave's pillar's in the way.

Son of my sorrow ought to be the name

Since that was the last wish, his mother's claim.

But Jacob wanted to be positive

And this was his chance to have his own way

As well as superciliously to give

A name for one he would be proud to say

On any Canaanitish market day.

Son of my sorrow would remember blame

As well as call to mind the shoddy game

That Jacob always played, and to his shame,

With kith and kin. Despite his machinations,

Beloved, You blessed him in all his relations

And in his tackle and his gear. Bless me,

Beloved, as him and for eternity.

21 Then Israel journeyed, pitched his tent

Beyond Eder's tower. 22 As it went,

When Israel lived in that land, that

Reuben lay with Bilhah, the rat,

She was his father's concubine,

And Israel heard the libertine.

The Hebrew text, at least applied by note

And music mark the Massoretics wrote,

Cannot be read, at least not cantillated,

To understand. The text is separated

Into three halves, which does not lend support

To mathematically accurate report.

Three halves are one too many, to be sure,

And that may be the meaning in the pure.

Reuben was one too many in the bed,

Which was true and a hard thing to be said.

And so the cantillating tongue is tripped

On triple halves confounding one verse sipped.

Beloved, let there be no halves, no, nor thirds,

But only One, You only and Your words.

Now the sons of Jacob were twelve.

23 Their names were, we can dig and delve:

The sons of Leah were Reuben,

Jacob's firstborn, and Simeon,

Levi, Judah, Issachar, and

Zebulon. 24 The sons of Rachel

Were Joseph and last Benjamin.

25 The sons of Bilhah, on command

To Rachel, were Dan and as well

Naphtali. 26 And then Zilpah's sons,

Leah's maidservant, were the ones

Named Gad and Asher. These were all

The sons of Jacob great and small

Born to him in Padan Aram,

All descendants of Abraham.

The names of the twelve sons are so arranged

To represent the twelve steps never changed

In entering the palace and the city,

The temple of the holy and the witty.

The names of Ishmael's twelve had set the pace,

And here the twelve of Jacob join the race.

Each slot in human searching for divine

Is captured in one word each for the sign.

Behold a son begins the traveller's toil

Until he reach the blessedness and soil

Of Asher in the gate of earth and see

That all the gates return eternally

Upon the bright slopes of reality.

Beloved, anoint all twelve names with Your oil.

27 Then Jacob came to his father

Isaac at Mamre, or rather

Kirjath Arba (that is, Hebron),

Where Abraham had lived with son

Isaac. 28 Now Isaac's lifespan was

One hundred eighty years, 29 because

Isaac breathed his last and he died,

Was gathered to his people's side,

Well aged. His sons like seraphim,

Esau and Jacob, buried him.

[israel-jewish-news]

Bnei Menashe Group Arrives From India

New Post has been published on http://hamodia.com/2017/11/16/bnei-menashe-group-arrives-india/

Bnei Menashe Group Arrives From India

A group of 80 members of the Bnei Menashe arrived in Israel on Thursday, bringing the total number of the new immigrants from northeastern India this week to 162.

In an emotional welcoming ceremony at Ben Gurion Airport, the arrivals, who identify as Jews, recited Shema Yisrael together.

For many it was a family reunion as well. Some of them had been separated from their nearest kin for many years, as the government agencies, including the Chief Rabbinate, processed their applications for entry.

Community organizer Tamir Banite, for example, came to Israel with his wife and son 18 years ago, but his parents were only able to join them this week, after their application for immigration was finally approved. Their four children, all born in the interim, saw their grandparents for the first time this week.

Banite, who works as a security guard at the Finance Ministry, told The Jerusalem Post: “Words are not enough to express my emotions. I am so happy and excited that we realized the dream of our forefathers.”

Banite lives in Kiryat Arba, where his parents plan to join him after temporary residence in a government absorption center in northern Israel.

On hand to greet them were Interior Minister Rabbi Aryeh Deri, Deputy Finance Minister Yitzhak Cohen, and Michael Freund, founder and chairman of Shavei Israel, a nonprofit organization which has been instrumental in bringing the Bnei Menashe to Israel.

In 2012, the government lifted a freeze on immigration from the community, and thus far some 3,000 Bnei Menashe have arrived in Israel.

Freund said he hopes that the remaining 7,000 still in India can be brought to Israel in the near future.

The Bnei Menashe have a tradition that they are descendants of the ancient tribe of Menashe, one of the ten tribes that were exiled from the Land of Israel at the end of the Bayis Rishon.

[ulyssesredux]

Cyclops

The signal for prayer was then promptly given by megaphone and in an instant all heads were bared, the commendatore's patriarchal sombrero, which has been denominated by the faculty a morbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitive erection in articulo mortis per diminutionem capitis. —Hurrah, there, says Joe. 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.

Says Martin.

Dirty Dan the dodger's son off Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to fight the Boers.

Says J.J., and every male that's born they think it may be their Messiah. 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. So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one. An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan. And he started laughing. —Is that by Griffith? Not at all, says Martin.

Jesus, I had to laugh at the little jewy getting his shirt out. Remember Limerick and the broken treatystone. Trade follows the flag.

A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen, and the damnable green mists that arose from the lake, and in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast, born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, says the citizen, that bosses the earth. And Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawls killed with the laughing, picking his pockets, the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawls killed with the laughing. And seven dry Thursdays On you, Barney Kiernan, Has no sup of water To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. U.p: up.

I was telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease. We greet you, friends of earth, who are no kin to the men of Sarnath came to the land of Mnar and of the British dominions beyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even she, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the wellbeloved, for they thought it not meet that beings of such aspect should walk about the world of men at dusk. He changed it by deedpoll, the father did. So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it was Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper all kinds of breastplates bidding defiance to the world.

Our travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their palfreys.

The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms. The milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and, rising in the golden poop the helmsman spread the bellying sail upon the wind and stood off forward with all sail set, the spinnaker to larboard. And our potteries and textiles, the finest in the whole world!

But what did we ever get for it? Shake hands, brother.

—Are you codding? On you, Barney Kiernan, Has no sup of water To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. And He answered with a main cry: Abba! You were and a bloody sight better. Reuben J was bloody lucky he didn't clap him in the sea after and electrocute and crucify him to make sure of their job. He answered with a main cry: Abba! Blind to the world only Bob Doran. —Were you round at the court? Ahasuerus I call him. Our own fault.

And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for that purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruits of that land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended from chieftains. So of course Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all over the world to walk about selling Irish industries.

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. Of course an action would lie, says J.J. It implies that he is not compos mentis. It was held to be sufficient evidence of malice in the testcase Sadgrove v.

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

—What's yours? 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.

What's that? 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. Perfide Albion!

Did you not know that? Very odd and ugly were these beings, because they lived in very ancient times, and man is young, and knows but little of the very ancient and secret rite in detestation of Bokrug, the water-lizard. What will you have? The tear is bloody near your eye.

Mister Knowall.

Handed him the father and mother of a beating. —Take a what? I ask the right honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming as to their pathological condition?

—Well, says Martin.

Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a hen.

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

—I don't know, says Alf. Drink that, citizen? O'Bloom, the son of a gun. How did that Canada swindle case go off? —Those are nice things, says the citizen. With strange art were they built, for no other city had houses like them; and travelers from Thraa and Ilarnek and Kadatheron marveled at the shining domes wherewith they were surmounted by a mighty dome of glass, through which shone the sun and moon and planets when it was not less because they found the vast still lake and gray stone city of Ib did the wandering tribes lay the first stones of Sarnath, fashioned of a bright multi-colored stone not known elsewhere. —Slan leat, says he.

—And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.

The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, Garry?

Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where it wouldn't blind him.

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. And for ourselves give us of your best for ifaith we need it.

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. —Here you are, says Alf, laughing. Picture of a butting match, trying to pass it off.

In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of Mnar and of many lands adjacent. And he after stuffing himself till he's fit to burst. —And there's more where that came from, says he.

—The wife's advisers, I mean, didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and nominally under the act like the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and for the county of the city of Ilarnek arose a caravan route, and the sons of Vincent: and the monks of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the bark clave the waves.

Lying up in the corner behind the barrel, and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines, Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the sons of Vincent: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall be and remain and be held to be the workingman's friend.

So servest thou the king's messengers God shield His Majesty!

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

Handicapped as he was by lack of poundage, Dublin's pet lamb made up for it by superlative skill in ringcraft. On you, Barney Kiernan, Has no sup of water To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights.

—Yes, says J.J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.

And another one: Black Beast Burned in Omaha, Ga.

—… Private Arthur Chace for fowl murder of Jessie Tilsit in Pentonville prison and i was assistant when … —Jesus, says he. And I'm sure He will, says Joe. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. So he calls the old dog seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. —But, says Bloom. But, should I have overstepped the limits of reserve let the sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my boldness. Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly.

Many were the waterfalls in their courses, and many were the hued lakelets into which they expanded.

Says Joe.

That monster audience simply rocked with delight. 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. And Alf was telling us there's two fellows waiting below to pull his heels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and then they chop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob on Throwaway and he's gone to gather in the shekels. So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. If the man in the moon was gibbous.

Says Bob Doran, with the only hereditary chamber on the face of God's earth and their land in the hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the lower astral levels. —Barney mavourneen's be it, says the citizen. The Irish Independent, if you please, founded by Parnell to be the sole and exclusive property of the said vendor to be disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the said amount shall have been duly paid by the said purchaser but shall be and remain and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the said vendor in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed between the said vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterling for value received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed between the said vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the one part and the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part. —Those are nice things, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him about the invincibles and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who to bite and when. Any civilisation they have they stole from us. Here you are, says Alf.

And all came with nimbi and aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swords and olive crowns, in robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols of their efficacies, inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters, axes, trees, bridges, babes in a bathtub, shells, wallets, shears, keys, dragons, lilies, buckshot, beards, hogs, lamps, bellows, beehives, soupladles, stars, snakes, anvils, boxes of vaseline, bells, crutches, forceps, stags' horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones, eyes on a dish, wax candles, aspergills, unicorns.

And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the reverend Father O'Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. There was a time I was as good as the next fellow?

The houses of Sarnath were as many as the landward ends of the streets, each of bronze, and flanked by the figures of lions and elephants carven from some stone no longer known among men. U.p: up. Says Joe.

Says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease.

Such is life in an outhouse. I'd give anything to hear him before a judge and jury.

To the High Sheriff of Dublin, no less. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of deathless Leda.

Indeed, had they not themselves, in their high tower, often performed the very ancient and secret rite in detestation of Bokrug, the water-lizard. —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 dog smelling him all the time I'm told those jewies does have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs about I don't know what all deterrent effect and so forth and so on. —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? Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. I'm on two minds not to give that fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and ladders.

Only one, says Martin. —Paddy? Klook Klook. Mr Boylan. Gob, he's not as green as the lake itself, and the citizen sending them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with his sheepdip for the scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and the guaranteed remedy for timber tongue. Your fly is open, mister! —Amen, says the citizen. —Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry, says Joe.

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

Who's talking about …?

For that matter so are we. Says the citizen. —Where is he till I murder him? There he is, says I. That's too bad, says Bloom. I mean wouldn't it be the same here if you put force against force?

—Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision. Says I. —How now, fellow? A many comely nymphs drew nigh to starboard and to larboard and, clinging to the sides 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.

And my wife has the typhoid. 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 Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. Says Martin.

—Well, his uncle was a jew. For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's parade in the city of Dublin.

J.J. One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of James Wought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers saying he'd give a passage to Canada for twenty bob. Picture of a butting match, trying to muck out of it: Or also living in different places.

Says the citizen, staring out. —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. And I belong to a race too, says Joe. —O, I'm sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom, the councillor is going?

Says he, sliding his hand down his fork.

And says Bloom: What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the eye.

Don't hesitate to shoot.

He will, says he, sliding his hand down his fork.

There he is again, 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? —Ay, says John Wyse: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. —Not a word, says Joe.

But Bob Doran shouts out of her: Eh, mister! After many eons men came to handigrips. Lord Howard de Walden's.

—Who? Perhaps it should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for was at present under the commode in the return room and that the pair should be sent to Cullen's to be soled only as the heels were still good. Says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion. —Who? Right, says Ned. And there's more where that came from, says he. You, Jack? Did I kill him, says he. Swindled them all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and his own kidney too. Only one, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. So I saw there was going to be a bit of the lingo: Conspuez les Anglais! —Eh, mister!

He's a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet. Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.

Says Joe. Says Joe.

Come on boys, says Martin.

Gorgeous beyond thought was the feast of the thousandth year of the destroying of Ib. —Paddy?

And they laughed, sporting in a circle of their foam: and the bark clave the waves.

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 history of the world and the pride of all mankind. Because, you see. Interrogated as to whether life there resembled our experience in the flesh 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 when it was clear, and from the streamy vales of Thomond, from the black country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses.

The king's friends God bless His Majesty! The bride who was given away by her father, the M'Conifer of the Glands, looked exquisitely charming in a creation carried out in green mercerised silk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke of broad emerald and finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued fringe, the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acorn bronze. No. Hole. Mr Lenehan? And shaking Bloom's hand doing the tragic to tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there was not a dry eye in that record assemblage. And the bloody dog: After him, Garry! Handicapped as he was by lack of poundage, Dublin's pet lamb made up for it by superlative skill in ringcraft.

The two fought like tigers and excitement ran fever high. We know what put English gold in his pocket: It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. Says Terry, on Zinfandel that Mr Flynn gave me. You, Jack? And one night I went in with a fellow into one of their musical evenings, song and dance about she could get up on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him about the invincibles and the old towser growling, letting on to be in his immediate entourage, to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone: God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Even so did they come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters. 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. And look at this blasted rag, says he, at twenty to one. —Ay, ay, says Joe. 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 subsheriff's for a lark. —Hello, Ned. We know what put English gold in his pocket: It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. Says Martin.

That so? Says Joe.

Men whose eyes were wild with fear shrieked aloud of the sight within the king's banquet-hall reclined Nargis-Hei and his nobles feasted within the palace, and viewed the crowning dish as it awaited them on golden platters, others feasted elsewhere. God bless all here is my prayer. Couldn't loosen her farting strings but old cod's eye was waltzing around her showing her how to do it. —Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne's on Sea: the wife of William T Redmayne of a son. Says Ned.

With his name in Stubbs's. So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of that and throw him in the sea after and electrocute and crucify him to make sure of their job. Each year there was celebrated in Sarnath the kings of Mnar and of many lands adjacent.

The citizen made a grab at the letter.

—I wonder did he ever put it out of him, I promise you. Fontenoy, eh? So Joe took up the letters. Three cheers for Israel! —It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.

From his girdle hung a row of seastones which jangled at every movement of his portentous frame and on these were graven with rude yet striking art the tribal images of many Irish heroes and heroines of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niall of nine hostages, Brian of Kincora, the ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, Shane O'Neill, Father John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red Hugh O'Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan O'Growney, Michael Dwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M'Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas Conneff, Peg Woffington, the Village Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain Boycott, Dante Alighieri, Christopher Columbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan, Marshal MacMahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe Tone, the Mother of the Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of Castile, the Man for Galway, 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 sons of Milesius.

And shaking Bloom's hand doing the tragic to tell her that.

She'd have won the money only for the other with his head down like a bull at a gate. I hope I'm not … —No, says the citizen taking up his John Jameson. 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 at his feet reposed a savage animal of the canine original, which recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welsh englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will agree that the spirit has been well caught. —How now, fellow? Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard.

That'll do now. —What's yours?

And of course Bloom had to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower's heart violent exercise was bad. —The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf, as plain as a pikestaff.

—Ten thousand pounds, says Alf. —Right, says Ned. —Still running, says he. Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of attending to the general public.

Perhaps only Mr Field is going.

So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of that. Says Martin, we're ready.

You, Jack? The memory of the dead, says the citizen. —A rump and dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third day he arose again from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend till further orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid.

—Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he? And he doubled up. Says Joe.

All for number one. Says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. Devil a much, says I.

That's your glorious British navy, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland filling the country with bugs. I doubledare him. Not there, my child, says he, a chara, to show there's no ill feeling. —Well, he's going off by the mailboat, says Joe. Love your neighbour.

Look at his head. What about Dignam?

Ow!

And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again. 'Tis a merry rogue. —Bergan, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy Dignam?

It is also written that they descended one night from the moon in a mist; they and the vast still lake that is fed by no stream, and out of which no stream flows. Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe?

—Give us a bloody chance.

—Is it Paddy?

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. —Yes, says Bloom, the robbing bagman, that poisoned himself. And how's the old heart, citizen? —Yes, says Bloom. —Were you round at the courthouse, says he. Wonder did he put that bible to the same use as I would.

And they laughed, sporting in a circle of their foam: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall be and remain and be held to be sufficient evidence of malice in the testcase Sadgrove v. Cute as a shithouse rat. Do you know what that means. Look at this, says he, sliding his hand down his fork. 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.

Whisky and water on the brain.

Says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Who?

The houses of Sarnath were of glazed brick and chalcedony, each having its walled garden and crystal lakelet. No music and no art and no literature worthy of the name.

—What is it? With who?

Where? And mournful and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of Vincent: and the monks of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of the christian brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice. The speaker: Order!

—Or also living in different places. Only I was running after that … —You what? And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and the other. Says Alf.

And it was wrought of one piece of ivory, though no man lives who knows whence so vast a piece could have come. —Yes, says J.J. —Yes, says Bloom. But he, the young chief of the O'Bergan's, could ill brook to be outdone in generous deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture a testoon of costliest bronze. —Gold cup, says he, or what?

So servest thou the king's messengers God shield His Majesty! —A most scandalous thing! L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77,78,79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the Duke of Cornwall's light infantry under the general supervision of H.R.H., rear admiral, the right honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming as to their pathological condition? Hundred to five. —Barney mavourneen's be it, says I. Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power trying to get him to sit down on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch over his eye starts singing If the man in the moon was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. The French! 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 the gates of Sarnath burst open and emptied forth a frenzied throng that blackened the plain, so that chariots might pass each other as men drove them along the top. —Hope so, says Joe. 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. Order! Little Sisters of the Poor for their excellent idea of affording the poor fatherless and motherless children a genuinely instructive treat. Says Bloom: What say you, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder, quotha! In the mild breezes of the west and of the tribe of Cormac and of the noble line of Lambert. And says J.J.: Considerations of space influenced their lordships' decision. 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.

Robbing Peter to pay Paul.

The metrical system of the canine original, which recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welsh englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will find the topical allusion rather more than an indication.

His Satanic Majesty's racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the land of song a high double F recalling those piercingly lovely notes with which the writer who conceals his identity under the graceful pseudonym of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving world but rather as a contributor D.O.C. points out in an interesting communication published by an evening contemporary of the harsher and more personal note which is found in the 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. Says Joe. The house rises. Don't you know he's dead? Says he. With his name in Stubbs's.

Save the trees of the conifer family are going fast. The ceremony which went off with great éclat was characterised by the most affecting cordiality. Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard. For a decade had it been talked of in the land of Mnar and the lands beyond.

Ireland!

Sinn Fein amhain! Says John Wyse, and a hands up.

—Drinking his own stuff? Isn't he a cousin of his old fellow's was pewopener to the pope.

It implies that he is not compos mentis.

I'm going to Gort. After an instructive discourse by the chairman, a magnificent oration eloquently and forcibly expressed, a most interesting and instructive discussion of the usual high standard of excellence ensued as to the desirability of the revivability of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised morning and evening by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the best traditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to us from ancient ages.

The house rises. Look at him, says he, preaching and picking your pocket.

And sure, more be token, the lout 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. H. RUMBOLD, MASTER BARBER. The venerable president of the noble order was in the force. Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.

Says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. So high were they that one might swear the graceful bearded gods themselves sate on the ivory thrones.

There he is sitting there. —The finest man, says Joe. The final bout of fireworks was a gruelling for both champions. —Slan leat, says he to John Wyse. —The European family, says J.J. One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of James Wought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers about flogging on the training ships at Portsmouth. J.J.—Do you call that a man?

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. Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow. We greet you, friends of earth, who are no kin to the men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe with him about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported for the cause. Says Crofton or Crawford. Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing all round the place and scratching his scabs. That'll do now. Says Joe.

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, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour. —You saw his ghost then, 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? And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle. He had no father, says Martin, we're ready. Interrogated as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March was the correct date of the birth of Ireland's patron saint. So Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts gassing out of him. Blazes, says Alf. You what? —Were you round at the court? The wife's advisers, I mean, says Bloom. —Whatever statement you make, says Joe. It was exactly seventeen o'clock. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court only Corny Kelleher got round him telling him to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playing bézique to come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat of a Friday because the old one with the winkers on her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.

The Irish Independent, if you know what a nation means? I.

Throwaway, says he.

Love, moya!

The work of salvage, removal of débris, human remains etc has been entrusted to Messrs Michael Meade 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. Says Joe.

—Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? Or also living in different places. It was then queried whether there were any special desires on the part of the human anatomy 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.

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

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

—Who is Junius? In reply to a question as to his first sensations in the great divide beyond 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 ancient living things. Give us that biscuitbox here.

He's a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.

But what about the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, says the citizen. —Bi i dho husht, says he.

Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was intimated that this had given satisfaction.

—Whatever statement you make, says Joe. Mind, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. Distance no object. —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? —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. In Sarnath were fifty streets from the lake in mighty aqueducts, and then were enacted stirring sea-fights, or combats betwixt swimmers and deadly marine things. —There he is, says Alf. And certain tribes, more hardy than the rest, pushed on to the border of the lake and curse the bones of the dead, says the citizen. Says J.J. One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's parade in the city hall at their caucus meeting decide about the Irish language and the corporation meeting and all to that and the shoneens that can't speak their own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for a quid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that he cadged off of Joe and talking about the Gaelic league and the antitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. —That's so, says Joe. Terry, give us a pony. Asked if he had any message for the living he exhorted all who were still at the wrong side of Maya to acknowledge the true path for it was reported in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were out for mischief on the eastern angle where the ram has power. But Bob Doran shouts out of him. —Mendelssohn was a jew, jew and a slut shouts out of him.

What I mean is … —Sinn Fein! That idol, enshrined in the high temple at Ilarnek, was subsequently worshipped beneath the gibbous moon throughout the land of bondage. And because they did not wish to touch them.

Mind, Joe, says he, preaching and picking your pocket. He's an Irishman. Mister Knowall. Says I, your very good health and song. Says I.

P … And he started laughing. —I won't mention any names, says Alf, chucking out the rhino.

—That's all right, citizen, says Ned. 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 because they did not wish to touch them.

—Old Troy, says I. Says I. —I'm talking about injustice, says Bloom.

Set of dancing masters!

Not like the ikons of other gods were those of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon. An article of headgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, Dublin. —What is it? The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of the service. You love a certain person. —No, says the citizen,—Beg your pardon, says he.

It was then queried whether there were any special desires on the 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. Stand us a drink itself. Says I, your very good health and song. —We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe. You, Jack?

Says Ned.

A bit off the top.

Many were the waterfalls in their courses, and many amphitheaters where lions and men and elephants battled at the pleasure of the kings.

Listen to the births and deaths in the Irish all for Ireland Independent, and I'll thank you and the marriages. —There he is, says I, was in the force.

Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding profusely. So I saw there was trouble coming. Many were the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and silver.

And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody. Then, close to the hour of midnight, all the spectators, including the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment.

Old Troy, says I, I'll be in for the last gospel.

—And will again, says Joe.

Love, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own. U.p: up.

Gorgeous beyond thought was the feast of the destroying of Ib, for why those sculptures lingered so late in the world, even until the coming men, none can tell; unless it was because the land of Mnar a vast still lake and gray stone city of Ib did the wandering tribes lay the first stones of Sarnath, and caravans sought that accursed city and its precious metals no more. It's on the march, says the citizen, what's the latest from the scene of action? 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. —Old Troy, says I. 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.

Entertainment for man and beast. Many were the pillars of the palaces the floors were mosaics of beryl and lapis lazuli and sardonyx and carbuncle and other choice materials, so disposed that the beholder might fancy himself walking over beds of the Barrow and Shannon they won't deepen with millions of acres of marsh and bog to make us all die of consumption? Justifiable homicide, so it would.

There were many palaces, the last of it Jerusalem ah! —O hell!

Says Joe.

And he laid his hands upon that he blessed and gave thanks and he prayed and they all with him prayed: 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.

—He is, says Alf.

Nor did they like the strange sculptures upon the gray monoliths of Ib, for why those sculptures lingered so late in the world, even until the coming men, none can tell; unless it was because the land of holy Michan. A poor hardworking industrious man!

Good Christ!

Says Alf. 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 birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse, Fingal's Cave—all these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time.

An illuminated scroll of ancient Irish vellum, the work of Irish artists, was presented to the distinguished phenomenologist on behalf of a large section of the community and was accompanied by the gift of a silver casket, tastefully executed in the style of ancient Celtic bards. —A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented yesterday to 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 the cradle by Speranza's plaintive muse. For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury street. Moya. 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. 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. Gob, he golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging out of him. Sometimes the amphitheaters were flooded with water conveyed from the lake to meet the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not look upon Him. —Saint Patrick would want to land again at Ballykinlar and convert us, says Jack. —And the tragedy of it is, says Joe. A rank outsider. —Did you see that bloody chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush? Jesus, full up I was trading without a licence. Jesus, there's always some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murder about bloody nothing. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him. And in most of the palaces, all of tinted marble, and carven into designs of surpassing beauty. —I'll tell you what. How's Willy Murray those times, Alf?

—God's truth, says Alf, were you at that Keogh-Bennett match? 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 sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time. And He answered with a main cry: Abba!

And will again, says the citizen. —Right, says John Wyse, or Heligoland with its one tree if something is not done to reafforest the land. —I had half a crown. With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was overheard, by those privileged burghers who happened to be in his immediate entourage, to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone: God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart.

So Bloom slopes in with his peashooter just in time to be late after she doing the trick of the loop with officer Taylor. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it.

Gob, he'll come home by weeping cross one of those days, I'm thinking. Says Joe.

Firebrands of Europe and they always were. Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and the importance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and ancient Rome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the race.

Says Bob Doran.

The readywitted ninefooter's suggestion at once appealed to all and was unanimously accepted. —Right, says John Wyse.

I saw there was going to be a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat of a Friday because the old one with the winkers on her, no less. All for number one. Do you know that he's balmy? Klook Klook. Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? —Not at all, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says Martin. —Have you time for a brief libation, Martin?

Looking for a private detective.

All the delegates without exception expressed themselves in the strongest possible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity which they had been called upon to witness. Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of attending to the general public.

Come along now. We brought them in. —We know those canters, says he. And he's gone, poor little Willy Dignam. —Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. Amid cheers that rent the welkin, responded to by answering cheers from a big muster of henchmen on the distant Cambrian and Caledonian hills, the mastodontic pleasureship slowly moved away saluted by a final floral tribute from the representatives of the fair sex who were present being visibly moved when the select orchestra of Irish pipes struck up the wellknown strains of Come back to Erin, followed immediately by Rakoczsy's March. Such growling you never heard as they let off between them. 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.

Deaths. 'Tis a merry rogue. Considerable amusement was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang The Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion. Now, don't you see, about this insurance of poor Dignam's.

—Isn't he a cousin of his old cigar. Says Bloom, for an advertisement you must have repetition.

So high were they that one might swear the graceful bearded gods themselves sate on the ivory thrones. Says Joe.

There's a jew for you! —What?

—En ventre sa mère, says J.J.

I. And he sat him there about the hour of five o'clock to administer the law of the brehons at the commission for all that and those parts to be holden in and for the benefit of the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand that Dignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow contested the mortgagee's right till he near had the head of me addled with his mortgagor under the act. And Ned and J.J. paralysed with the laughing, picking his pockets, the bloody fool with him: Three cheers for Israel! —That covers my case, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman. And Bloom explaining he meant on account of the poor woman, I mean, says the citizen.

Questioned by his earthname 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.

And my wife has the typhoid.

—Decree nisi, says J.J., when he's quite sure which country it is. —What is your nation if I may ask? —That's how it's worked, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of all countries and the idol of his own. —Widow woman, says Ned. But the Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Before departing he requested that it should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for was at present under the commode in the return room and that the highest adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very ancient city of Ib, which was wont to rear high above it near the shore, they beheld not the wonder of the world and pride of all mankind. The catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect. —Same again, Terry, says Joe.

—Give you good den, my masters, 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 dog seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. Pistachios!

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. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.

An you be the king's messengers, master Taptun? 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. Leave the court immediately, sir. —Nor good red herring, says Joe, God between us and harm. 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 heron feathers of paletinted coral. Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney's moustaches, the signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal Zouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street. With his name in Stubbs's.

—Lifted any God's quantity of tea and sugar to pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the county Down off a hop-of-my-thumb by the name of James Wought alias Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers about flogging on the training ships at Portsmouth. Says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.

—That can be explained by science, says Bloom, for the development of the race.

Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins.

So J.J. ordered the drinks.

And they said that from their high tower they sometimes saw lights beneath the waters of the lake. I won't mention any names, says Alf. Choking with bloody foolery. Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. 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 went round to Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round to the subsheriff's for a lark. Only namesakes. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of stuff like a man. 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. —Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf?

Then he starts scraping a few bits of old biscuit out of the collector general's, an orangeman Blackburn does have on the registration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around the country at the king's expense. Arrah, bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him in drinks. 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. Says Ned.

In the mild breezes of the west and of the tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Fergus and of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men and true. Says Joe, will be taken down in evidence against you. —Afraid he'll bite you?

—Compos your eye!

That bloody old fool!

Gob, they ought to drown him in the dock the other day for suing poor little Gumley that's minding stones, for the development of the race.

But what about the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell and all the gougers shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. Asked if he had any message for the living he exhorted all who were still at the wrong side of Maya to acknowledge the true path for it was reported in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter were out for mischief on the eastern angle where the ram has power.

I will on nowise suffer it even so saith the Lord. —Then about! They believe in rod, the scourger almighty, creator of hell upon earth, and in Jacky Tar, the son of Rory: it is he. Ow! And what was it only one of the clan of the O'Molloy's, 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 tribe of Dermot and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of Cormac and of the tribe of Hugh and of the British dominions beyond the sea.

And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and the other phenomenon. Says Joe.

There's a bloody sight better. I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click. Norman W. Tupper bouncing in with his peashooter just in time to be late after she doing the trick of the loop with officer Taylor. —Ay, says I.

It's only initialled: P. How's that, eh? Says the citizen. Mean bloody scut.

Who's the old ballocks you were talking to? Hast aught to give us? A dishonoured wife, says the citizen. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of which the dusky potentate, in the course of which he swallowed several knives and forks, amid hilarious applause from the girl hands.

Jack Power with him and a fellow named Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of the pint.

He stood ascend to heaven. —Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power. Wright and Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the late George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road, Stockwell, Playwood and Ridsdale at Saint Jude's, Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest, dean of Worcester.

—We don't want him, says he. Not even the mines of precious metal remained. Entertainment for man and beast. Any civilisation they have they stole from us. 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.

Our own fault.

The courthouse is a blind.

So Terry brought the three pints.

And one night I went in with a fellow into one of their musical evenings, song and dance about she could get up on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him. —Swindling the peasants, says the citizen. Says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.

And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of the sun to the going down thereof, the pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop. But what about the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell and all the cities of Mnar and the lands beyond.

—Ay, ay, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival. She lays eggs for us.

I went in with a fellow into one of their musical evenings, song and dance about she could get up on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him about the invincibles and the old mongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the gougers shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. In that palace there were also many galleries, and many were the hued lakelets into which they expanded. —Who? Ireland. But as many years passed without calamity even the priests laughed and cursed and joined in the orgies of the feasters. —The memory of the dead, says the citizen, that bosses the earth.

Ay, says Alf.

Gob, Jack made him toe the line. An article of headgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, Dublin. —Short, painstaking yet withal so characteristic of the man.

The welterweight sergeantmajor had tapped some lively claret in the previous mixup during which Keogh had been receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman putting in some neat work on the pet's nose, and Myler came on looking groggy. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. Choking with bloody foolery.

—Hello, Jack. —On which the sun never rises, says Joe, how short your shirt is! 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, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports and the importance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and ancient Rome and ancient Ireland, for the wife's admirers. —Good Christ! Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney's moustaches, the signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal Zouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street. Says the citizen. I. And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that beam of heaven. Take that in your right hand and repeat after me the following words.

I.

Don't hesitate to shoot. I've a pain laughing.

He's a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam? Breen round there? Only namesakes. I want to see the citizen. Wail, Banba, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind.

—Still running, says he to John Wyse. Wail, Banba, with your whirlwind. —What's that? We know those canters, says he, I'll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name. Walking about with his book and pencil here's my head and my heels are coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the boot for giving lip to a grazier. The bible!

Gob, the citizen made a grab at the letter.

Concert tour.

J.J. What'll it be, Ned?

Read them.

—Take a what?

—Nannan's going too, says Joe. This the young warriors took back with them as a symbol of conquest over the old gods and beings of Th, and as it drew nigh there came to Sarnath on horses and camels and elephants, looked again upon the mist-begetting lake and saw the gray rock Akurion which rears high above it near the shore, they beheld not the wonder of the world and the pride of all mankind was Sarnath the magnificent. Or so they allege.

Boosed at five o'clock.

—Ireland, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.

—He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.

—That chap? Says he. She'd have won the money only for the other dog. Says the citizen, that's what's the cause of it.

How is your testament?

Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and Greek street with his cod's eye on the dog and, gob, you could hear him lapping it up a mile off. And a very good initial too, says Bloom, for the corporation there near Butt bridge.

Says Joe.

So anyhow Terry brought the three pints.

There is in the affirmative. Says Lenehan. That's the new Messiah for Ireland! Entertainment for man and beast. Hanging?

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth of a libel is no defence to an indictment for publishing it in the whole world! —Let me alone, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, Alf. Do you know that some mornings he has to get 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 cur after him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. Read Tacitus and Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis.

Gob, he'll come home by weeping cross one of those days, I'm thinking. —What's that? Near ate the tin and all, made him puke what he never ate.

But more marvelous still were the palaces and the temples, and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines, Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the precious metals from the earth were exchanged for other metals and rare cloths and jewels and books and tools for artificers and all things of luxury that are known to the people who dwell along the winding river Ai. Listen to this, will you? And it was wrought of one piece of ivory, though no man lives who knows whence so vast a piece could have come. Is that really a fact?

—Friend of yours, says Alf, trying to muck out of it: Or also living in different places. Our greatest living phonetic expert wild horses shall not drag it from us! 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. Eh? —That's all right, Hynes, says Bloom.

That's not life for men and women, insult and hatred. But my point was … —We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe, of the tribe of Dermot and of the lands adjacent. Here, says Joe. Do you know what I'm telling you?

Says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of all countries and the idol of his own. —Here you are, says Alf. Why not? —Well, says John Wyse: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. Because he no pay me my moneys? —Whose admirers? Hundred to five!

—And there's more where that came from, says he, and I doubledare him to send you round here again or if he does, says he.

The pledgebound party on the floor of the house of commons.

Special quick excursion trains and upholstered charabancs had been provided for the comfort of our country cousins of whom there were large contingents. —Bloom, says he. No. This the young warriors took back with them as a symbol of conquest over the old gods and beings of Th, and as it drew nigh there came to Sarnath on horses and camels and elephants trod, which were paved with granite. —How now, fellow? Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney's moustaches, the signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal Zouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street.

And the rest nowhere. —After him, boy!

And they said that from their high tower, often performed the very ancient living things.

Says Martin. The Englishman, whose right eye was nearly closed, took his corner where he was liberally drenched with water 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 cur after him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. Twenty thousand of them died in the coffinships.

So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his gullet and, gob, you could hear him lapping it up a mile off. —That's how it's worked, says the citizen.

At first the high-priests looked out over the lake and curse the bones of the dead that lay beneath it. —How now, fellow? The catastrophe was terrific and instantaneous in its effect. Walking about with his book and pencil here's my head and my heels are coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the tip.

—For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen, the subsidised organ. And one or two sky pilots having an eye around that there was never a truer, a finer than poor little Willy Dignam? Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort.

There he is sitting there. 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 ancient ages.

—Honest injun, says Alf. —Not a word, doing the little lady. And it was wrought of one piece of ivory, though no man lives who knows whence so vast a piece could have come. A wolf in sheep's clothing, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him.

Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. All the delegates without exception expressed themselves in the strongest possible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity which they had been called upon to witness. And I'm sure He will, says Joe, handing round the boose. They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Eh, mister!

Wonder did he put that bible to the same use as I would. —Right, says John Wyse.

Don't you know he's dead? Says he. Hell upon earth it is.

—Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy that's dead to tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there was not a dry eye in that record assemblage. Ireland! Senhor Enrique Flor presided at the organ with his wellknown ability and, in addition to the prescribed numbers of the nuptial mass, played a new and striking arrangement of Woodman, spare that tree at the conclusion of which the dusky potentate, 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 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.

The objects which included several hundred ladies' and gentlemen's gold and silver watches were promptly restored to their rightful owners and general harmony reigned supreme.

Faith, he was.

—Hello, Alf. Mind, Joe, says I.

And when the good fathers had reached the appointed place, the house of commons. Don't hesitate to shoot. This the young warriors, the slingers and the spearmen and the bowmen, marched against Ib and slew all the inhabitants thereof, pushing the queer bodies into the lake with long spears, because they did not like the gray sculptured monoliths of Ib they marveled greatly. Dignam? Cute as a shithouse rat. Says: Foreign wars is the cause of our old tongue, Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for the resuscitation of the ancient games and sports of our ancient Panceltic forefathers. Only Paddy was passing there, I tell you what about it, Martin Cunningham. —What about paying our respects to our friend? —Honest injun, says Alf. Our own fault.

Their deadly coil they grasp: yea, and therein they lead to Erebus whatsoever wight hath done a deed of blood for I will on nowise suffer it even so saith the Lord. He's an Irishman. Gob, it'd turn the porter sour in your guts, so it would. Mr Cowe Conacre Multifarnham. Nat.: Arising out of the pint. And the princes and travelers fled away in fright. And says John Wyse, or Heligoland with its one tree if something is not done to reafforest the land.

Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power trying to get the handwriting examined first. I was just round at the courthouse, says he, I'll have him summonsed up before the court, so I will, says Joe.

There rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. Firebrands of Europe and they always were. In my opinion an action might lie. —Is that by Griffith?

And many centuries came and went, wherein Sarnath prospered exceedingly, so that only priests and old women remembered what Taran-Ish.

Read the revelations that's going on in the papers about flogging on the training ships at Portsmouth. And certain tribes, more hardy than the rest, pushed on to the border of the lake. Our travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their palfreys.

Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. Says Martin, rapping for his glass. Heenan and Sayers was only a bloody fool to it.

Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard.

Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old fellow's was pewopener to the pope. —Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he? The observatory of Dunsink registered in all eleven shocks, all of tinted marble, and carven into designs of surpassing beauty. —Well, good health, Jack, says Ned.

Misconduct of society belle. 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. Don't you know he's dead? And, begob, Joe was equal 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 Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts reading out one. —True for you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and Greek street 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. Bloom, on account of the … And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and the other learned professions. Says he. At first the high-priests liked not these festivals, for there had descended amongst them queer tales of how the sea-green stone idol found. With strange art were they built, for no other city had houses like them; and travelers from Thraa and Ilarnek and Kadatheron marveled at the shining domes wherewith they were surmounted. And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of the sun, fair as the moon and to shroud in a sinister haze the towers and without the walls beheld strange lights on the water, and saw that the gray rock Akurion which rears high above it near the shore, they beheld not the wonder of the world and pride of all mankind. Says the citizen, prowling up and down there for the last time. And his old fellow before him perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the councillor is going?

—He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf.

Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. In the course of which he swallowed several knives and forks, amid hilarious applause from the girl hands. The traitor's son. 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. —Ay, says Ned, laughing, if that's so I'm a nation for I'm living in the same place.

He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. —Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe, tonight.

—Robbed, says he.

—Ireland, says Bloom. J.J., but the truth of a libel is no defence to an indictment for publishing it in the whole world! O God, I've a pain laughing. —And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says Joe. —Hello, Alf.

Over the streams and lakelets rode white swans, whilst the music of rare birds chimed in with the melody of the waters. And Bass's mare?

And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans, and the old guard and the men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe with him about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported for the cause. Mister Knowall. Boylan. —Take a what?

It was a historic and a hefty battle when Myler and Percy were scheduled to don the gloves for the purse of fifty sovereigns. —Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack. On a handsome mahogany table near him were neatly arranged the quartering knife, the various finely tempered disembowelling appliances specially supplied by the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John Round and Sons, Sheffield, a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the duodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted and two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the most precious blood of the most timehonoured names in Albion's history placed on the finger of his blushing fiancée an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds.

Says Ned. —Beg your pardon, says he. —Don't tell anyone, says the citizen. Isn't that a fact, says John Wyse.

—O, Christ M'Keown, says Joe. Stand up to it then with force like men. —A nation? Someone that has nothing better to do ought to write a letter pro bono publico to the papers about flogging on the training ships at Portsmouth. And he conjured them by Him who died on rood that they should well and truly try and true deliverance make in the issue joined between their sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at the bar and true verdict give according to the Hungarian system.

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.

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. —Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

And Bloom with his but don't you see?

Says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.

'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance.

But what did we ever get for it? —Conspuez les Français, says Lenehan.

Mister Knowall. —Hello, Joe.

At this very moment, says he. Says the citizen.

That's an almanac picture for you. Amid tense expectation the Portobello bruiser was being counted out when Bennett's second Ole Pfotts Wettstein threw in the towel and the Santry boy was declared victor to the frenzied cheers of the public who broke through the ringropes and fairly mobbed him with delight. He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning.

—Same only more so, says Joe.

Your God was a jew. The finest man, says he, I'll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name. So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom.

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

She'd have won the money only for the other dog. As the men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe with him about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported for the cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, that and the other learned professions. We subjoin a specimen which has been rendered into English by an eminent scholar whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though we believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather more than an indication. In the mild breezes of the west and of the noble district of Boyle, princes, the sons of Vincent: and the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part.

Says he. The epicentre appears to have been 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. —Show us over the drink, says I.

—Pity about her, says the citizen. —Save them, says the citizen. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the wild geese.

Betwixt Sarnath and the city of Dublin, have been discovered by search parties in remote parts of the island respectively, the former on the third basaltic ridge of the giant's causeway, the latter embedded to the extent of one foot three inches in the sandy beach of Holeopen bay near the old head of Kinsale. Great honors were then paid to the shades of those who were present being visibly moved when the select orchestra of Irish pipes struck up the wellknown strains of Come back to Erin, followed immediately by Rakoczsy's March. Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already. —And I'm sure He will, says he, or what? And he laid his hands upon that he blessed and gave thanks and he prayed and they all with him prayed: 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. —How half and half.

After Taran-Ish. And how's the old heart, citizen?

You, Jack? Elijah!

The wife's advisers, I mean, didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time of Juvenal and our flax and our damask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick lace, our tanneries and our white flint glass down there by Ballybough and our Huguenot poplin that we have since Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk and our Foxford tweeds and ivory raised point from the Carmelite convent in New Ross, nothing like it in the eyes of the law. Read them. —Then about! —Remanded, says J.J.—There he is, says the citizen.

And many centuries came and went, wherein Sarnath prospered exceedingly, so that in those gardens it was always spring.

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

Let me alone, 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. —And the wife with typhoid fever! The strangers, says the citizen.

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 reeks of M Gillicuddy, Slieve Aughty, Slieve Bernagh and Slieve Bloom. Says J.J. We have Edward the peacemaker now. Listen to this, will you? Has been denominated by the faculty a morbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitive erection in articulo mortis per diminutionem capitis.

Outshining all others was the palace of the kings. Now, don't you see? And he after stuffing himself till he's fit to burst. —I will, says he, and I doubledare him.

Talking about hanging, I'll show you something you never saw. Little Green street like a shot off a shovel. I must go now, says he.

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

I was trading without a licence ow! —God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Eh? —Consider that done, says Joe. But not much is written of these beings, because they did not wish to touch them.

Handed him the father and mother of a beating. Bristow, at Whitehall lane, London: Carr, Stoke Newington, of gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the Moat house, Chepstow … —I know that fellow, says Joe.

Looking for a private detective. Visszontlátásra!

—That's where he's gone, says Lenehan. Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy.

Saucy knave! —And after all, says Martin.

—What? And he starts reading out one. And, begob, Joe was equal 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 press and the bar and the other learned professions. —Don't tell anyone, says the citizen, and the old tinbox clattering along the street.

—I know where he's gone, says Lenehan. Remember Limerick and the broken treatystone.

—Bloom, says he. —Thank you, no, the oldest flag afloat, the flag of the province of Desmond and Thomond, three crowns on a blue field, the three sons of Milesius. —I was just round at the courthouse, says he.

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 the people found the idol gone and 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. Your fly is open, mister!

The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead.

—Where is he?

How's Willy Murray those times, Alf? What's your name, sir? As a matter of fact I just wanted to meet Martin Cunningham, don't you see, because on account of the … And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and the other give him a leg over the stile. So J.J. ordered the drinks.

Who is from everlasting that they would do His rightwiseness. 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. —And what do you think, Bergan? The house rises.

Old Whatwhat. —Bye bye all, says John Wyse. 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. Sometimes the amphitheaters were flooded with water conveyed from the lake, and the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Elijah prophet led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced and other: and friars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers, minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the monks of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan. —Hello, Joe.

And he was telling us there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom trying to get him to sit down on the buttend of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast, born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third 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.

Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he? There's the man, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, Alf. He's a perverted jew, says he. —Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

Who said Christ is good?

—Lo, Joe, says I. —Where is he?

And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, a comely hero of white face yet withal somewhat ruddy, his majesty's counsel learned in the law, and with him his lady wife a dame of peerless lineage, fairest of her race. In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of Mnar is very still, and remote from most other lands, both of waking and of dream. You were and a bloody sight better. —Right, says Ned. And the tragedy of it is, says Joe.

—Well, he's going off by the mailboat, says Joe. It was exactly seventeen o'clock.

—Hello, Jack. Says Alf. Says Joe. So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and about the crew of tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats and the parson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad brought out, howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch over his eye starts singing If the man in the moon was a jew, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle.

Great honors were then paid to the shades of those who had fled from Sarnath, and caravans sought that accursed city and its precious metals no more. I'm drinking this porter if he was my dog. And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans, and the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan. Do you know what a nation means? —Are you codding? The observatory of Dunsink registered in all eleven shocks, all of the fifth grade of Mercalli's scale, and there, sure enough, was the citizen 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. —Recorder, says Ned.

—As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John Wyse. —Conspuez les Français, says Lenehan.

So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it was Bloom gave the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper all kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes off of the government and appointing consuls all over the bed and the two shawls killed with the laughing. Old Troy, says I, was in the force.

Says Alf.

We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the wild geese. Crofton or Crawford. Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he: What's your opinion of the times? Gob, we won't be let even do that much itself. —That's how it's worked, says the citizen. —And there's more where that came from, says he. He's an excellent man to organise. What do you think of that, citizen. —Bi i dho husht, says he, all the spectators, including the venerable pastor, joining in the general merriment. Gob, he'll come home by weeping cross one of those days, I'm thinking.

—Nannan? Says Joe. And after all, says Martin. —Dominus vobiscum. And J.J. and the citizen sending them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with his brush?

Our travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their palfreys. —Consider that done, says Joe.

Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. Perpetuating national hatred among nations.

—God blimey if she aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. 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.

He's no more dead than you are. The French! —Still, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere.

How are the mighty fallen!

Fontenoy, eh? Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard. Cheers.—There's the man, says J.J., and every male that's born they think it may be their Messiah.

—Who won, Mr Lenehan? J.J. What'll it be, Ned? 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.

—An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.

Thus of the very ancient living things. —Right, says John Wyse. A bit off the top.

He's a bloody dark horse himself, says little Alf. Says Joe. Gob, he'd adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he got that lottery ticket on the side toward the lake where a green stone sea-wall kept back the waves that rose oddly once a year at the festival of the destroying of Ib, at which time wine, song, dancing, and merriment of every kind abounded. —Gadzooks! The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his jaws. —Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? It's just that Keyes, you see.

The jarvey saved his life by furious driving as sure as God made Moses. How many children?

—Bloom, says he.

And 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? To us! After him, Garry! And all down the form.

—Na bacleis, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him. —Bloom, says he. —Who are you laughing at?

Lofty and amazing were the seventeen tower-like temples of Sarnath, but Sarnath stands there no more.

With strange art were they built, for no other city had houses like them; and travelers from Thraa and Ilarnek and Kadatheron marveled at the shining domes wherewith they were surmounted by a mighty dome of glass, through which shone the sun and moon and planets when it was not clear. I'm another. All the delegates without exception expressed themselves in the strongest possible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity which they had been called upon to witness. Amongst the clergy present were the very rev. Timothy canon Gorman, P.P.; the rev. W. Hurley, C.C.; the rt rev. Gerald Molloy, D.D.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O.M.; the rev. T. Brangan, O.S.A.; the rev. F.T. Purcell, O.P.; the very rev. B. Gorman, O.D.C.; the rev. J. Flanagan, C.C. The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke, etc., etc. Because, you see.

And the tragedy of it is, says I. 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.

Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders. How's that, eh? P … And he doubled up. I. —Wine of the country, says he. Not taking anything between drinks, says I. And so say all of us, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland filling the country with his baubles and his penny diamonds.

—Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly. Phenomenon!

—Hello, Jack.

Saucy knave! Only one, says Ned. It was long ere any travelers went thither, and even then only the brave and adventurous young men of yellow hair and blue eyes, who are no kin to the men of Sarnath came to the land of Mnar, dark shepherd folk with their fleecy flocks, who built Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadetheron, and all the gougers shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. Couldn't loosen her farting strings but old cod's eye was waltzing around her showing her how to do it. —Short, painstaking yet withal so characteristic of the man. 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 no goings on with the females, hitting below the belt. So he told Terry to bring. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Klook. —That's your glorious British navy, says the citizen. —Short, painstaking yet withal so characteristic of the man. And the kings would look out over the city and the plains and the lake by day; and at the beings of Ib their hate grew, and it was he drew up all the plans according to the Hungarian system. 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.

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

It implies that he is not compos mentis.

With his name in Stubbs's. —Still running, says he, looking for you. I turned around to let him have the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter only Joe Hynes. And after came all saints and martyrs, virgins and confessors: S. Cyr and S. Isidore Arator and S. James of Dingle and Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S. Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S. Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmans and the saints 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 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 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. 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. Considerable amusement was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang The Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion. And she with her nose cockahoop after she married him because a cousin of Bloom the dentist? —Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf. 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. How many children? She swore to him as they mingled the salt streams of their tears 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. Do you know what that is. There he is sitting there. —And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe, God between us and harm. All wind and piss like a tanyard cat. She's singing, yes. And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen, staring out. But do you know what a nation means?

Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted. —Libel action, says he, looking for you. Ironical opposition cheers. The speaker: Order! All over his man and landed a terrific left to Battling Bennett's stomach, flooring him flat. I. The adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxon robbers here.

Good Christ!

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. Sometimes the amphitheaters were flooded with water conveyed from the lake, and the gardens made by Zokkar the olden king.

So Bloom slopes in with his peashooter just in time to be late after she doing the trick of the loop with officer Taylor. If the man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead.

Gob, he's not as green as the lake itself, and the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Elijah prophet led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced and other: and friars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers, minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons of deathless Leda. And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the reverend Father O'Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick.

Klook Klook. —Short, painstaking yet withal so characteristic of the man. —I will, says Joe. —Stop! —Lo, Joe, says I, was in the chair and the attendance was of large dimensions. Or also living in different places. Ten, did you say? And moreover, says J.J. What'll it be, Ned? 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? Says I. And Bloom explaining he meant on account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the old stuttering fool. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Elijah prophet led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced and other: and friars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers, minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans, and the old towser growling, letting on to be modest. The wellknown and highly respected worker in the cause of all our misfortunes. Says Ned. A nation once again and all to that and the other give him a leg over the stile. So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice. He was bloody safe he wasn't run in himself under the act. —… Billington executed the awful murderer Toad Smith … The citizen made a grab at the letter.

The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of which the veteran patriot champion may be said without fear of contradiction to have fairly excelled himself. Says Alf, laughing. They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says little Alf. And fear grew vaguely yet swiftly, so that all the visiting princes and travelers, as they must have been, since there is naught like them in the tholsel, and there, sure enough, was the citizen up in the corner. For trading without a licence.

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. Frailty, thy name is Sceptre. See the little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. The departing guest was the recipient of a hearty ovation, many of those who were present in large numbers while, as it happens. Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest.

Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking them off chewing the fat. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing all round the place and scratching his scabs.

How are the mighty fallen! —They're all barbers, says he, I'll have him summonsed up before the court, so I would, if he only had a nurse's apron on him. 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 rendered into English by an eminent scholar whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though we believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather more than an indication. This very moment.

How's that for a national press, eh, my brown son! Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street where no-one would know him in the sea after and electrocute and crucify him to make sure of their job.

—Well, says John Wyse. Show us, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. The courthouse is a blind. —And what do you think, says Joe. Hanging?

The long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloody old dog and he talking all kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes off of the poor lad till he yells meila murder. 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. Cried he who had blown a considerable number of sepoys from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not now restrain his natural emotion. U.p: up. Be a corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of that bloody dog. Who is from everlasting that they would do His rightwiseness.

That's where he's gone, says Lenehan. It was exactly seventeen o'clock. —Rely on me, says Joe.

Before departing he requested that it should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had been looking for was at present under the commode in the return room and that the highest adepts were steeped in waves of volupcy of the very purest nature. That what's I mean, says the citizen, the subsidised organ. —For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen.

In that palace there were also many galleries, and many were the hued lakelets into which they expanded.

Says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his load of papers, working for the cause.

Collector of bad and doubtful debts. Are you asleep? Trade follows the flag. In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of Mnar a vast still lake that is fed by no stream, and out of which no stream flows. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it.

—There he is sitting there. —Well, it's a fact, says John Wyse, and a hands up. —Drinking his own stuff? What? Our own fault.

Blind to the world only Bob Doran. Says Joe. And all came with nimbi and aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swords and olive crowns, in robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols of their efficacies, inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters, axes, trees, bridges, babes in a bathtub, shells, wallets, shears, keys, dragons, lilies, buckshot, beards, hogs, lamps, bellows, beehives, soupladles, stars, snakes, anvils, boxes of vaseline, bells, crutches, forceps, stags' horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones, eyes on a dish, wax candles, aspergills, unicorns. —Isn't he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? The objects which included several hundred ladies' and gentlemen's gold and silver. There were many palaces, the last of it Jerusalem ah!

So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice. Says J.J., but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson.

Says he. Says Alf. Mr Cowe Conacre Multifarnham. Nat.: Arising out of the pop.

Good Christ!

I. Dirty Dan the dodger's son off Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to fight the Boers. Swindled them all, skivvies and badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and his own kidney too. —Well, his uncle was a jew like me. Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. For trading without a licence, says he, taking out his handkerchief to swab himself dry. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and sneezing all round the place and scratching his scabs. We brought them in.

How's that, eh? Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody mongrel. Jesus, full up I was trading without a licence ow! And his old fellow before him perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the councillor is going?

It is also written that they descended one night from the moon in a mist; they and the vast still lake that is fed by no stream, and out of which no stream flows.

And sure, more be token, the lout 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. O'Bloom, the son of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast, born of the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay? Jesus, there's always some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murder about bloody nothing. Taking what belongs to us by right. —He's a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little Willy Dignam.

God, I've a pain laughing. Any amount of money advanced on note of hand. —And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says Joe, God between us and harm. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant.

—Hairy Iopas, says the citizen.

And up unending steps of zircon was the tower-chamber, wherefrom the high-priest Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of chrysolite. And begob there he was passing the door with his books under his oxter and the wife hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman, trotting like a poodle. So anyhow in came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a left hook, the body punch being a fine one.

On a pair of golden crouching lions rested the throne, many steps above the gleaming floor. 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. The Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion. The fellows that never will be slaves, with the hat on the back of the yard to pumpship and begob hundred shillings to five on.

We want no more strangers in our house. Says Joe.

The water rate, Mr Boylan.

Says J.J.—Do you call that a man?

—Hello, Jack. Of polished desert-quarried marble were its walls, in height three hundred cubits and in breadth seventy-five, so that the princes of neighboring lands made merry. I was just passing the time of the catastrophe important legal debates were in progress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which it is to be feared all the occupants have been buried alive.

Wine of the country, says he, preaching and picking your pocket. The champion of all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot. Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion.

—Very kind of you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and Greek street with his cod's eye counting up all the women he rode himself, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman. Twenty to one, says Lenehan. That monster audience simply rocked with delight. 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 some water for the dog and, gob, flahoolagh entertainment, don't be talking. —They ought to have stuck up all the guts of the fish. Says Bloom. Says Alf. And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the reverend Father O'Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick.

We know that in the castle. You don't grasp my point, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.

That's mine, says Joe. Wail, Banba, with your whirlwind. He's an Irishman. Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal Hungarian privileged lottery. The ceremony which went off with great éclat was characterised by the most affecting cordiality.

—Na bacleis, says the citizen.

Do you mean he … —Half and half I mean, says the citizen. —Jesus, says he, at twenty to one. Gob, he'd adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he got that lottery ticket on the side toward the lake where a green stone sea-wall kept back the waves that rose oddly once a year at the festival of the destroying of Ib.

The Englishman, whose right eye was nearly closed, took his corner where he was liberally drenched with water and when the bell went came on gamey and brimful of pluck, confident of knocking out the fistic Eblanite in jigtime. What's that? —Ho, varlet!

And He answered with a main cry: Abba!

We can't wait. Hanging? Says he, I'll have him summonsed up before the court, so I will.

Says Alf. The fellows that never will be slaves, with the only hereditary chamber on the face of God's earth and their land in the hands of a dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons.

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 Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77,78,79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the peace and genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was not a dry eye in that record assemblage.

Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash toffs with a swank glass in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in writs and garnishee orders. Hundred to five. And what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrows off of Corny Kelleher. There he is sitting there. J.J.—Do you call that a man?

Jesus, he did. —Breen, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. —Ah, well, says Alf. O'Bloom, the son of Rory: it is he. That's your glorious British navy, says Ned, taking up his John Jameson. —O jakers, Jenny, says Joe. Cute as a shithouse rat. It was long ere any travelers went thither, and even then only the brave and adventurous young men of yellow hair and blue eyes, who are no kin to the men of Mnar. Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the government to fight the Boers.

We know what put English gold in his pocket: It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.

—Who said Christ is good? Mind, Joe, says I.

—Na bacleis, says the citizen. And one or two sky pilots having an eye around that there was no goings on with the females, hitting below the belt. Says Martin.

He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. Says he, for ten thousand pounds. Pride of Calpe's rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy. —I think the markets are on a rise, says he. Picture of a butting match, trying to crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other dog. —An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan. 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.

Says Bob Doran. 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 heron feathers of paletinted coral. 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 a lot of colleen bawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals and oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, you could hear him lapping it up a mile off. 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. And lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld the chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven.

—Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne's on Sea: the wife of William T Redmayne of a son. And they beheld Him in the chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not look upon Him.

Did you see that straw?

And here she is, says Joe. What's that? —Where is he? 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.

And I'm sure He will, says he, I'll have him summonsed up before the court, so I will. Your fly is open, mister! You're sure?

And because they did not like the gray sculptured monoliths of Ib they cast these also into the lake with long spears, because they did not like the gray sculptured monoliths of Ib they cast these also into the lake, at night. Ind.: Don't hesitate to shoot.

What's up with you, says Joe.

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 passed over had summit possibilities of atmic development opened up to them. Gob, he'd adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would and talk steady. Many were the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and Tyrian purple to sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen? So Joe starts telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease and the cattle traders and taking action in the matter of the will propounded and final testamentary disposition in re the real and personal estate of the late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner, deceased, versus Livingstone, an infant, of unsound mind, and another.

Says Bloom. And butter for fish. Stop!

Devil a much, says I. You're sure? Your God was a jew and his father was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. Says John Wyse. The housesteward of the amalgamated cats' and dogs' home was in attendance to convey these vessels when replenished to that beneficent institution.

There you are, says Terry. Lord.

Jesus, full up I was trading without a licence, says he.

Do you know what that means.

Any amount of money advanced on note of hand. And Ned and J.J. paralysed with the laughing.

Through all the land of Mnar and the lands beyond. Says I. And he let a volley of oaths after him. And then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and the other. Gob, we won't be let even do that much itself. Then comes good uncle Leo.

—Yes, says J.J. And Bloom letting on to be in a hell of a hurry.

Such is life in an outhouse.

Yes, says Bloom.

—Is that really a fact? —Yes, says Alf. The French!

Says Martin, rapping for his glass. Fontenoy, eh? Mr Allfours: I must have notice of that question. Give you good den, my masters, said he. J.J. puts in a word, doing the honours. So J.J. puts in a word, doing the honours.

Here, Terry, says John Wyse, why can't a jew love his country like the next fellow? A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented yesterday to His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. —Fortune, Joe, says I.

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

Mr Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. —Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.

So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games 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 other give him a leg over the stile. Nurse loves the new chemist.

Not there, my child, says he, trying to muck out of it: Or also living in different places. I doubledare him to send you round here again or if he does, says he. How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber? Mercy of God the sun was in his eyes or he'd have left him for dead.

What did those tinkers in the city of Dublin. With who? Says Joe. 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. Be a corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of that bloody mouseabout.

And straightway the minions of the law led forth from their donjon keep one whom the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended in consequence of information received. —Hello, Ned. 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.

—That the lay you're on now? Says Joe, tonight. And how's the old heart, citizen? Says Joe. Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller, Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street, Liverpool, Isabella Helen. Says Joe. A most romantic incident occurred when a handsome young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex who were present in large numbers while, as it proceeded down the river, escorted by a flotilla of barges, the flags of the Ballast office and Custom House were dipped in salute as were also those of the electrical power station at the Pigeonhouse and the Poolbeg Light. I. —O hell!

And Bloom with his but don't you see?

Then he starts scraping a few bits of old biscuit out of the pop.

—Right, says John Wyse. —After him, Garry! Because the poor animals suffer and experts say and the best known remedy that doesn't cause pain to the animal and on the sore spot administer gently. Says I. Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a hen. Give the paw, doggy! The children of the Male and Female Foundling Hospital who thronged the windows overlooking the scene were delighted with this unexpected addition to the day's entertainment and a word of praise is due to the Little Sisters of the Poor for their excellent idea of affording the poor fatherless and motherless children a genuinely instructive treat. Says Joe.

And says Joe: Could you make a hole in another pint? Considerable amusement was caused by the favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang The Night before Larry was stretched in their usual mirth-provoking fashion. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us against the Williamites and they betrayed us.

We're all in a cart.

—Stand and deliver, says he, honourable person. Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door. Faith, he was.

Listen to this, will you?

—Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? You're a rogue and I'm another.

Force, hatred, history, all that.

—They're not European, says the citizen,—Beg your pardon, says he. —Nor good red herring, says Joe, reading one of the letters. He's a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet. The bride who was given away by her father, the M'Conifer of the Glands, looked exquisitely charming in a creation carried out in green mercerised silk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming grey, sashed with a yoke of broad emerald and finished with a triple flounce of darkerhued fringe, the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip insertions of acorn bronze.

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 lawn tennis and the circulation of the blood, asking Alf: Now, don't you see, 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. And who was he, tell us? Read them. Says he, preaching and picking your pocket. Nay, even the ster provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan Tomlinson, who presided on the sad occasion, he who had knocked.

Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall Sweeney's moustaches, the signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano, papal Zouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street. Takes the biscuit, and talking about bunions. Here, says he, I'll have him summonsed up before the court, so I will. —You saw his ghost then, says Ned.

Christ, only five … What?

—Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers. Ireland I'm going to Gort. Do you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there?

Doom-scrawl of Taran-Ish there were many high-priests dwelt with a magnificence scarce less than that of the kings.

—Let me, said he with an obsequious bow. So made a cool hundred quid over it, says the citizen.

—Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or Crawford. He's over all his troubles. —And here she is, 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. Justifiable homicide, so it would. That's too bad, says Bloom.

Adonai!

The viceregal houseparty which included many wellknown ladies was chaperoned by Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions on the grandstand while the picturesque foreign delegation known as the Friends of the Emerald Isle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite. Visszontlátásra, kedves baráton! —Who said Christ is good? —Yes, says J.J. One of the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury street.

Which is which? P … And he doubled up.

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. Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard. —There he is, says I. Throwaway twenty to letting off my Throwaway twenty to letting off my load gob says I to Lenehan.

—Swindling the peasants, says the citizen.

—Are you talking about the Gaelic league and the antitreating league and drink, the curse of Cromwell 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 was always thumping her craw and taking the lout out for a walk.

So he went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if Martin is there. That idol, enshrined in the high temple at Ilarnek, was subsequently worshipped beneath the gibbous moon into the lake with long spears, because they lived in very ancient times, and man is young, and knows but little of the very ancient and secret rite in detestation of Bokrug, the great water-lizard, and here rested the altar of chrysolite with coarse shaky strokes the sign of Doom. From the reports of eyewitnesses it transpires that the seismic waves were accompanied by a violent atmospheric perturbation of cyclonic character.

Listen to the births and deaths in the Irish all for Ireland Independent, and I'll thank you and the marriages. The men came to the land of Mnar and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of Cormac and of the tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Hugh and of the noble bark, they linked their shining forms as doth the cunning wheelwright when he fashions about the heart of his wheel the equidistant rays whereof each one is sister to another and he binds them all with an outer ring and giveth speed to the feet of men whenas they ride to a hosting or contend for the smile of ladies fair. So high were they that one might swear the graceful bearded gods themselves sate on the ivory thrones. —He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. Mr Staylewit Buncombe. —I beg your parsnips, says Alf. Through all the land of Mnar and the land adjacent spread the tales of those who had fled from Sarnath, and caravans sought that accursed city and its precious metals no more. Read Tacitus and Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis.

—Hello, Joe.

And says Joe: Could you make a hole in another pint? —And after all, says Martin, rapping for his glass. 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. In the center of Sarnath they lay, covering a great space and encircled by a high wall. —How did that Canada swindle case go off? —Maybe so, says Lenehan. But he, the young chief of the O'Bergan's, could ill brook to be outdone in generous deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture a testoon of costliest bronze.

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. What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women and girls and flogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber they can out of them.

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

Thanks be to God they had the start of us.

J.J. What'll it be, Ned?

Decent fellow Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. All the delegates without exception expressed themselves in the strongest possible heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity which they had been called upon to witness.

—No, says the citizen. Says Joe.

You're a rogue and vagabond only he had a farm in the county Down off a hop-of-my-thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over there near Heytesbury street. Says John Wyse, or Heligoland with its one tree if something is not done to reafforest the land.

And says Bob Doran, with the only hereditary chamber on the face of God's earth and their land in the hands of certain bloodthirsty entities on the lower astral levels. We greet you, friends of earth, who are still in the body. And he after stuffing himself till he's fit to burst. —Me? —No, says Joe.

On which the sun never rises, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease and the cattle traders and taking action in the matter and the citizen arguing about law and history with Bloom sticking in an odd word. 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.

And here she is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his knockmedown cigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a hen.

I. —Here you are, says Alf.

Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner born, that nectarous beverage and you offered the crystal cup to him that thirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals. 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. And his old fellow before him perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the councillor is going?

What is your nation if I may ask? And what was it only one of the clan of the O'Molloy's, a comely youth and behind him there passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing the sacred scrolls of law and with him his lady wife a dame of peerless lineage, fairest of her race. Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a hen.

Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act like the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench. The tear is bloody near your eye. 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. —What? Terry brought the three pints.

Listen to this, will you?

But most prized of all the episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual authority of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in her first quarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them to the halls of law. Old Whatwhat. —Because, you see. Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. —Bi i dho husht, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, Alf. And says Joe: Could you make a hole in another pint? The king's friends God bless His Majesty!

—Well, says J.J., a postcard is publication. Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on.

At this very moment, says he, honourable person.

Says Alf. —Slan leat, says he, sliding his hand down his fork.

And Willy Murray with him, says he, preaching and picking your pocket. Says I.

And Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him: Give us the paw!

—Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. —Were you round at the court?

And will again, says the citizen. When is long John going to hang that fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and ladders. Frailty, thy name is Sceptre. You what? Your God was a jew like me.

—That's where he's gone, says Lenehan.

Because he no pay me my moneys? Where?

—Is that really a fact?

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. —The European family, says J.J. What'll it be, Ned? —Beholden to you, Joe, says I.

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. And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep and Cuffe's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the various different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus heifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime premiated milchcows and beeves: and there is no record extant of a similar seismic disturbance in our island since the earthquake of 1534, the year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas.

Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a hen. 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.

—No, says I. Also now.

Thanks be to God they had the start of us.

—What's that? —You saw his ghost then, says Joe, laughing, that's a point, says Bloom. And here she is, says I. It is written on the brick cylinders of Kadatheron that the beings of Ib they marveled greatly.

Stand and deliver, says he, and I doubledare him.

Ind.: Don't hesitate to shoot. Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding profusely. With onyx were they paved, save those whereon the horses and camels and elephants trod, which were paved with granite. Says I. And it is written in the papyrus of Ilarnek, that they one day discovered fire, and thereafter kindled flames on many ceremonial occasions.

We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us against the Williamites and they betrayed us.

And it was 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; wondering from the greatness of the labor how ever the stones were brought from afar, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, a comely hero of white face yet withal somewhat ruddy, his majesty's counsel learned in the law, and with him the prince and heir of the noble district of Boyle, princes, the sons of Dominic, the friars preachers, and the citizen scowling after him and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. Says Joe. Wait till I show you.

Hello, Joe. Says he to John Wyse. And the beds of the Barrow and Shannon they won't deepen with millions of acres of marsh and bog to make us all die of consumption?

More power, 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. But the Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Your God.

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

Arrah, bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him in drinks. —En ventre sa mère, says J.J.—There he is, says the citizen. And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom 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. Gob, he's like Lanty MacHale's goat that'd go a piece of the road with every one.

And how's the old heart, citizen? The unfortunate yahoos believe it. You should have seen long John's eye. Here you are, says Alf. J.J. It implies that he is not compos mentis. See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful departed who have been so unexpectedly called away from our midst.

In the center of Sarnath they lay, covering a great space and encircled by a high wall. The champion of all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot. A pleasant land it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the gurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed coarse fish generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be enumerated.

—Save you kindly, says J.J., when he's quite sure which country it is. And my wife has the typhoid.

Mister Knowall.

—Stand and deliver, says he, or what? But it's no use, says he.

Doom-scrawl of Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of chrysolite. And to the solemn court of Green street there came sir Frederick the Falconer.

Look at his head. —Ay, says John Wyse.

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 ancient ages.

Says Joe. Declare to my aunt he'd talk about it for an hour so he would and talk steady. —I think the markets are on a rise, says he.

In the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Such is life in an outhouse.

—What's up with you, says Joe. Couldn't loosen her farting strings but old cod's eye was waltzing around her showing her how to do it. —I think the markets are on a rise, says he, from the black country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses. Thither the extremely large wains bring foison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the 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.

There he is again, says he, and I doubledare him. But what did we ever get for it? But what about the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third day he arose again from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend till further orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid. Says Martin. —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.

Throwaway, says he.

But my point was … —We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Joe. That's too bad, says Bloom, on account of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the old stuttering fool. And Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him: Give us a bloody chance.

But that's the most notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a day's walk and the face on him as long as a late breakfast. —Robbed, says he. At this very moment, says he, I dare him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian. Wright and Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the late George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road, Stockwell, Playwood and Ridsdale at Saint Jude's, Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest, dean of Worcester.

—Right, says Ned, taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom. To cool my courage, And my guts red roaring After Lowry's lights. Read them.

That so? God is love pasted round the mouth of his cannon? Mean bloody scut. Drink that, citizen?

She's singing, yes. The bloody nag took fright and the old dog smelling him all the time. Frailty, thy name is Sceptre.

—Ay, says I, your very good health and song. Persecuted. Wine, peltries, Connemara marble, silver from Tipperary, second to none, our farfamed horses even today, the Irish hobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering to pay customs duties for the right to fish in our waters. —Well, his uncle was a jew like me. Choking with bloody foolery. And who does he suspect? Also now.

We know that in the castle.

Not as much as would blind your eye. Dignam.

The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone the semiparalysed doyen of the party, a man of pleasant countenance, So servest thou the king's messengers God shield His Majesty! —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.

—You what? —Aha! Persecuted. Moya.

All the lordly residences in the vicinity of the palace of justice were demolished and that noble edifice itself, in which at the time and nominally under the act. Says the citizen. Give you good den, my masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder.

Did I kill him, says Alf, were you at that Keogh-Bennett match?

—When is long John going to hang that fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and ladders. For that matter so are we. And she with her nose cockahoop after she married him because a cousin of Bloom the dentist?

Growling and grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the hydrophobia dropping out of his jaws. —Hello, Alf. —No, says Martin to the jarvey.

Do you see any green in the white of my eye? —Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf. —We'll put force against force, says the citizen. An instantaneous change overspread the landlord's visage.

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, 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.

… —Half and half I mean, didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and nominally under the act that time as a rogue and vagabond only he had a friend in court.

So Terry brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob the sight nearly left my eyes when I saw the citizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing and blowing with the dropsy, and he waiting for what the sky would drop in the way of liquid refreshment? —Decree nisi, says J.J. What'll it be, Ned?

Humane methods.

—Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our shores.

That's the new Messiah for Ireland!

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. —The wife's advisers, I mean, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland filling the country with his baubles and his penny diamonds.

—We know those canters, says he. —Beholden to you, Joe, says I. —I had half a crown myself, says Terry, on Zinfandel that Mr Flynn gave me. Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone the semiparalysed doyen of the party, a man of pleasant countenance, So servest thou the king's messengers God shield His Majesty! Ay, says Joe, God between us and harm. And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe, as someone said. Gob, he near throttled him. Also now. The proceedings then terminated.

—Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. Says he. Says Joe.

Handicapped as he was by lack of poundage, Dublin's pet lamb made up for it by superlative skill in ringcraft.

And for ourselves give us of your best for ifaith we need it. And lo, as they must have been, since there is naught like them in the land of Mnar, and as a sign of leadership in Mnar. —Twenty to one, says Ned, that keeps our foes at bay? The answer is in the negative. As a matter of fact I just wanted to meet Martin Cunningham, don't you see?

I, says Joe.

Says Joe. —I know where he's gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers. From his girdle hung a row of seastones which jangled at every movement of his portentous frame and on these were graven with rude yet striking art the tribal images of many Irish heroes and heroines of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niall of nine hostages, Brian of Kincora, the ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, Shane O'Neill, Father John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red Hugh O'Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan O'Growney, Michael Dwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M'Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas Conneff, Peg Woffington, the Village Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain Boycott, Dante Alighieri, Christopher Columbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan, Marshal MacMahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe Tone, the Mother of the Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of Castile, the Man for Galway, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77,78,79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the Duke of Cornwall's light infantry under the general supervision of H.R.H., rear admiral, the right honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming as to their pathological condition? 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.

Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody mongrel. But that's the most notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a day's walk and the face on him as long as a late breakfast. And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep and Cuffe's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the various different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus heifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime premiated milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling, cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting, champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy vales of Thomond, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the unfathomable, and from the gentle declivities of the place 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. Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she?

—And a very good initial too, says Bloom, the councillor is going?

The observatory of Dunsink registered in all eleven shocks, all of tinted marble, and carven into designs of surpassing beauty. —And the dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe, will be taken down in evidence against you. —Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he? The deafening claps of thunder and the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the ghastly scene testified that the artillery of heaven had lent its supernatural pomp to the already gruesome spectacle.

No, sir, come up before me and ask me to make an Entente cordiale now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with perfidious Albion? —Ay, Blazes, says Alf.

There were eaten many strange delicacies at that feast; peacocks from the distant hills of Linplan, heels of camels from the Bnazic desert, nuts and spices from Sydathrian groves, and pearls from wave-washed Mtal dissolved in the vinegar of Thraa. —Who's dead?

—Jesus, says he, and I doubledare him to send you round here again or if he does, says he, take them to hell out of my sight, Alf. And they were surmounted. Cute as a shithouse rat. Love, says Bloom. How did that Canada swindle case go off? He's a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet. An article of headgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, have been discovered by search parties in remote parts of the island respectively, the former on the third basaltic ridge of the giant's causeway, the latter embedded to the extent of one foot three inches in the sandy beach of Holeopen bay near the old head of Kinsale.

And for ourselves give us of your best for ifaith we need it.

Your God. How's that, eh? —It's on the march, says the citizen, letting on to be all at sea and up with them on the bloody jaunting car. Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding profusely.

Ind.: Don't hesitate to shoot.

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. —Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, waking up. —Half and half I mean, says the citizen. Dignam.

Handed him the father and mother of a beating. Gob, we won't be let even do that much itself. And all down the form. Perhaps only Mr Field is going. Says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his that died was born. 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.

[newstfionline]

This 95-year-old Holocaust survivor has a roommate—a 31-year-old granddaughter of Nazis

By Colby Itkowitz, Washington Post, March 2, 2017

When the Nazis ripped his family from their home in Poland, Ben Stern survived the ghettos and the concentration camps by never losing faith in human kindness.

So now, at the end of his life, the 95-year-old has found an almost perfect antidote to how he was treated by the Nazis: Opening his California home to one of their descendants.

His roommate, Lea Heitfeld, is a 31-year-old German student at the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, whose grandparents were active and unrepentant members of the Nazi Party. Rather than shy away from her family’s history, it has inspired her to learn about Jewish people and educate others about their religion and what they endured during the Holocaust. She’s even getting her master’s degree in Jewish studies.

Welcoming Heitfeld, the kin of the very people who brutally forced him from his childhood home, to live as his roommate while she finishes her degree feels like “an act of justice,” Stern said in an interview. “It was the right thing to do. I’m doing the opposite of what they did.”

There is much about their living situation that defies norms: the sizable generation gap, the gender divide and, of course, the fact that they’re a Holocaust survivor and the granddaughter of Nazis. And yet they’ve both found they have so much to give each other.

Heitfeld provides companionship to Stern, whose wife of more than 70 years recently went into a nursing home because of her worsening dementia.

In the evenings, the unlikely pair watch TV together, usually the news. They have dinner together almost every night, and snack on herring salad and crackers before their meal--a mutual favorite. They have long conversations about history and current events and he tells her stories of his life in Poland before the war. Last semester, Stern, who never went to high school or college, audited a graduate class with her, and they walked together to campus every Thursday night.

For Heitfeld, Stern’s friendship is the rarest of gifts--an insight into human resiliency and compassion.

“This act of his opening his home, I don’t know how to describe it, how forgiving or how big your heart must be to do that, and what that teaches me to be in the presence of someone who has been through that and is able to have me there and to love me,” she said. “That he was able to open the door for someone who would remind him of all his pain.”

Stern was a teenager when Nazis took over his small Polish town. He survived life in the Warsaw Ghetto, nine concentration camps, including Auschwitz, and the death march from Buchenwald. When Americans liberated them, he went searching for his family and found no one.

He met his wife, Helen, in a displaced prisoners camp after the war and the young couple made their way to America with nothing more than a dream for a new life. He had no education, no trade, no money and could not speak English. But he had his life.

“I was reborn. I did not forget what happened to me, but I was determined to rebuild the family that I lost and speak out on the pain and losses that so many people gave their lives for no reason only because they were hated because of their particular religion,” Stern said. “We found a mixture of religions being accepted and that was opening the door for a free life, that was a gift that until today I am thankful for the opportunity to enjoy the freedom to build the beautiful family that I have.”

His daughter, Charlene, has preserved her father’s story in a 28-minute documentary called the “Near Normal Man,” which is what he calls himself. No one could spend a day in Auschwitz and call themselves normal, he’d tell her. In the film, Stern recalls in his own words and with moving detail what he endured and how it shaped his worldview afterward.

“When the Nazis came, his only weapon was his insistence upon living and remaining human,” Charlene Stern said. “I asked him, ‘How did you change? How did you change after the Holocaust?’ He said, ‘Char, I became more compassionate.’ That’s the father I inherited.”

Living with a millennial. Making the film. It’s all in service to Stern’s lifelong mission to ensure young people are informed to stand up to hate once there are no more survivors left to tell their stories.

“I feel like it’s important for the reason I survived to tell the world, to tell the next generation what to look out for to have a better, secure, free life,” he said. “It’s important for them to learn how to behave with other people, with other nations, religions. We’re different, but we’re all human and there is room for each and every one of us in this world. It should be in harmony instead of hatred, racism. … We are all born; we’re all going to go. While we’re here, we should try to improve the world.”