—­And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling over the police gazette with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint.

—­Give us a squint at her, says I.

And what was it only one of the smutty yankee pictures Terry borrows off of Corny Kelleher.  Secrets for enlarging your private parts.  Misconduct of society belle.  Norman W. Tupper, wealthy Chicago contractor, finds pretty but faithless wife in lap of officer Taylor.  Belle in her bloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for her tickles and 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.

—­O jakers, Jenny, says Joe, how short your shirt is!

—­There’s hair, Joe, says I. Get a queer old tailend of corned beef off of that one, what?

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

—­Well, says the citizen, what’s the latest from the scene of action?  What did those tinkers in the city hall at their caucus meeting decide about the Irish language?

O’Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made obeisance to the puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to wit of that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most obedient city, second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there, 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.

—­It’s on the march, says the citizen.  To hell with the bloody brutal Sassenachs and their patois.

So J. J. puts in a word, doing the toff about one story was good till you heard another and blinking facts and the Nelson policy, putting your blind eye to the telescope and drawing up a bill of attainder to impeach a nation, and Bloom trying to back him up moderation and botheration and their colonies and their civilisation.

—­Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen.  To hell with them!  The curse of a goodfornothing God light sideways on the bloody thicklugged sons of whores’ gets!  No music and no art and no literature worthy of the name.  Any civilisation they have they stole from us.  Tonguetied sons of bastards’ ghosts.

—­The European family, says J. J. ...

—­They’re not European, says the citizen.  I was in Europe with Kevin Egan of Paris.  You wouldn’t see a trace of them or their language anywhere in Europe except in a cabinet D’AISANCE.

And says John Wyse: 

—­Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo: 

—­CONSPUEZ Les ANGLAIS!  PERFIDE Albion!

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.