You were going to do wonders, what?  Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus.  Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing:  EUGE!  EUGE!  Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven.  Comment?  Rich booty you brought back; le Tutu, five tattered numbers of PANTALON Blanc et culotte rouge; a blue French telegram, curiosity to show: 

—­Mother dying come home father.

The aunt thinks you killed your mother.  That’s why she won’t.

    Then here’s A health to Mulligan’s aunt
    and I’ll tell you the reason why. 
    She always kept things decent in
    the Hannigan FAMILEYE.

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall.  He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls.  Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders.  The sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets.  Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air.  Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife’s lover’s wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand.  In Rodot’s Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth CHAUSSONS of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan Breton.  Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.

Noon slumbers.  Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer’s ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white.  About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets.  Un demi SETIER!  A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron.  She serves me at his beck.  IL EST IRLANDAIS.  HOLLANDAIS?  Non FROMAGE.  DEUX IRLANDAIS, nous, Irlande, VOUS SAVEZ ah, oui!  She thought you wanted a cheese HOLLANDAIS.  Your postprandial, do you know that word?  Postprandial.  There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial.  Well:  SLAINTE!  Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges.  His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy’s fang thrusting between his lips.  Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men.  To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause.  You’re your father’s son.  I know the voice.  His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets.  M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria?  Old hag with the yellow teeth.