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.

Show us over the drink, says I. Which is which?

That’s mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.

And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very instant.

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

Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs to us by