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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 tak-
en 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 side-
ways 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. ...