And in spite of everything, Ireland remains the brain of the Kingdom. The English, judiciously practical and ponderous, furnish the over-stuffed stomach of humanity with a perfect gadget--the water closet. The Irish, condemned to express themselves in a language not their own, have stamped on it the mark of their own genius and compete for glory with the civilized nations. This is then called English literature.

The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.

Then Nuvoletta reflected for the last time in her little long life and she made up all her myriads of drifting minds in one. She cancelled all her engauzements. She climbed over the bannistars; she gave a childy cloudy cry: Nuee! Nuee! A lightdress fluttered. She was gone. And into the river that had been a stream . . . there fell a tear, a singult tear, the loveliest of all tears . . . for it was a leaptear. But the river tripped on her by and by, lapping as though her heart was brook: Why, why, why! Weh, O weh! I'se so silly to be flowing but I no canna stay!

There is no heresy or no philosophy which is so abhorrent to the church as a human being.

Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.

All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.

British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.