OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 042

you for murder somewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it : other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c’est moi. You seem to have enjoyed yourself.
Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget : a dispos- sessed. With mother’s money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Fermé. Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that’s all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that’s all right. Shake a shake. O, that’s all only all right.
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 hands. 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 bréton. Faces of Paris men go by, their well pleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 038

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.
See now. There all the time without you : and ever shall be, world without end.
They came down the steps from Leahy’s terrace prudently, Frauenzim- mer : and down the shelving shore flabbily their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife’s bag, the other’s gamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence Mac Cabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your omphalos. Hello. Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha : nought, nought, one.
Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon : Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to ever- lasting. Womb of sin.
Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler’s will. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A lex eterna stays about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consub- stantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring his life long on the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred heresiarch. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last : euthanasia. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.
Airs romped around him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan.
I mustn’t forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile. Yes, I must.
His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to Aunt Sara’s or not? My consubstantial father’s voice. Did you see anything of your artist brother
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 039

Stephen lately? No? Sure he’s not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Couldn’t he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and and and tell us Stephen, how is uncle Si? O weeping God, the things I married into. De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less. Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept : and no wonder, by Christ.
I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage : and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.
— It’s Stephen, sir.
— Let him in. Let Stephen in.
A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.
— We thought you were someone else.
In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety.
— Morrow, nephew.
He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of Master Goff and Master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. A bogoak frame over his bald head : Wilde’s Requiescat. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.
— Yes, sir?
— Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?
— Bathing Crissie, sir.
Papa’s little bedpal. Lump of love.
— No, uncle Richie...
— Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!
— Uncle Richie, really...
— Sit down or by the law. Harry I’ll knock you down.
Walter squints vainly for a chair.
— He has nothing to sit down on, sir.
— He has nowhere put toit, you mug. Bring in our Chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw air here; the rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills.
All’erta!
He drones bars of Ferrando’s aria di sortita. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 040

His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.
This wind is sweeter.
Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay, of Marsh’s library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine faces. Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lantern jaws. Abbas father, furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! Descende, calve, ut ne nimium decalveris. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (descende), clutching a monstrance, basliskeyed. Get down, bald poll! A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar’s horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.
And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx. Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.
Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy, weren’t you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si, certo! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain : naked women! What about that, eh?
What about what? what else were they invented for?
Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw : tell no- one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 035

not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end.
                For Ulster will fight
                And Ulster will be right.
Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.
— Well, sir, he began.
— I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong.
— A learner rather, Stephen said.
— And here what will you learn more?
Mr Deasy shook his head.
— Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher.
Stephen rustled the sheets again.
— As regards these, he began.
— Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them published at once.
Telegraph. Irish Homestead.
— I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two editors slightly. That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders’ association today at the City Arms Hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?
— The Evening Telegraph...
— That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin.
— Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket. Thank you.
— Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am.
— Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.
He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate; toothless
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 036

terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a new name : the bullockbefriending bard.
— Mr Dedalus!
Running after me. No more letters, I hope.
— Just one moment.
— Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.
Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.
— I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? No. And do you know why?
He frowned sternly on the bright air.
— Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.
— Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.
A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air.
— She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That’s why.
On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 041

F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies on green oval leaves, deeeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand year, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once...
The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel : isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ring- send : wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.
He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara’s. Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.
— Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?
— C’est le pigeon, Joseph.
Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar Mac- Mahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father’s a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny’s face. Lap, lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jésus by M. Léo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.
— C’est tordant, vous savez. Moi je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en l’exis- tence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire à mon père.
— Il croit?
— Mon père, oui.
Schluss. He laps.
My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a student, weren’t you? Of what in the other devil’s name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know : physiques, chimiques et naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone : when I was in Paris, boul’ Mich’, I used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 043

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 sétier! 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. 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. Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Félix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne à tout faire, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said. Tous les messieurs not this Monsieur, I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn’t let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.
The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose tobacco shreds catch fire : a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy’s hat. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.
Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell you, I’ll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the fog. Shatte- red glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his day’s stations, the dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d’Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcastman, madame, in rue Gît-le-Coeur,
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 044

canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing’s. Spurned and undespairing. Tell Pat you saw me, won’t you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. Mon fils, soldier of France. I taught him to sing. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny : saint Canice, Strongbow’s castle on the Nore. Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.
                O, O the boys of
                Kilkenny...
Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them. Remembering thee, O Sion.
He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. Turn back.
Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the dark- ness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes. A shut door of a silent tower entombing their blind bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call : no answer. He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon’s midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore’s tempting flood.
The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike.
A bloated carcase of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gun- wale of a boat, sunk in sand. Un coche ensablé, Louis Veuillot called Gautier’s prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. And there, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout’s toys. Mind you don’t get one bang on the ear. I’m the bloody well gigant rolls all
# The Aquarian Gospel of Jesus the Christ/Chapter 150

Jesus heals blind Bartimaeus. With the twelve he goes to Bethany. The multitudes come to welcome him and to speak with Lazarus.
1. The Christines started on their way to Bethany, and as they went, while yet in Jericho, they passed a beggar sitting by the way; and he was blind Bartimaeus.
2. And when the beggar heard the multitude pass by he said, What is it that I hear?
3. The people said to him, Jesus of Nazareth is passing by.
4. And instantly the man cried out, Lord Jesus, son of David, stay! have mercy on poor blind Bartimaeus!
5. The people said to him, Be quiet; hold your peace.
6. But blind Bartimaeus called again, Thou son of David, hear! have mercy on poor blind Bartiaeus!
7. And Jesus stopped and said, Bring him to me.
8. And then the people brought the blind man to the Lord, and as they brought him up they said, Be cheerful, now, Bartimaeus, the Lord is calling you.
9. And then he threw his cloak aside, and ran to Jesus as he waited by the way.
10. And Jesus said, What will you have, Bartimaeus?
11. The blind man said, Rabboni, open up mine eyes that I may see.
12. And Jesus said, Bartimaeus, look up; receive your sight; your faith has made you whole.
13. And he at once received his sight, and from the fulness of his heart he said, Praise God.
14. And all the people said, Praise God.
15. Then Jesus and the twelve went on to Bethany. It was six days before the feast.
16. And when the people knew that Jesus was in Bethany they came from near and far to see him and to hear him speak.
17. And they were anxious all to talk with Lazarus, whom Jesus had awakened form the dead.
18. Now in Jerusalem the priests and Pharisees were all alert; they said, This Jesus will be at the feast, and we must not permit that he shall slip away again.
19. And they commanded every man to be alert and help to apprehend the Lord that they might take his life.
# The Aquarian Gospel of Jesus the Christ/Chapter 152

Jesus rebukes a barren fig tree. Drives the merchants out of the temple. Teaches the people. Returns to Bethany.
1. Next day, the Monday of the week, the master with the twelve, went to Jerusalem.
2. And as they passed along the way they saw a fig tree full of leaves without a sign of fruit.
3. And Jesus spoke unto the tree; he said, You useless cumberer of the ground; you fig tree fair to look upon, but a delusive thing.
4. You take from the earth and air the food that fruitful trees should have.
5. Go back to earth and be yourself the food for other trees to eat.
6. When Jesus had thus spoken to the tree he went his way.
7. And when he reached the temple, lo, the rooms were filled with petty merchants selling doves and animals, and other things, for sacrifice; the temple was a mart of trade.
8. And Jesus was indignant at the sight, and said, You men of Israel, for shame! This is supposed to be the house of prayer; but it is now a den of thieves. Remove this plunder from this holy place.
9. The merchants only laughed and said, We are protected in our trade by those who bear the rule; we will not go.
10. Then Jesus made a scourge of cords, as he did once before, and rushed among the merchantmen, threw all their money on the floor;
11. Threw wide the cages of the doves, and cut the cords that held the bleating lambs and set them free.
12. And then he drove the merchants from the place, and with a clean, new broom he swept the floors.
13. Chief priests and scribes were filled with wrath, but feared to touch or even to rebuke the Lord, for all the people stood in his defence.
14. And Jesus taught the people all day long and healed a multitude of those diseased,
15. And when the evening came he went again to Bethany.
# The Brig Concord Taylor Master

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
13 U.S. 387
The Brig Concord Taylor Master
Absent. TODD, J.
THIS was an appeal from the sentence of the Circuit Court, affirming that of the District Court, which restored to the Claimants, neutral Spanish merchants at Teneriffe, 20 pipes of wine, part of the cargo of the British brig Concord, captured by the American privateer Marengo, in August, 1812, without payment of duties; although the same had been, by consent of the proctors for the parties, sold under an order of the Court.
The cause being submitted without argument:
STORY, J. delivered the opinion of the Court, as follows:

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse