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the whole, the meaning of every word of a phrase so far de-
ciphered out of it, however unfettered our Irish daily indepen-
dence, we must vaunt no idle dubiosity as to its genuine author-
ship and holusbolus authoritativeness. And let us bringtheecease
to beakerings on that clink, olmond bottler! On the face of it,
to volt back to our desultory horses, and for your roughshod
mind, bafflelost bull, the affair is a thing once for all done and
there you are somewhere and finished in a certain time, be it a
day or a year or even supposing, it should eventually turn out
to be a serial number of goodness gracious alone knows how
many days or years. Anyhow, somehow and somewhere, before
the bookflood or after her ebb, somebody mentioned by name in
his telephone directory, Coccolanius or Gallotaurus, wrote it,
wrote it all, wrote it all down, and there you are, full stop. O,
undoubtedly yes, and very potably so, but one who deeper thinks
will always bear in the baccbuccus of his mind that this down-
right there you are and there it is is only all in his eye. Why?
    Because, Soferim Bebel, if it goes to that, (and dormerwindow 
gossip will cry it from the housetops no surelier than the writing
on the wall will hue it to the mod of men that mote in the main
street) every person, place and thing in the chaosmos of Alle
anyway connected with the gobblydumped turkery was moving
and changing every part of the time: the travelling inkhorn
(possibly pot), the hare and turtle pen and paper, the continually
more and less intermisunderstanding minds of the anticollabora-
tors, the as time went on as it will variously inflected, differently
pronounced, otherwise spelled, changeably meaning vocable
scriptsigns. No, so holp me Petault, it is not a miseffectual why-
acinthinous riot of blots and blurs and bars and balls and hoops
and wriggles and juxtaposed jottings linked by spurts of speed:
it only looks as like it as damn it; and, sure, we ought really to
rest thankful that at this deleteful hour of dungflies dawning we
have even a written on with dried ink scrap of paper at all to show
for ourselves, tare it or leaf it, (and we are lufted to ourselves as
the soulfisher when he led the cat out of the bout) after all that
we lost and plundered of it even to the hidmost coignings of the