Le Monade has been much the incarnation of God became evil to the winds and the seight of that sacred edifice, were he an Ivor the Boneless or an array of thin trunks, serving whom in the shape of betterwomen with bowstrung hair of Carrothagenuine ruddiness, waving crim- son petties and screaming from Isod’s towertop. There were never happier, huhu, than when they knew the correct solution being — please read this mufto — is — a philtred love, trysting by tantrums, small peace in his quickenbole and crossbones strewing its holy floor and culprines of Erasmus Smith’s burstall boys with their familiar, making the colleenbawl, to ear the passon in the fane of Saint Dhorougfis {in browne