The phenomenon of James Joyce seems to most people inexplicable. Why seek the scabrous for a subject when the sweet and pure can be so beautifully expressed? Why walk on dungheaped roads when a rosewalk can be had for a twopenny tram drive? Irishmen, together with Englishmen and Americans, or rather the Irish, English and American public, asked these pointed questions and ostracised Mr. Joyce without staying for an answer. Fortunately, however, it is not necessary for an artist to develop on his native soil to produce his best work. . .