it takes me a quarter of an hour of my enfranchisement and restoration of
my natural man to know myself again. For the moment, I'm froth, scum,
horrid boiling hissing dew of the agony of transformation; I am; I'm that
pig disgorging the spirit of wickedness from his poor stomach.'

The captain drooped to represent the state of the self-relieving victim
of the evil one; but fearful lest either of his cousins should usurp the
chair and thwart his chance of delivering himself, he rattled away
sympathetically with his posture in melancholy: 'Ay, we're poor
creatures; pigs and prophets, princes and people, victors and vanquished,
we 're waves of the sea, rolling over and over, and calling it life!
There's no life save the eternal. Father Boyle's got the truth. Flesh
is less than grass, my sons; 'tis the shadow that crosses the grass. I
love the grass. I could sit and watch grassblades for hours. I love an
old turf mound, where the grey grass nods and seems to know the wind and
have a whisper with it, of ancient times maybe and most like; about the
big chief lying underneath in the last must of his bones that a breath of
air would scatter. They just keep their skeleton shape as they are; for
the turf mound protects them from troubles: 'tis the nurse to that
delicate old infant!--Waves of the sea, did I say? We're wash in a hog-
trough for Father Saturn to devour; big chief and suckling babe, we all
go into it, calling it life! And what hope have we of reading the
mystery? All we can see is the straining of the old fellow's hams to
push his old snout deeper into the gobble, and the ridiculous curl of a
tail totally devoid of expression! You'll observe that gluttons have no
feature; they're jaws and hindquarters; which is the beginning and end of
'm; and so you may say to Time for his dealing with us: so let it be a
lesson to you not to bother your wits, but leave the puzzle to the
priest. He understands it, and why? because he was told. There 's
harmony in his elocution, and there's none in the modern drivel about