No More Learning

My hell, and Ireland's, is in this life. It is what I tried
to obliterate my crime. Distractions, rookshooting, the Erse language
(he recited some), laudanum (he raised the phial to his lips), camping
out. In vain! His spectre stalks me. Dope is my only hope. . . Ah!
Destruction! The black panther! With a cry he suddenly vanished and the
panel slid back. An instant later his head appeared in the door opposite
and said: Meet me at Westland Row station at ten past eleven. He was
gone. Tears gushed from the eyes of the dissipated host. The seer
raised his hand to heaven, murmuring: The vendetta of Mananaun! The
sage repeated: _Lex talionis_. The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy
without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done. Malachias,
overcome by emotion, ceased. The mystery was unveiled. Haines was the
third brother. His real name was Childs. The black panther was himself
the ghost of his own father. He drank drugs to obliterate. For this
relief much thanks. The lonely house by the graveyard is uninhabited.
No soul will live there. The spider pitches her web in the solitude.
The nocturnal rat peers from his hole. A curse is on it. It is haunted.
Murderer's ground.

What is the age of the soul of man? As she hath the virtue of the
chameleon to change her hue at every new approach, to be gay with the
merry and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age changeable as
her mood. No longer is Leopold, as he sits there, ruminating, chewing
the cud of reminiscence, that staid agent of publicity and holder of a
modest substance in the funds. A score of years are blown away. He is
young Leopold. There, as in a retrospective arrangement, a mirror within
a mirror (hey, presto! ), he beholdeth himself. That young figure of then
is seen, precociously manly, walking on a nipping morning from the old
house in Clanbrassil street to the high school, his booksatchel on
him bandolierwise, and in it a goodly hunk of wheaten loaf, a mother's
thought. Or it is the same figure, a year or so gone over, in his first
hard hat (ah, that was a day! ), already on the road, a fullfledged
traveller for the family firm, equipped with an orderbook, a scented
handkerchief (not for show only), his case of bright trinketware (alas!
a thing now of the past! ) and a quiverful of compliant smiles for this
or that halfwon housewife reckoning it out upon her fingertips or for
a budding virgin, shyly acknowledging (but the heart? tell me! ) his
studied baisemoins. The scent, the smile, but, more than these, the dark
eyes and oleaginous address, brought home at duskfall many a commission
to the head of the firm, seated with Jacob's pipe after like labours in
the paternal ingle (a meal of noodles, you may be sure, is aheating),
reading through round horned spectacles some paper from the Europe of a
month before. But hey, presto, the mirror is breathed on and the young
knighterrant recedes, shrivels, dwindles to a tiny speck within the
mist. Now he is himself paternal and these about him might be his
sons. Who can say? The wise father knows his own child. He thinks of a
drizzling night in Hatch street, hard by the bonded stores there, the
first. Together (she is a poor waif, a child of shame, yours and mine
and of all for a bare shilling and her luckpenny), together they hear
the heavy tread of the watch as two raincaped shadows pass the new royal
university. Bridie! Bridie Kelly! He will never forget the name, ever
remember the night: first night, the bridenight. They are entwined
in nethermost darkness, the willer with the willed, and in an instant
(_fiat_! ) light shall flood the world. Did heart leap to heart? Nay,
fair reader. In a breath 'twas done but--hold! Back! It must not be! In
terror the poor girl flees away through the murk. She is the bride of
darkness, a daughter of night. She dare not bear the sunnygolden babe
of day. No, Leopold. Name and memory solace thee not. That youthful
illusion of thy strength was taken from thee--and in vain. No son of thy
loins is by thee. There is none now to be for Leopold, what Leopold was
for Rudolph.

The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is the
infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the soul is wafted over regions
of cycles of generations that have lived. A region where grey twilight
ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her
dusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars. She follows her mother with
ungainly steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal. Twilight phantoms
are they, yet moulded in prophetic grace of structure, slim shapely
haunches, a supple tendonous neck, the meek apprehensive skull. They
fade, sad phantoms: all is gone. Agendath is a waste land, a home of
screechowls and the sandblind upupa. Netaim, the golden, is no more. And
on the highway of the clouds they come, muttering thunder of rebellion,
the ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark! Huuh! Parallax stalks behind and goads
them, the lancinating lightnings of whose brow are scorpions. Elk and
yak, the bulls of Bashan and of Babylon, mammoth and mastodon, they come
trooping to the sunken sea, _Lacus Mortis_. Ominous revengeful zodiacal
host! They moan, passing upon the clouds, horned and capricorned, the
trumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned, the giantantlered, snouter
and crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all their moving moaning
multitude, murderers of the sun.

Onward to the dead sea they tramp to drink, unslaked and with horrible
gulpings, the salt somnolent inexhaustible flood. And the equine portent
grows again, magnified in the deserted heavens, nay to heaven's own
magnitude, till it looms, vast, over the house of Virgo. And lo, wonder
of metempsychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride, harbinger of the
daystar, the bride, ever virgin. It is she, Martha, thou lost one,
Millicent, the young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she now
arise, a queen among the Pleiades, in the penultimate antelucan hour,
shod in sandals of bright gold, coifed with a veil of what do you call
it gossamer. It floats, it flows about her starborn flesh and loose it
streams, emerald, sapphire, mauve and heliotrope, sustained on currents
of the cold interstellar wind, winding, coiling, simply swirling,
writhing in the skies a mysterious writing till, after a myriad
metamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangled sign
upon the forehead of Taurus.

Francis was reminding Stephen of years before when they had been at
school together in Conmee's time. He asked about Glaucon, Alcibiades,
Pisistratus. Where were they now? Neither knew. You have spoken of the
past and its phantoms, Stephen said. Why think of them? If I call them
into life across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop to
my call? Who supposes it? I, Bous Stephanoumenos, bullockbefriending
bard, am lord and giver of their life. He encircled his gadding hair
with a coronal of vineleaves, smiling at Vincent. That answer and those
leaves, Vincent said to him, will adorn you more fitly when something
more, and greatly more, than a capful of light odes can call your genius
father. All who wish you well hope this for you. All desire to see
you bring forth the work you meditate, to acclaim you Stephaneforos. I
heartily wish you may not fail them. O no, Vincent Lenehan said, laying
a hand on the shoulder near him. Have no fear. He could not leave his
mother an orphan. The young man's face grew dark. All could see how hard
it was for him to be reminded of his promise and of his recent loss. He
would have withdrawn from the feast had not the noise of voices allayed
the smart. Madden had lost five drachmas on Sceptre for a whim of the
rider's name: Lenehan as much more. He told them of the race. The flag
fell and, huuh! off, scamper, the mare ran out freshly with 0. Madden
up. She was leading the field. All hearts were beating. Even Phyllis
could not contain herself. She waved her scarf and cried: Huzzah!
Sceptre wins! But in the straight on the run home when all were in close
order the dark horse Throwaway drew level, reached, outstripped her. All
was lost now. Phyllis was silent: her eyes were sad anemones. Juno, she
cried, I am undone. But her lover consoled her and brought her a bright
casket of gold in which lay some oval sugarplums which she partook. A
tear fell: one only. A whacking fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane.
Four winners yesterday and three today. What rider is like him? Mount
him on the camel or the boisterous buffalo the victory in a hack canter
is still his. But let us bear it as was the ancient wont. Mercy on the
luckless! Poor Sceptre! he said with a light sigh. She is not the filly
that she was. Never, by this hand, shall we behold such another. By gad,
sir, a queen of them. Do you remember her, Vincent? I wish you could
have seen my queen today, Vincent said. How young she was and radiant
(Lalage were scarce fair beside her) in her yellow shoes and frock of
muslin, I do not know the right name of it. The chestnuts that shaded
us were in bloom: the air drooped with their persuasive odour and with
pollen floating by us. In the sunny patches one might easily have
cooked on a stone a batch of those buns with Corinth fruit in them that
Periplipomenes sells in his booth near the bridge. But she had nought
for her teeth but the arm with which I held her and in that she nibbled
mischievously when I pressed too close. A week ago she lay ill, four
days on the couch, but today she was free, blithe, mocked at peril.
She is more taking then. Her posies tool Mad romp that she is, she had
pulled her fill as we reclined together. And in your ear, my friend, you
will not think who met us as we left the field. Conmee himself! He was
walking by the hedge, reading, I think a brevier book with, I doubt not,
a witty letter in it from Glycera or Chloe to keep the page. The sweet
creature turned all colours in her confusion, feigning to reprove a
slight disorder in her dress: a slip of underwood clung there for the
very trees adore her. When Conmee had passed she glanced at her lovely
echo in that little mirror she carries. But he had been kind. In going
by he had blessed us. The gods too are ever kind, Lenehan said. If I had
poor luck with Bass's mare perhaps this draught of his may serve me more
propensely. He was laying his hand upon a winejar: Malachi saw it and
withheld his act, pointing to the stranger and to the scarlet label.
Warily, Malachi whispered, preserve a druid silence. His soul is far
away. It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be
born. Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the
incorruptible eon of the gods. Do you not think it, Stephen? Theosophos
told me so, Stephen answered, whom in a previous existence Egyptian
priests initiated into the mysteries of karmic law. The lords of the
moon, Theosophos told me, an orangefiery shipload from planet Alpha
of the lunar chain would not assume the etheric doubles and these
were therefore incarnated by the rubycoloured egos from the second
constellation.

However, as a matter of fact though, the preposterous surmise about him
being in some description of a doldrums or other or mesmerised which
was entirely due to a misconception of the shallowest character, was
not the case at all. The individual whose visual organs while the above
was going on were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptoms of
animation was as astute if not astuter than any man living and anybody
that conjectured the contrary would have found themselves pretty
speedily in the wrong shop. During the past four minutes or thereabouts
he had been staring hard at a certain amount of number one Bass bottled
by Messrs Bass and Co at Burton-on-Trent which happened to be situated
amongst a lot of others right opposite to where he was and which was
certainly calculated to attract anyone's remark on account of its
scarlet appearance. He was simply and solely, as it subsequently
transpired for reasons best known to himself, which put quite an
altogether different complexion on the proceedings, after the moment
before's observations about boyhood days and the turf, recollecting two
or three private transactions of his own which the other two were as
mutually innocent of as the babe unborn. Eventually, however, both
their eyes met and as soon as it began to dawn on him that the other was
endeavouring to help himself to the thing he involuntarily determined
to help him himself and so he accordingly took hold of the neck of the
mediumsized glass recipient which contained the fluid sought after and
made a capacious hole in it by pouring a lot of it out with, also at the
same time, however, a considerable degree of attentiveness in order not
to upset any of the beer that was in it about the place.

The debate which ensued was in its scope and progress an epitome of the
course of life. Neither place nor council was lacking in dignity. The
debaters were the keenest in the land, the theme they were engaged on
the loftiest and most vital. The high hall of Horne's house had never
beheld an assembly so representative and so varied nor had the
old rafters of that establishment ever listened to a language so
encyclopaedic. A gallant scene in truth it made. Crotthers was there at
the foot of the table in his striking Highland garb, his face glowing
from the briny airs of the Mull of Galloway. There too, opposite to him,
was Lynch whose countenance bore already the stigmata of early depravity
and premature wisdom. Next the Scotchman was the place assigned to
Costello, the eccentric, while at his side was seated in stolid repose
the squat form of Madden. The chair of the resident indeed stood vacant
before the hearth but on either flank of it the figure of Bannon in
explorer's kit of tweed shorts and salted cowhide brogues contrasted
sharply with the primrose elegance and townbred manners of Malachi
Roland St John Mulligan. Lastly at the head of the board was the young
poet who found a refuge from his labours of pedagogy and metaphysical
inquisition in the convivial atmosphere of Socratic discussion, while
to right and left of him were accommodated the flippant prognosticator,
fresh from the hippodrome, and that vigilant wanderer, soiled by the
dust of travel and combat and stained by the mire of an indelible
dishonour, but from whose steadfast and constant heart no lure or peril
or threat or degradation could ever efface the image of that voluptuous
loveliness which the inspired pencil of Lafayette has limned for ages
yet to come.

It had better be stated here and now at the outset that the perverted
transcendentalism to which Mr S. Dedalus' (Div. Scep. ) contentions
would appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs directly counter to
accepted scientific methods. Science, it cannot be too often repeated,
deals with tangible phenomena. The man of science like the man in the
street has to face hardheaded facts that cannot be blinked and explain
them as best he can. There may be, it is true, some questions which
science cannot answer--at present--such as the first problem submitted
by Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv. ) regarding the future determination of sex.
Must we accept the view of Empedocles of Trinacria that the right ovary
(the postmenstrual period, assert others) is responsible for the birth
of males or are the too long neglected spermatozoa or nemasperms the
differentiating factors or is it, as most embryologists incline to
opine, such as Culpepper, Spallanzani, Blumenbach, Lusk, Hertwig,
Leopold and Valenti, a mixture of both? This would be tantamount to
a cooperation (one of nature's favourite devices) between the _nisus
formativus_ of the nemasperm on the one hand and on the other a happily
chosen position, _succubitus felix_ of the passive element. The other
problem raised by the same inquirer is scarcely less vital: infant
mortality. It is interesting because, as he pertinently remarks, we
are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways. Mr M.
Mulligan (Hyg. et Eug. Doc. ) blames the sanitary conditions in which
our greylunged citizens contract adenoids, pulmonary complaints etc.
by
inhaling the bacteria which lurk in dust. These factors, he alleged,
and the revolting spectacles offered by our streets, hideous publicity
posters, religious ministers of all denominations, mutilated soldiers
and sailors, exposed scorbutic cardrivers, the suspended carcases of
dead animals, paranoic bachelors and unfructified duennas--these, he
said, were accountable for any and every fallingoff in the calibre of
the race. Kalipedia, he prophesied, would soon be generally adopted
and all the graces of life, genuinely good music, agreeable literature,
light philosophy, instructive pictures, plastercast reproductions of
the classical statues such as Venus and Apollo, artistic coloured
photographs of prize babies, all these little attentions would enable
ladies who were in a particular condition to pass the intervening months
in a most enjoyable manner. Mr J. Crotthers (Disc. Bacc. ) attributes
some of these demises to abdominal trauma in the case of women workers
subjected to heavy labours in the workshop and to marital discipline in
the home but by far the vast majority to neglect, private or official,
culminating in the exposure of newborn infants, the practice of criminal
abortion or in the atrocious crime of infanticide. Although the former
(we are thinking of neglect) is undoubtedly only too true the case he
cites of nurses forgetting to count the sponges in the peritoneal cavity
is too rare to be normative. In fact when one comes to look into it the
wonder is that so many pregnancies and deliveries go off so well as they
do, all things considered and in spite of our human shortcomings which
often baulk nature in her intentions. An ingenious suggestion is
that thrown out by Mr V. Lynch (Bacc. Arith. ) that both natality and
mortality, as well as all other phenomena of evolution, tidal movements,
lunar phases, blood temperatures, diseases in general, everything, in
fine, in nature's vast workshop from the extinction of some remote sun
to the blossoming of one of the countless flowers which beautify our
public parks is subject to a law of numeration as yet unascertained.
Still the plain straightforward question why a child of normally healthy
parents and seemingly a healthy child and properly looked after succumbs
unaccountably in early childhood (though other children of the same
marriage do not) must certainly, in the poet's words, give us pause.
Nature, we may rest assured, has her own good and cogent reasons for
whatever she does and in all probability such deaths are due to some law
of anticipation by which organisms in which morbous germs have taken
up their residence (modern science has conclusively shown that only the
plasmic substance can be said to be immortal) tend to disappear at an
increasingly earlier stage of development, an arrangement which, though
productive of pain to some of our feelings (notably the maternal), is
nevertheless, some of us think, in the long run beneficial to the
race in general in securing thereby the survival of the fittest. Mr S.
Dedalus' (Div. Scep. ) remark (or should it be called an interruption? )
that an omnivorous being which can masticate, deglute, digest and
apparently pass through the ordinary channel with pluterperfect
imperturbability such multifarious aliments as cancrenous females
emaciated by parturition, corpulent professional gentlemen, not to speak
of jaundiced politicians and chlorotic nuns, might possibly find gastric
relief in an innocent collation of staggering bob, reveals as nought
else could and in a very unsavoury light the tendency above alluded to.
For the enlightenment of those who are not so intimately acquainted with
the minutiae of the municipal abattoir as this morbidminded esthete and
embryo philosopher who for all his overweening bumptiousness in things
scientific can scarcely distinguish an acid from an alkali prides
himself on being, it should perhaps be stated that staggering bob in
the vile parlance of our lowerclass licensed victuallers signifies the
cookable and eatable flesh of a calf newly dropped from its mother. In
a recent public controversy with Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv. ) which took
place in the commons' hall of the National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30
and 31 Holles street, of which, as is well known, Dr A. Horne (Lic. in
Midw. , F. K. Q. C. P. I. ) is the able and popular master, he is reported
by eyewitnesses as having stated that once a woman has let the cat
into the bag (an esthete's allusion, presumably, to one of the most
complicated and marvellous of all nature's processes--the act of sexual
congress) she must let it out again or give it life, as he phrased it,
to save her own. At the risk of her own, was the telling rejoinder of
his interlocutor, none the less effective for the moderate and measured
tone in which it was delivered.

Meanwhile the skill and patience of the physician had brought about a
happy _accouchement. _ It had been a weary weary while both for patient
and doctor. All that surgical skill could do was done and the brave
woman had manfully helped. She had. She had fought the good fight and
now she was very very happy. Those who have passed on, who have gone
before, are happy too as they gaze down and smile upon the touching
scene. Reverently look at her as she reclines there with the motherlight
in her eyes, that longing hunger for baby fingers (a pretty sight it is
to see), in the first bloom of her new motherhood, breathing a silent
prayer of thanksgiving to One above, the Universal Husband. And as her
loving eyes behold her babe she wishes only one blessing more, to have
her dear Doady there with her to share her joy, to lay in his arms that
mite of God's clay, the fruit of their lawful embraces. He is older now
(you and I may whisper it) and a trifle stooped in the shoulders yet
in the whirligig of years a grave dignity has come to the conscientious
second accountant of the Ulster bank, College Green branch. O Doady,
loved one of old, faithful lifemate now, it may never be again, that
faroff time of the roses! With the old shake of her pretty head she
recalls those days. God! How beautiful now across the mist of years! But
their children are grouped in her imagination about the bedside, hers
and his, Charley, Mary Alice, Frederick Albert (if he had lived), Mamy,
Budgy (Victoria Frances), Tom, Violet Constance Louisa, darling little
Bobsy (called after our famous hero of the South African war, lord Bobs
of Waterford and Candahar) and now this last pledge of their union, a
Purefoy if ever there was one, with the true Purefoy nose. Young hopeful
will be christened Mortimer Edward after the influential third cousin of
Mr Purefoy in the Treasury Remembrancer's office, Dublin Castle. And so
time wags on: but father Cronion has dealt lightly here. No, let no sigh
break from that bosom, dear gentle Mina. And Doady, knock the ashes from
your pipe, the seasoned briar you still fancy when the curfew rings for
you (may it be the distant day! ) and dout the light whereby you read
in the Sacred Book for the oil too has run low, and so with a tranquil
heart to bed, to rest. He knows and will call in His own good time. You
too have fought the good fight and played loyally your man's part. Sir,
to you my hand. Well done, thou good and faithful servant!

There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil
memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart
but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim,
let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself
that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will
call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the
most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel
and harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the
evening or at the feast, at midnight, when he is now filled with wine.
Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under
her wrath, not for vengeance to cut him off from the living but shrouded
in the piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful.

The stranger still regarded on the face before him a slow recession of
that false calm there, imposed, as it seemed, by habit or some studied
trick, upon words so embittered as to accuse in their speaker an
unhealthiness, a _flair,_ for the cruder things of life. A scene
disengages itself in the observer's memory, evoked, it would seem, by
a word of so natural a homeliness as if those days were really present
there (as some thought) with their immediate pleasures. A shaven space
of lawn one soft May evening, the wellremembered grove of lilacs at
Roundtown, purple and white, fragrant slender spectators of the game but
with much real interest in the pellets as they run slowly forward over
the sward or collide and stop, one by its fellow, with a brief alert
shock. And yonder about that grey urn where the water moves at times
in thoughtful irrigation you saw another as fragrant sisterhood, Floey,
Atty, Tiny and their darker friend with I know not what of arresting in
her pose then, Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely brace of them pendent
from an ear, bringing out the foreign warmth of the skin so daintily
against the cool ardent fruit. A lad of four or five in linseywoolsey
(blossomtime but there will be cheer in the kindly hearth when ere long
the bowls are gathered and hutched) is standing on the urn secured by
that circle of girlish fond hands. He frowns a little just as this young
man does now with a perhaps too conscious enjoyment of the danger but
must needs glance at whiles towards where his mother watches from the
PIAZZETTA giving upon the flowerclose with a faint shadow of remoteness
or of reproach (_alles Vergangliche_) in her glad look.

Mark this farther and remember. The end comes suddenly. Enter that
antechamber of birth where the studious are assembled and note their
faces. Nothing, as it seems, there of rash or violent. Quietude of
custody, rather, befitting their station in that house, the vigilant
watch of shepherds and of angels about a crib in Bethlehem of Juda long
ago. But as before the lightning the serried stormclouds, heavy with
preponderant excess of moisture, in swollen masses turgidly distended,
compass earth and sky in one vast slumber, impending above parched field
and drowsy oxen and blighted growth of shrub and verdure till in an
instant a flash rives their centres and with the reverberation of the
thunder the cloudburst pours its torrent, so and not otherwise was the
transformation, violent and instantaneous, upon the utterance of the
word.

Burke's! outflings my lord Stephen, giving the cry, and a tag and
bobtail of all them after, cockerel, jackanapes, welsher, pilldoctor,
punctual Bloom at heels with a universal grabbing at headgear,
ashplants, bilbos, Panama hats and scabbards, Zermatt alpenstocks and
what not. A dedale of lusty youth, noble every student there. Nurse
Callan taken aback in the hallway cannot stay them nor smiling surgeon
coming downstairs with news of placentation ended, a full pound if a
milligramme. They hark him on. The door! It is open? Ha! They are out,
tumultuously, off for a minute's race, all bravely legging it, Burke's
of Denzille and Holles their ulterior goal. Dixon follows giving them
sharp language but raps out an oath, he too, and on. Bloom stays with
nurse a thought to send a kind word to happy mother and nurseling up
there. Doctor Diet and Doctor Quiet. Looks she too not other now? Ward
of watching in Horne's house has told its tale in that washedout pallor.
Then all being gone, a glance of motherwit helping, he whispers close in
going: Madam, when comes the storkbird for thee?

The air without is impregnated with raindew moisture, life essence
celestial, glistening on Dublin stone there under starshiny _coelum. _
God's air, the Allfather's air, scintillant circumambient cessile air.
Breathe it deep into thee. By heaven, Theodore Purefoy, thou hast done a
doughty deed and no botch! Thou art, I vow, the remarkablest progenitor
barring none in this chaffering allincluding most farraginous chronicle.
Astounding! In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed possibility which
thou hast fructified with thy modicum of man's work. Cleave to her!
Serve! Toil on, labour like a very bandog and let scholarment and all
Malthusiasts go hang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore. Art drooping
under thy load, bemoiled with butcher's bills at home and ingots (not
thine! ) in the countinghouse? Head up! For every newbegotten thou shalt
gather thy homer of ripe wheat. See, thy fleece is drenched. Dost envy
Darby Dullman there with his Joan? A canting jay and a rheumeyed
curdog is all their progeny. Pshaw, I tell thee! He is a mule, a dead
gasteropod, without vim or stamina, not worth a cracked kreutzer.
Copulation without population! No, say I! Herod's slaughter of the
innocents were the truer name. Vegetables, forsooth, and sterile
cohabitation! Give her beefsteaks, red, raw, bleeding! She is a hoary
pandemonium of ills, enlarged glands, mumps, quinsy, bunions, hayfever,
bedsores, ringworm, floating kidney, Derbyshire neck, warts, bilious
attacks, gallstones, cold feet, varicose veins. A truce to threnes and
trentals and jeremies and all such congenital defunctive music! Twenty
years of it, regret them not. With thee it was not as with many that
will and would and wait and never--do. Thou sawest thy America, thy
lifetask, and didst charge to cover like the transpontine bison. How
saith Zarathustra? _Deine Kuh Trubsal melkest Du. Nun Trinkst Du die
susse Milch des Euters_. See! it displodes for thee in abundance. Drink,
man, an udderful! Mother's milk, Purefoy, the milk of human kin, milk
too of those burgeoning stars overhead rutilant in thin rainvapour,
punch milk, such as those rioters will quaff in their guzzling den, milk
of madness, the honeymilk of Canaan's land. Thy cow's dug was tough,
what? Ay, but her milk is hot and sweet and fattening. No dollop this
but thick rich bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch! Pap! _Per deam
Partulam et Pertundam nunc est bibendum_!

All off for a buster, armstrong, hollering down the street. Bonafides.
Where you slep las nigh? Timothy of the battered naggin. Like ole
Billyo. Any brollies or gumboots in the fambly? Where the Henry Nevil's
sawbones and ole clo? Sorra one o' me knows. Hurrah there, Dix! Forward
to the ribbon counter. Where's Punch? All serene. Jay, look at the
drunken minister coming out of the maternity hospal! _Benedicat vos
omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius_. A make, mister. The Denzille lane
boys. Hell, blast ye! Scoot. Righto, Isaacs, shove em out of the
bleeding limelight. Yous join uz, dear sir? No hentrusion in life. Lou
heap good man. Allee samee dis bunch. _En avant, mes enfants_! Fire
away number one on the gun. Burke's! Burke's! Thence they advanced five
parasangs. Slattery's mounted foot. Where's that bleeding awfur? Parson
Steve, apostates' creed! No, no, Mulligan! Abaft there! Shove ahead.
Keep a watch on the clock. Chuckingout time. Mullee! What's on you? _Ma
mere m'a mariee. _ British Beatitudes! _Retamplatan Digidi Boumboum_.
Ayes have it. To be printed and bound at the Druiddrum press by two
designing females. Calf covers of pissedon green. Last word in art
shades. Most beautiful book come out of Ireland my time. _Silentium! _
Get a spurt on. Tention. Proceed to nearest canteen and there annex
liquor stores. March! Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are (atitudes! )
parching. Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs battleships, buggery
and bishops. Whether on the scaffold high. Beer, beef, trample the
bibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the trampellers. Thunderation! Keep
the durned millingtary step. We fall. Bishops boosebox. Halt! Heave to.
Rugger. Scrum in. No touch kicking. Wow, my tootsies! You hurt?