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Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks. There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said eagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord mayor was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and there was music. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard...
Good Christ, only five... What?... And Willy Murray with him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim's... What? Dignam dead? What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who's talking about...? Dead! says Alf. He's no more dead than you are. Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning anyhow. Paddy? says Alf. Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him.
Plot, one hundred and one. PADDY DIGNAM: Pray for the repose of his soul. After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a grey carapace. Dignam's voice, muffled, is heard baying under ground: Dignam's dead and gone below. Follow me up to Carlow. Two discs on the columns wobble, eyes of nought. All recedes. Bloom plodges forward again through the sump.
Greasy black rope. Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant's wife drove by in her noddy. Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with. Great topers too. Fourbottle men. Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a midnight burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the wall. Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well.
Regular square feed for them. Flies come before he's well dead. Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn't care about the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips. The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world again. Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa too.
Scribere quod Cassi Parmensis opuscula vincat; An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres, Curantem quicquid dignam sapiente bonoque est? Epist. i. 4.
That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat. And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriageable. Worst of all at night Mrs Duggan told me in the City Arms. Husband rolling in drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have that in your nose in the dark, whiff of stale boose. Then ask in the morning: was I drunk last night? Bad policy however to fault the husband.
Berners, I believe, has been living the life of a retired gentleman. I never heard that he renewed his connection with business affairs after he got home. The late Mr. Sylvester Dignam, a cousin of Mr.
So Joe took up the letters. Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. So I saw there was going to be a bit of a dust Bob's a queer chap when the porter's up in him so says I just to make talk: How's Willy Murray those times, Alf? I don't know, says Alf I saw him just now in Capel street with Paddy Dignam. Only I was running after that... You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?
"Faciem tuam summo imperio principatu dignam inspicit, quam moralis et heroica, virtus illustrat," etc.
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