In former times when the De Lacys were buried, there was a
grand breakfast, and all the party rode over to the church to see the
last rites paid. The keeners lamented; the country people had a wake
before the funeral, and a dinner after it--and there was an end. But
with the march of mind comes trouble and vexation. A man has now-a-days
no certainty of quietness in his coffin--unless it be a patent one. He is
laid down in the grave, and the next morning finds himself called upon to
demonstrate an interesting fact! No one, I believe, admires this ceremony,
and it is not to be wondered at that Sir Theodore De Lacy held it in
especial horror. "I'd like," said he one evening, "to catch one of the
thieves coming after me when I'm dead--By the God of War, I'd break every
bone in his body;--but," he added with a sigh, "as I suppose I'll not be
able to take my own part then, upon you I leave it, Larry Sweeney, to
watch me three days and three nights after they plant me under the sod.
There's Doctor Dickenson there, I see the fellow looking at me--fill your
glass, Doctor--here's your health! and shoot him, Larry, do you hear,
shoot the Doctor like a cock, if he ever comes stirring up my poor old
bones from their roost of Inistubber.
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