's night. Under the east window of
the church is a mouldering vault of the De Lacys,--a branch of a family
descended from one of the conquerors of Ireland; and there they are
buried, when the allotted time calls them to the tomb. Sir Theodore De
Lacy had lived a jolly, thoughtless life, rising early for the hunt, and
retiring late from the bottle. A good-humoured bachelor who took no care
about the management of his household, provided that the hounds were in
order for his going out, and the table ready on his coming in. As for the
rest,--an easy landlord, a quiet master, a lenient magistrate (except to
poachers,) and a very excellent foreman of a grand jury. He died one
evening while laughing at a story which he had heard regularly thrice a
week for the last fifteen years of his life, and his spirit mingled with
the claret. 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." "Why, then," Larry answered,
accepting the glass which followed this command, "long life to both your
honours; and it's I that would like to be putting a bullet into Doctor
Dickenson--heaven between him and harm--for hauling your honour away,
as if you was a horse's head, to a bonfire. There's nothing, I 'shure you,
gintlemin, poor as I am, that would give me greater pleasure." "We