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 feel obliged, Larry” said Sir Theodore, “for your good wishes.”  “Is it I pull you out of the grave, indeed!” continued the whipper-in, for such he was, —­“I’d let nobody pull your honour out of any place, saving ’twas purgatory; and out of that I’d pull you myself, if I saw you going there.”  “I am of opinion, Larry,” said Doctor Dickenson, “you would turn tail if you saw Sir Theodore on that road.  You might go further, and fare worse, you know.”  “Turn tail!” replied Larry, “it is I that wouldn’t—­I appale to St. Patrick himself over beyond”—­pointing to a picture of the Prime Saint of Ireland, which hung in gilt daubery behind his master’s chair, right opposite to him.  To Larry’s horror and astonishment, the picture fixing its eyes upon him, winked with the most knowing air, as if acknowledging the appeal.  “What makes you turn so white then at the very thought,” said the doctor, interpreting the visible consternation of our hero in his own way.  “Nothing particular,” answered Larry; “but a wakeness has come strong over me, gintlemin, and if you’d have no objection, I’d like to go into the air for a bit.”  Leave was