AT REST IN CALVARY.
While the services were in progress the throng in the street had been swollen by thousands of new comers, until it extended in an unbroken mass along State street, from Chicago Avenue to Huron street. The people waited patiently for the conclusion of the church ceremony. Considerable difficulty was experienced in reforming the procession in consequence of the crush, and many old men and women, barely able to walk without assistance, were pressed against the hearse and carriages, and with difficulty rescued from under the wheels. One hour was occupied in reaching the depot of the Milwaukee and St. Paul road—the streets, as before, being packed with spectators. Three special trains, aggregating thirty-six cars, were in waiting. On the first of these the casket was placed, the others following at intervals of a few minutes. At the stations along the route, as well as on house-tops, street crossings and vacant lots, crowds of people had congregated to see the funeral train go by. Five thousand people had gathered at the cemetery. The Hibernian Rifles formed in double column, and presented arms as the casket, and its small following of mourners passed within the gates. This was the most solemn part of the days' proceedings. In the city the uniforms and regalia of the various organizations, the dirges of the numerous bands, and the great concourse of people had somewhat dissipated the sad thoughts and sentiments of those who had been near and dear to the dead man; but now these accessories no longer exercised their effect. Slowly the small procession, consisting only of the pallbearers with the casket, and the few chief mourners, moved toward the vault. There was not a sound save sobs, not even the mournful strains of a funeral march were heard to relieve the intensity of the silence. At the door the rifles had formed an arch with their swords, and the air was laden with the perfume of floral tributes from far and near. One of these, a magnificent lyre of roses, bore the inscription in immortelles:
THE PHILADELPHIA
CLAN-NA-GAEL
MOURN THEIR PATRIOT BROTHER.
and on the base in blue violets the single word
MARTYR.
There were no speeches, no requiem songs, no final benediction. Amid profound darkness the casket and mourners disappeared within the darkness of the receiving vault, and for a moment all was still. Then the mourners re-appeared, the gates swung to on their hinges, the key was turned in the lock, and all that was mortal of the patriot Irishman was at rest in the house of the dead. A sudden gust of wind shook the trees, large drops of rain began to fall, and the weeping of the dead man's sister was drowned by the wail of nature.