A hideous spectacle altogether; but then as now there was no particular reason why the innocent diversions of the masses should be interfered with.
“What are they doing—what does it mean—what is it all about?” asked Mr. Riley of his driver.
“Don’t keep your face turned their way,” answered the man in a hurried whisper. “If they even[[1]] who you are they’ll be wantin’ to chair you. It’s burying Brady’s effigy all this is about. Come, now, keep your distance all of you,” he continued, addressing some irrepressible beggars, who, seeing a stranger, at once appealed to him for help, and with scant ceremony he began using his whip to right and left, and so kept the most importunate at bay till the procession had passed.
[1]. Guess.
“What has Mr. Brady been doing now?” asked Mr. Riley with some curiosity, as they drove on once more.
“Nothin’ much fresh, yer honour; but they’ve taken a hathred to him, and wanted to hang him, but the magistrates wouldn’t let them put up a gallows, so now they’re goin’ to bury him on the seashore. He’s away to Dublin to get all the law money can buy against Amos Scott, and that has stirred them up a bit.”
Meantime the crowd surged on to the beach, which the receding tide had left bare, and across the shore still wet and glistening, through pools of water, over slippery bunches of seaweed, the bearers went, stumbling and staggering, whilst the band playing more lugubrious airs than ever led the way, and the men and the women and the children followed hooting, laughing, screaming.
Arrived at the extremest distance from high-water mark it was possible to reach, a hole was dug and the body tossed in. The most voluble member of the assemblage then mounted the donkey-cart, and with a sheet wrapped round him to imitate a surplice, proceeded to deliver a travesty of the Burial Service over the grave. In language as deficient of ordinary decency as it was full of horrible profanity, he recounted the history of Daniel Brady from his cradle to his grave, and narrated to an admiring audience the way of life chosen by this man whose loss they had to deplore. A few there were among the bystanders possessed of courage enough to cry “Shame!” at passages more than usually ribald and impious, but their voices were drowned by shrieks of laughter, by cheers and exclamations of appreciation.
When the merriment had reached its height, however, a man came picking his steps over the shore, and making his way a little into the crowd, shouted, “Silence!” in a tone that rang high above the clamour, and seemed to wander out like the dying sound of a clarion’s note over the quiet sea.
“We can’t have any more of this,” he said. “Robert Sweeney take off that rag and get out of the cart. McIlwrath, I am astonished to see a respectable man like you countenancing such disgraceful proceedings. Be off home all of you. I shall not allow you to stay here another minute.”