but more especially of your late excellent
and exemplary wife."

"Before God an' man I acknowledge that, sir--I do--I do. But, sir;
to spake sarious--it's thruth, Ma'am, downright--to spake sarious, my
heart's broke, an' every day it's brakin' more an' more. She's gone,
sir, that used to manage me; an' now I can't turn myself to anything,
barrin' the dhrink--God help me!"

"I honor you, Connell, for the attachment which you bear towards the
memory of your wife, but I utterly condemn the manner in which you
display it. To become a drunkard is to disgrace her memory. You know it
was a character she detested."

"I know it all, sir, an' that you have thruth an rason on your side;
but, sir, you never lost a wife that you loved; an' long may you be so,
I pray the heavenly Father this day! Maybe if you did, sir, plase your
honor, that, wid your heart sinkin' like a stone widin you, you'd thry
whether or not something couldn't rise it. Sir, only for the dhrink I'd
be dead."

"There I totally differ from you, Connell. The drink only prolongs
your grief, by adding to it the depression of spirits which it always
produces. Had you not become a drinker, you would long before this have
been once more a cheerful, active, and industrious man. Your
sorrow would have worn away gradually, and nothing but an agreeable
melancholy--an affectionate remembrance of your excellent wife--would
have remained. Look at other men."

"But where's the man, sir, had sich a wife to grieve for as she was?
Don't be hard on me, sir. I'm not a dhrunkard. It's thrue I dhrink
a great dale; but thin I can bear a great dale, so that I'm never
incapable."

"Connell," said the lady, "you will break down your constitution, and
bring yourself to an earlier death than you would otherwise meet."

"I care very little, indeed, how soon I was dead, not makin' you, Ma'am,
an ill answer."

"Oh fie, Connell, for you, a sensible man and a Christian, to talk in
such a manner!"

"Throth, thin, I don't, Ma'am. She's gone, an' I'd be glad to folly her
as soon as I could. Yes, asthore, you're departed from me! an' now
I'm gone asthray--out o' the right an' out o' the good! Oh, Ma'am," he
proceeded, whilst the tears rolled fast down his cheeks, "if you knew
her--her last words, too--Oh, she was--she was--but where's the use o'
sayin' what she was?--I beg your pardon, Ma'am,--your honor, sir, 'ill
forgive my want o' manners, sure I know it's bad breedin', but I can't
h