"Gracious Heaven! Connell, is the man dead?" she inquired.

"Faith, thin, he is, ma'am,--for a while, any how; but, upon my credit, it's a burnin' shame, so it is,"--

"The man is drunk, my dear," said her husband--"he's only drunk."

"--a burnin' shame, so it is--to be able to bear no more nor about six gla.s.ses, an' the whiskey good, too. Will you ordher one o' thim to show me his bed, ma'am, if you plase," continued Peter, "while he's an me?

It'll save throuble."

"Connell is right," observed his landlord. "Gallagher, show him John's bed-room."

Peter accordingly followed another servant, who pointed out his bed, and a.s.sisted to place the vanquished footman in a somewhat easier position than that in which Peter had carried him.

"Connell," said his landlord, when he returned, "how did this happen?"

"Faith, thin, it's a burnin' shame," said Connell, "to be able only to bear"--

"But how did it happen? for he has been hitherto a perfectly sober man."

"Faix, plase your honor, asy enough," replied Peter; "he began to lecthur me about! dhrinkin' so, says I, 'Come an' sit down behind the hedge here, an' we'll talk it over between us;' so we went in, the two of us, a-back o' the ditch--an' he began to advise me agin dhrink, an'

I began to tell him about her that's gone, sir. Well, well! och, och!

no matther!--So, sir, one story an' one pull from the bottle, brought on another, for divil a gla.s.s we had at all, sir. Faix, he's a tindher-hearted boy, anyhow; for as myself I begun to let the tears down, whin the bottle was near out, divil resave the morsel of him but cried afther poor Ellish, as if she had been his mother. Faix, he did!

An' it won't be the last sup we'll have together, plase goodness! But the best of it was, sir, that the dhrunker he got, he abused me the more for dhrinkin'. Oh, thin, but he's the pious boy whin he gets a sup in his head! Faix, it's a pity ever he'd be sober, he talks so much scripthur an' devotion in his liquor!"

"Connell," said the landlord, "I am exceedingly sorry to hear that you have taken so openly and inveterately to drink as you have done, ever since the death of your admirable wife. This, in fact, was what occasioned me to send for you. Come into the parlor. Don't go, my dear; perhaps your influence may also be necessary. Gallagher, look to Smith, and see that every attention is paid him, until he recovers the effects of his intoxication."

He then entered the parlor, where the following dialogue took place between him and Peter:--

"Connell, I am really grieved to hear that you have become latterly so incorrigible a drinker; I sent for you to-day, with the hope of being able to induce you to give it up."

"Faix, your honor, it's jist what I'd expect from your father's son--kindness, an' dacency, an' devotion, wor always among yez. Divil resave the family in all Europe I'd do so much for as the same family:"

The gentleman and lady looked at each other, and smiled. They knew that Peter's blarney was no omen of their success in the laudable design they contemplated.

"I thank you, Peter, for your good opinion; but in the meantime allow me to ask, what can you propose to yourself by drinking so incessantly as you do?"

"What do I propose to myself by dhrinkin', is it? Why thin to banish grief, your honor. Surely you'll allow that no man has reason to complain who's able to banish the thief for two shillins a-day. I reckon the whiskey at first cost, so that it doesn't come to more nor that at the very outside."

"That is taking a commercial view of affliction, Connell; but you must promise me to give up drinking."

"Why thin upon my credit, your honor astonishes me. Is it to give up banishin' grief? I have a regard for you, sir, for many a dalin we had together; but for all that, faix, I'd be miserable for no man, barrin'

for her that's gone. If I'd be so to oblage any one, I'd do it for your family; for divil the family in all Europe "--

"Easy, Connell--I am not to be palmed off in that manner; I really have a respect for the character which you bore, and wish you to recover it once more. Consider that you are disgracing yourself and your children by drinking so excessively from day to day--indeed, I am told, almost from hour to hour."

"Augh! don't believe the half o' what you hear, sir. Faith, somebody has been dhraw-in' your honor out! Why I'm never dhrunk, sir; faith, I'm not."

"You will destroy your health, Connell, as well as your character; besides, you are not to be told that it is a sin, a crime against. G.o.d, and an evil example to society."

"Show me the man, plase your honor, that ever seen me incapable. That's the proof o' the thing."

"But why do you drink at all? It is not-necessary."

"An' do you never taste a dhrop yourself, sir, plase your honor? I'll be bound you do, sir, raise your little finger of an odd time, as well as another. Eh, Ma'am? That's comin' close to his honor! An' faix, small blame to him, an' a weeshy sup o' the wine to the misthress herself, to correct the tindherness of her dilicate appet.i.te."

"Peter, this bantering must not pa.s.s: I think I have a claim upon your respect and deference. I have uniformly been your friend and the friend of your children and family, but more especially of your late excellent and exemplary wife."

"Before G.o.d 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--G.o.d 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 const.i.tution, 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, asth.o.r.e, 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 help it."

"Well, promise," said his landlord, "to give up drink. Indeed, I wish you would take an oath against it: you are a conscientious man, and I know would keep it, otherwise I should not propose it, for I discountenance such oaths generally. Will you promise me this, Connell?"

"I'll promise to think of it, your honor,--aginst takin' a sartin quant.i.ty, at any rate."

"If you refuse it, I'll think you are unmindful of the good feeling which we have ever shown your family."

"What?--do you think, sir, I'm ungrateful to you? That's a sore cut, sir, to make a villain o' me. Where's the book?--I'll swear this minute.

Have you a Bible, Ma'am?--I'll show you that I'm not mane, any way."

"No, Connell, you shall not do it rashly; you must be cool and composed: but go home, and turn it in your mind," she replied; "and remember, that it is the request of me and my husband, for your own good."

"Neither must you swear before me," said his landlord, "but before Mr.

Mulcahy, who, as it is an oath connected with your moral conduct, is the best person to be present. It must be voluntary, however. Now, good-bye, Connell, and think of what we said; but take care never to carry home any of my servants in the same plight in which you put John Smith to-day."

"Faix thin, sir, he had no business, wid your honor's livery upon his back, to begin lecthurin' me again dhrinkin', as he did. We may all do very well, sir, till the timptation cra.s.ses us--but that's what thries us. It thried him, but he didn't stand it--faix he didn't!--ha, ha, ha!

Good-mornin', sir--G.o.d bless you, Ma'am! Divil resave the family in all Europe"--

"Good-morning, Connell--good-morning! --Pray remember what we said."

Peter, however, could not relinquish the whiskey. His sons, daughters, friends, and neighbors, all a.s.sailed him, but with no success. He either bantered them in his usual way, or reverted to his loss, and sank into sorrow. This last was the condition in which they found him most intractable; for a man is never considered to be in a state that admits of reasoning or argument, when he is known to be pressed by strong gushes of personal feeling. A plan at length struck Father Mulcahy, which lie resolved to put into immediate execution.

"Peter," said he, "if you don't abandon drink, I shall stop the ma.s.ses which I'm offering up for the repose of your wife's soul, and I will also return you the money I received for saying them."