Six months produced an incredible change in his appearance. Intemperance, whilst it shattered his strong frame, kept him in frequent exuberance of spirits; but the secret grief preyed on him within. Artificial excitement kills, but it never cures; and Peter, in the midst of his mirth and jollity, was wasting away into a shadow. His children, seeing him go down the hill of life so rapidly, consulted among each other on the best means of winning him back to sobriety. This was a difficult task, for his powers of bearing liquor were prodigious. He has often been known to drink so many as twenty-five, and sometimes thirty tumblers of punch, without being taken off his legs, or rendered incapable of walking about. His friends, on considering who was most likely to recall him to a more becoming life, resolved to apply to his landlord--the gentleman whom we have already introduced to our readers. He entered warmly into their plan, and it was settled, that Peter should be sent for, and induced, if possible, to take an oath against liquor. Early the following-day a liveried servant came down to inform him that his master wished to speak with him. “To be sure,” said Peter; “divil resave the man in all Europe I'd do more for than the same gintleman, if it was only on account of the regard he had for her that's gone. Come, I'll go wid you in a minute.” He accordingly returned with the flask in his hand, saying, “I never thravel widout a pocket-pistol, John. The times, you see, is not overly safe, an' the best way is to be prepared!--ha, ha, ha! Och, och! It houlds three half-pints.” “I think,” observed the servant, “you had better not taste that till after your return.” “Come away, man,” said Peter; “we'll talk upon it as we go along: I couldn't do readily widout it. You hard that I lost Ellish?” “Yes,” replied the servant, “and I was very sorry to hear it.” “Did you attind the berrin?” “No, but my master did,” replied the man; “for, indeed, his respect for your wife was very great, Mr. Connell.” This was before ten o'clock in the forenoon, and about one in the afternoon a stout countryman was seen approaching the gentleman's house, with another man bent round his neck, where he hung precisely as a calf hangs round the shoulders of a butcher, when he is carrying it to his stall. “Good Heavens!” said the owner of the mansion to his lady, “what has happened to John Smith, my dear? Is he dead?” “Dead!” said his lady, going in much alarm to the drawing-room window: “I protest I fear so, Frank. He is evidently dead! For God's sake go down and see what has befallen him.” Her husband went hastily to the hall-door, where he met Peter with his burden. “In the name of Heaven, what has happened, Connell?--what is the matter with John? Is he living or dead?”