“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 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 quantity, at any rate.” “If you refuse it, I'll think you are unmindful of the good feeling which we have ever shown your family.”