This Mrs. Jones I have spoken of, was a very good kind of woman, and Mr. Jones was considered a very good sort of man; but was rather fond of the bottle. On one occasion, I recollect particularly, he had been to a muster, and came home so much intoxicated, that he could hardly stand, and was obliged to lean against the chimney-piece, to prevent himself from falling, and Mrs. Jones says to him, “Now, Jones, aint you ashamed of yourself? Where on airth do you think you’d go to, if you was to die in that sitiwation?”
Jones, (very drunk). Well, I don’t know where I should go to; but I shouldn’t go far, without I could go faster than I do now.
As soon as Mr. Jones had finished the paragraph in the paper, Mrs. Jones threw on her shawl, and went over to her neighbours to communicate the news. I will endeavour to give you an idea of Mrs. Jones, by assuming this shawl and cap. (Puts on shawl and cap.)
“Well, Mrs. Smith, I suppose you ain’t heard the news?”
“La, no, what on airth is it?”
“You recollect Seth Slope, that used to be about here?”
“Yes, very well.”
“You know he went a whalin’ voyage?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it appears, from an advartisement in the papers, that he was sittin’ on the starn of the vessel, when the vessel give a lee lurch, that he was knocked overboard and was drowned, and that he has not written to his friends ever since. Oh, dear! it’s dreadful to think on. Poor critter!—he was such a clever, good-natured, kind soul. I recollect when he was about here, how he used to come into the house and set down, and get up and go out, and come in agin, and set down, and get up and go out. Then he’d go down to the barn, and throw down some hay to the critters, and then he’d come into the house agin, and get up and go out, and go down to the store and get a jug of rum,—and sometimes he’d take a little suck of it himself. But, la, souls! I never cared nothing about that. Good, clever critter! Then arter he’d come back with the rum, he’d set down a little while, and get up and go out, and pick up chips, and drive the hogs out of the garden; and then he’d come into the house and kick over the swill-pail, and set down, and stick his feet over the mantel-piece, and whittle all over the hearth, and spit tobacco juice all over the carpet, and make himself so sociable. And poor fellow! now he’s gone. Oh, dear! how dreadful wet he must have got! Well, Mrs. Smith, it goes to show that we are all accountable critters.”