“I'll put down a horse; but I can't make a gray mare wid black ink.”
“Well, make a mare of her, any way.”
“Faith, an' that same puzzles me. Stop, I have it; I'll put a foal along wid her.”
“As good as the bank. God bless you, Misther O'Flaherty. I think this 'll keep me from mistakes. An' now, if you'll slip up to me afther dusk, I'll send you down a couple o' bottles and a flitch. Sure you desarve more for the throuble you tuck.”
Many of our readers, particularly of our English readers, will be somewhat startled to hear that, except the change of names and places, there is actually little exaggeration in the form of this oath; so just is the observation, that the romance of truth frequently exceeds that of fiction.
Peter had, however, over-rated his own strength in supposing that he could bear the long dozen in future; ere many months passed he was scarcely able to reach the half of that number without sinking into intoxication. Whilst in this state, he was in the habit of going to the graveyard in which his wife lay buried, where he sat, and wept like a child, sang her favorite songs, or knelt and offered up his prayers for the repose of her soul. None ever mocked him for this; on the contrary, there was always some kind person to assist him home. And as he staggered on, instead of sneers and ridicule, one might hear such expressions as these:—
“Poor Pether! he's nearly off; an' a dacent, kind neighbor he ever was. The death of the wife broke his heart—he never ris his head since.”
“Ay, poor man! God pity him! Hell soon be sleepin' beside her, beyant there, where she's lyin'. It was never known of Peter Connell that he offinded man, woman, or child since he was born, barrin' the gaugers, bad luck to thim, afore he was marrid—but that was no offince. Sowl, he was their match, any how. When he an' the wife's gone, they won't lave their likes behind them. The sons are bodaghs—gintlemen, now; an' it's nothin' but dinners an' company. Ahagur, that wasn't the way their hardworkin' father an' mother made the money that they're houldin' their heads up wid such consequence upon.”
The children, however, did not give Peter up as hopeless. Father Mulcahy, too, once-more assailed him on his weak side. One morning, when he was sober, nervous, and depressed, the priest arrived, and finding him at home, addressed him as follows:—
“Peter, I'm sorry, and vexed, and angry this morning; and you are the cause of it”