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.
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