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.
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