Part 4 — THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. (continued 3)

Oh, my head's through other! The sarra one o' me I bleeve, but's out o' the words, or, as they say, there's a hole in the ballad. Send round the punch will ye? By the hole o' my coat, Parra Gastha, I'll whale you wid-in an inch of your life, if you don't Shrink. Send round the punch, Dan; an' give us a song, Parra Gastha. Arrah, Paddy, do you remimber—ha, ha, ha—upon my credit, I'll never forget it, the fun we had catchin' Father Soolaghan's horse, the day he gave his shirt to the sick man in the ditch. The Lord rest his sowl in glory—ha, ha, ha—I'll never forget it. Paddy, the song, you thief?”

“No, but tell them about that, Misther Connell.”

“Throth, an' I will; but don't be Mitherin me. Faith, this is The height o' good punch. You see—ha, ha, ha! You see, it was one hard summer afore I was married to Ellish—mavourneen, that you wor, asthore! Och, och, are we parted at last? Upon my sowl, my heart's breakin'—breakin', (weeps) an' no wondher! But as I was sayin'—all your healths! faith, it is tip-top punch that—the poor man fell sick of a faver, an' sure enough, when it was known what ailed him, the neighbors built a little shed on the roadside for him, in regard that every one was afeard to let him into their place. Howsomever—ha, ha, ha—Father Soolaghan was one day ridin' past upon his horse, an' seein' the crathur lyin' undher the shed, on a whisp o' straw, he pulls bridle, an' puts the spake on the poor sthranger. So, begad, it came out, that the neighbors were very kind to him, an' used to hand over whatsomever they thought best for him from the back o' the ditch, as well as they could.

“'My poor fellow,' said the priest, 'you're badly off for linen.'

“'Thrue for you, sir,' said the sick man, 'I never longed for anything so much in my life, as I do for a clane shirt an' a glass o' whiskey.'

“'The devil a glass o' whiskey I have about me, but you shall have the clane shirt, you poor compassionate crathur,' said the priest, stretchin' his neck up an' down to make sure there was no one comin' on the road—ha, ha, ha!

“Well an' good—'I have three shirts,' says his Reverence, 'but I have only one o' them an me, an' that you shall have.'

“So the priest peels himself on the spot, an' lays his black coat and waistcoat afore him acrass the saddle, thin takin' off his shirt, he threw it acrass the ditch to the sick man. Whether it was the white shirt, or the black coat danglin' about the horse's neck, the divil a one o' myself can say, but any way, the baste tuck fright, an' made off wid Father Soolaghan, in the state I'm tellin' yez, upon his back—ha, ha, ha!

“Parra Gastha, here, an' I war goin' up at the time to do a little in the distillin' way for Tom Duggan of Aidinasamlagh, an' seen what was goin' an. So off we set, an we splittin' our sides laughin'—ha, ha, ha—at the figure the priest cut. However, we could do no good, an' he never could pull up the horse, till he came full flight to his own house, opposite the pound there below, and the whole town in convulsions when they seen him. We gother up his clothes, an' brought them home to him, an' a good piece o' fun-we had wid him, for he loved the joke as well as any man. Well, he was the good an' charitable man, the same Father Soolaghan; but so simple that he got himself into fifty scrapes, God rest him! Och, och, she's lyin' low that often laughed at that, an' I'm here—ay, I have no one, no one that 'ud show me sich a warm heart as she would. (Weeps.) However, God's will be done. I'll sing yez a song she liked:—

Musha, I'm out agin—ha, ha, ha! Why, I b'lieve there's pishthrogues an me, or I'd remember it. Bud-an-age, dhrink of all ye. Lie in to the liquor, I say; don't spare it. Here, Mike, send us up another gallon, Faith, we'll make a night of it.

All your healths, childhre! Neighbors, all your healths! don't spare what's before ye. It's long since I tuck a jorum myself an—come, I say, plase God, we'll often meet ins' way, so we will. Faith, I'll take a sup from this forrid, with a blessin'. Dhrink, I say, dhrink!”

By the time he had arrived at this patch, he was able to engross no great portion either of the conversation or attention. Almost every one present had his songs, his sorrows, his laughter, or his anecdotes, as well as himself. Every voice was loud; and every tongue busy. Intricate and entangled was the talk, which, on the present occasion, presented a union of all the extremes which the lights and shadows of the Irish character alone could exhibit under such a calamity as that which brought the friends of the deceased together.

Peter literally fulfilled his promise of taking a jorum in future. He was now his own master; and as he felt the loss of his wife deeply, he unhappily had recourse to the bottle, to bury the recollection of a woman, whose death left a chasm in his heart, which he thought nothing but the whiskey could fill up.

His transition from a life of perfect sobriety to one of habitual, nay, of daily intoxication, was immediate. He could not bear to be sober; and his extraordinary bursts of affliction, even in his cups, were often calculated to draw tears from the eyes of those who witnessed them. He usually went out in the morning with a flask of whiskey in his pocket, and sat down to weep behind a ditch—where, however, after having emptied his flask, he might be heard at a great distance, singing the songs which Ellish in her life-time was accustomed to love. In fact, he was generally pitied; his simplicity of character, and his benevolence of heart, which was now exercised without fear of responsibility, made him more a favorite than he ever had been. His former habits of industry were thrown aside; as he said himself, he hadn't heart to work; his farms were neglected, and but for his son-in-law, would have gone to ruin. Peter himself was sensible of this.

“Take them,” said he, “into your own hands, Denis; for me, I'm not able to do anything more at them; she that kep me up is gone, an' I'm broken down. Take them—take them into your own hands. Give me my bed, bit, an' sup, an' that's all I Want.”

Six months produced an incredible change in his appearance. Intemperance, whilst it shattered his strong frame, kept him in frequent exuberance of spirits; but the secret grief preyed on him within. Artificial excitement kills, but it never cures; and Peter, in the midst of his mirth and jollity, was wasting away into a shadow. His children, seeing him go down the hill of life so rapidly, consulted among each other on the best means of winning him back to sobriety. This was a difficult task, for his powers of bearing liquor were prodigious. He has often been known to drink so many as twenty-five, and sometimes thirty tumblers of punch, without being taken off his legs, or rendered incapable of walking about. His friends, on considering who was most likely to recall him to a more becoming life, resolved to apply to his landlord—the gentleman whom we have already introduced to our readers. He entered warmly into their plan, and it was settled, that Peter should be sent for, and induced, if possible, to take an oath against liquor. Early the following-day a liveried servant came down to inform him that his master wished to speak with him. “To be sure,” said Peter; “divil resave the man in all Europe I'd do more for than the same gintleman, if it was only on account of the regard he had for her that's gone. Come, I'll go wid you in a minute.”

He accordingly returned with the flask in his hand, saying, “I never thravel widout a pocket-pistol, John. The times, you see, is not overly safe, an' the best way is to be prepared!—ha, ha, ha! Och, och! It houlds three half-pints.”

“I think,” observed the servant, “you had better not taste that till after your return.”

“Come away, man,” said Peter; “we'll talk upon it as we go along: I couldn't do readily widout it. You hard that I lost Ellish?”

“Yes,” replied the servant, “and I was very sorry to hear it.”

“Did you attind the berrin?”

“No, but my master did,” replied the man; “for, indeed, his respect for your wife was very great, Mr. Connell.”

This was before ten o'clock in the forenoon, and about one in the afternoon a stout countryman was seen approaching the gentleman's house, with another man bent round his neck, where he hung precisely as a calf hangs round the shoulders of a butcher, when he is carrying it to his stall.

“Good Heavens!” said the owner of the mansion to his lady, “what has happened to John Smith, my dear? Is he dead?”

“Dead!” said his lady, going in much alarm to the drawing-room window: “I protest I fear so, Frank. He is evidently dead! For God's sake go down and see what has befallen him.”

Her husband went hastily to the hall-door, where he met Peter with his burden.

“In the name of Heaven, what has happened, Connell?—what is the matter with John? Is he living or dead?”

“First, plase your honor, as I have him on my shouldhers, will you tell me where his bed is?” replied Peter. “I may as well lave him snug, as my hand's in, poor fellow. The devil's bad head he has, your honor. Faith, it's a burnin' shame, so it is, an' nothin' else—to be able to bear so little!”

The lady, children, and servants, were now all assembled about the dead footman, who hung, in the mean time, very quietly round Peter's neck.

“Gracious Heaven! Connell, is the man dead?” she inquired.

“Faith, thin, he is, ma'am,—for a while, any how; but, upon my credit, it's a burnin' shame, so it is,”—

“The man is drunk, my dear,” said her husband—“he's only drunk.”

“—a burnin' shame, so it is—to be able to bear no more nor about six glasses, an' the whiskey good, too. Will you ordher one o' thim to show me his bed, ma'am, if you plase,” continued Peter, “while he's an me? It'll save throuble.”

“Connell is right,” observed his landlord. “Gallagher, show him John's bed-room.”

Peter accordingly followed another servant, who pointed out his bed, and assisted to place the vanquished footman in a somewhat easier position than that in which Peter had carried him.

“Connell,” said his landlord, when he returned, “how did this happen?”

“Faith, thin, it's a burnin' shame,” said Connell, “to be able only to bear”—

“But how did it happen? for he has been hitherto a perfectly sober man.”

“Faix, plase your honor, asy enough,” replied Peter; “he began to lecthur me about! dhrinkin' so, says I, 'Come an' sit down behind the hedge here, an' we'll talk it over between us;' so we went in, the two of us, a-back o' the ditch—an' he began to advise me agin dhrink, an' I began to tell him about her that's gone, sir. Well, well! och, och! no matther!—So, sir, one story an' one pull from the bottle, brought on another, for divil a glass we had at all, sir. Faix, he's a tindher-hearted boy, anyhow; for as myself I begun to let the tears down, whin the bottle was near out, divil resave the morsel of him but cried afther poor Ellish, as if she had been his mother. Faix, he did! An' it won't be the last sup we'll have together, plase goodness! But the best of it was, sir, that the dhrunker he got, he abused me the more for dhrinkin'. Oh, thin, but he's the pious boy whin he gets a sup in his head! Faix, it's a pity ever he'd be sober, he talks so much scripthur an' devotion in his liquor!”

“Connell,” said the landlord, “I am exceedingly sorry to hear that you have taken so openly and inveterately to drink as you have done, ever since the death of your admirable wife. This, in fact, was what occasioned me to send for you. Come into the parlor. Don't go, my dear; perhaps your influence may also be necessary. Gallagher, look to Smith, and see that every attention is paid him, until he recovers the effects of his intoxication.”

He then entered the parlor, where the following dialogue took place between him and Peter:—

“Connell, I am really grieved to hear that you have become latterly so incorrigible a drinker; I sent for you to-day, with the hope of being able to induce you to give it up.”

“Faix, your honor, it's jist what I'd expect from your father's son—kindness, an' dacency, an' devotion, wor always among yez. Divil resave the family in all Europe I'd do so much for as the same family:”

The gentleman and lady looked at each other, and smiled. They knew that Peter's blarney was no omen of their success in the laudable design they contemplated.

“I thank you, Peter, for your good opinion; but in the meantime allow me to ask, what can you propose to yourself by drinking so incessantly as you do?”

“What do I propose to myself by dhrinkin', is it? Why thin to banish grief, your honor. Surely you'll allow that no man has reason to complain who's able to banish the thief for two shillins a-day. I reckon the whiskey at first cost, so that it doesn't come to more nor that at the very outside.”

“That is taking a commercial view of affliction, Connell; but you must promise me to give up drinking.”

“Why thin upon my credit, your honor astonishes me. Is it to give up banishin' grief? I have a regard for you, sir, for many a dalin we had together; but for all that, faix, I'd be miserable for no man, barrin' for her that's gone. If I'd be so to oblage any one, I'd do it for your family; for divil the family in all Europe “—

“Easy, Connell—I am not to be palmed off in that manner; I really have a respect for the character which you bore, and wish you to recover it once more. Consider that you are disgracing yourself and your children by drinking so excessively from day to day—indeed, I am told, almost from hour to hour.”

“Augh! don't believe the half o' what you hear, sir. Faith, somebody has been dhraw-in' your honor out! Why I'm never dhrunk, sir; faith, I'm not.”

“You will destroy your health, Connell, as well as your character; besides, you are not to be told that it is a sin, a crime against. God, and an evil example to society.”

“Show me the man, plase your honor, that ever seen me incapable. That's the proof o' the thing.”

“But why do you drink at all? It is not-necessary.”

“An' do you never taste a dhrop yourself, sir, plase your honor? I'll be bound you do, sir, raise your little finger of an odd time, as well as another. Eh, Ma'am? That's comin' close to his honor! An' faix, small blame to him, an' a weeshy sup o' the wine to the misthress herself, to correct the tindherness of her dilicate appetite.”

“Peter, this bantering must not pass: I think I have a claim upon your respect and deference. I have uniformly been your friend and the friend of your children and family, but more especially of your late excellent and exemplary wife.”

“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.”

“What?—do you think, sir, I'm ungrateful to you? That's a sore cut, sir, to make a villain o' me. Where's the book?—I'll swear this minute. Have you a Bible, Ma'am?—I'll show you that I'm not mane, any way.”

“No, Connell, you shall not do it rashly; you must be cool and composed: but go home, and turn it in your mind,” she replied; “and remember, that it is the request of me and my husband, for your own good.”

“Neither must you swear before me,” said his landlord, “but before Mr. Mulcahy, who, as it is an oath connected with your moral conduct, is the best person to be present. It must be voluntary, however. Now, good-bye, Connell, and think of what we said; but take care never to carry home any of my servants in the same plight in which you put John Smith to-day.”

“Faix thin, sir, he had no business, wid your honor's livery upon his back, to begin lecthurin' me again dhrinkin', as he did. We may all do very well, sir, till the timptation crasses us—but that's what thries us. It thried him, but he didn't stand it—faix he didn't!—ha, ha, ha! Good-mornin', sir—God bless you, Ma'am! Divil resave the family in all Europe”—

“Good-morning, Connell—good-morning! —Pray remember what we said.”

Peter, however, could not relinquish the whiskey. His sons, daughters, friends, and neighbors, all assailed him, but with no success. He either bantered them in his usual way, or reverted to his loss, and sank into sorrow. This last was the condition in which they found him most intractable; for a man is never considered to be in a state that admits of reasoning or argument, when he is known to be pressed by strong gushes of personal feeling. A plan at length struck Father Mulcahy, which lie resolved to put into immediate execution.

“Peter,” said he, “if you don't abandon drink, I shall stop the masses which I'm offering up for the repose of your wife's soul, and I will also return you the money I received for saying them.”

This was, perhaps, the only point on which Peter was accessible. He felt staggered at such an unexpected intimation, and was for some time silent.

“You will then feel,” added the priest, “that your drunkenness is prolonging the sufferings of your wife, and that she is as much concerned in your being sober as you are yourself.”

“I will give in,” replied Peter; “I didn't see the thing in that light. No—I will give it up; but if I swear against it, you must allow me a rasonable share every day, an' I'll not go beyant it, of coorse. The truth is, I'd die soon if I gev it up altogether.”

“We have certainly no objection against that,” said the priest, “provided you keep within what would injure your health, or make you tipsy. Your drunkenness is not only sinful but disreputable; besides, you must not throw a slur upon the character of your children, who hold respectable and rising situations in the world.”

“No,” said Peter, in a kind of soliloquy, “I'd lay down my life, avoumeen, sooner nor I'd cause you a minute's sufferin'. Father Mulcahy, go an wid the masses. I'll get an oath drawn up, an' whin it's done, I'll swear to it. I know a man that'll do it for me.”

The priest then departed, quite satisfied with having accomplished his object; and Peter, in the course of that evening, directed his steps to the house of the village schoolmaster, for the purpose of getting him to “draw up” the intended oath.

“Misther O'Flaherty,” said he, “I'm comin' to ax a requist of you an' I hope you'll grant it to me. I brought down a sup in this flask, an' while we're takin' it, we can talk over what I want.”

“If it be anything widin the circumference of my power, set it down, Misther Connell, as already operated upon. I'd drop a pen to no man at keepin' books by double enthry, which is the Italian method invinted by Pope Gregory the Great. The Three sets bear a theological ratio to the three states of a thrue Christian. 'The Waste-book,' says Pope Gregory, 'is this world, the Journal is purgatory, an' the Ledger is heaven. Or it may be compared,' he says, in the priface of the work, 'to the three states of the Catholic church—the church Militant, the church Suffering and the church Triumphant.' The larnin' of that man was beyant the reach of credibility.”

“Arra, have you a small glass, Masther? You see, Misther O'Flaherty, it's consarnin' purgatory, this that I want to talk about.”

“Nancy, get us a glass—oh, here it is! Thin if it be, it's a wrong enthry in the Journal.”

“Here's your health, Masther!—Not forgetting you, Mrs. O'Flaherty. No, indeed, thin it's not in the Journal, but an oath I'm goin' to take against liquor.”

“Nothin' is asier to post than it is. We must enter it it undher the head of—let me see!—it must go in the spirit account, undher the head of Profit an' Loss, Your good health, Mr. Connell!—Nancy, I dhrink ta your improvement in imperturbability! Yes, it must be enthered undher the”——

“Faix, undher the rose, I think,” observed Pether; “don't you know the smack, of it? You see since I took to it, I like the smell o' what I used to squeeze out o' the barley myself, long ago. Mr. O'Flaherty, I only want you to dhraw up an oath against liquor for me; but it's not for the books, good or bad. I promised to Father Mulcahy, that I'd do it. It's regardin' my poor Ellish's sowl in purgatory.”

“Nancy, hand me a slate an' cutter. Faith, the same's a provident resolution; but how is it an' purgatory concatenated?”

“The priest, you see, won't go an wid the masses for her till I take the oath.”

“That's but wake logic, if you ped him for thim.”

“Faix, an' I did—an' well, too;—but about the oath? Have you the pencil?”

“I have; jist lave the thing to me.”

“Asy, Masther—you don't undherstand it yit. Put down two tumblers for me at home.”

“How is that, Misther Connell?—It's mysterious, if you're about to swear against liquor!”

“I am. Put down, as I said, two tumblers for me at home—Are they down?”

“They are down—but”—

“Asy!—very good!—Put down two more for me at Dan's. Let me see!—two more; behind the garden. Well!—put down one at Father Mulcahy's;—two more at, Frank M'Carrol's of Kilclay. How many's that?”

“Nine!!!”

“Very good. Now put down one wid ould' Bartle Gorman, of Cargah; an' two over wid honest Roger M'Gaugy, of Nurchasey. How-many have you now?”

“Twelve in all!!!! But, Misther Connelly there's a demonstration badly wanted here. I must confis I was always bright, but at present I'm as dark as Nox. I'd thank you for a taste of explanation.”

“Asy, man alive! Is there twelve in all?”

“Twelve in all: I've calculated them.”

“Well, we'll hould to that. Och, och!—I'm sure, avourneen, afore I'd let you suffer one minute's pain, I'd not scruple to take an oath against liquor, any way. He may go an wid the masses now for you, as soon as he likes! Mr. O'Flaherty, will you put that down on paper,—an' I'll swear to it, wid a blessin', to-morrow.”

“But what object do you wish to effectuate by this?”

“You see, Masther, I dhrink one day wid another from a score to two dozen tumblers, an' I want to swear to no more nor twelve in the twenty-four hours.”

“Why, there's intelligibility in that!—Wid great pleasure, Mr. Connell, I'll indite it. Katty, tare me a lafe out o' Brian Murphy's copy there.”

“You see, Masther, it's for Ellish's sake I'm doin' this. State that in the oath.”

“I know it; an' well she desarved that specimen of abstinence from you, Misther Connell. Thank you!—Your health agin! an' God grant you grace an' fortitude to go through wid the same oath!—An' so he will, or I'm greviously mistaken in you.”

“I think, Misther O'Flaherty, it's a dacent oath as it stands. Plase God, I'll swear to it some time to-morrow evenin'.”

“Dacent! Why I don't wish to become eulogistically addicted; but I'd back tha same oath, for both grammar and arithmetic, aginst any that ever was drawn up by a lawyer—ay, by the great Counsellor himself!—but faith, I'd not face him at a Vow, for all that; he's the greatest man at a Vow in the three kingdoms.”

“I'll tell you what I'm thinkin', Masther—as my hand's in, mightn't I as well take another wid an ould friend of mine, Owen Smith, of Lisbuy? He's a dacent ould residenther, an' likes it. It'll make the baker's or the long dozen.”

“Why, it's not a bad thought; but won't thirteen get into your head?”

“No, nor three more to the back o' that. I only begin to get hearty about seventeen, so that the long dozen, afther all, is best; for—God he knows, I've a regard for Owen Smith this many a year, an' I wouldn't wish to lave him out.”

“Very well,—I'll add it up to the other part of the oath.

Now I must make the total amount thirteen, an' all will be right.”

“Masther, have you a prayer-book widin?—bekase if you have, I may as well swear here, and you can witness it.”

“Katty, hand over the Spiritual Exercises—a book aquil to the Bible itself for piety an' devotion.”

“Sure they say, Masther, any book that, the name o' God's in, is good for an oath. Now, wid the help o' goodness, repate the words afore me, an' I'll sware thim.”

O'Flaherty hemmed two or three times, and complied with Peter's wishes, who followed him in the words until the oath was concluded. He then kissed the book, and expressed himself much at ease, as well, he said, upon the account of Ellish's soul, as for the sake of his children.

For some time after this, his oath was the standing jest of the neighborhood: even to this day, Peter Connell's oath against liquor is a proverb in that part of the country. Immediately after he had sworn, no one could ever perceive that he violated it in the slightest degree; indeed there could be no doubt as to literally fulfilling it. A day never passed in which he did not punctually pay a visit to those whose names wore dotted down, with whom he sat, pulled out his flask, and drank his quantum. In the meantime the poor man was breaking down rapidly; so much so, that his appearance generally excited pity, if not sorrow, among his neighbors. His character became simpler every day, and his intellect evidently more exhausted. The inoffensive humor, for which he had been noted, was also completely on the wane; his eye waxed dim, his step feeble, but the benevolence of his heart never failed him. Many acts of his private generosity are well known, and still remembered with gratitude.

In proportion as the strength of his mind and constitution diminished, so did his capacity for bearing liquor. When he first bound himself by the oath not to exceed the long dozen, such was his vigor, that the effects of thirteen tumblers could scarcely be perceived on him. This state of health, however, did not last. As he wore away, the influence of so much liquor was becoming stronger, until at length he found that it was more than he could bear, that he frequently confounded the names of the men, and the number of tumblers mentioned in the oath, and sometimes took in, in his route, persons and places not to be found in it at all. This grieved him, and he resolved to wait upon O'Flaherty for the purpose of having some means devised of guiding him during his potations.

“Masther,” said he, “we must thry an' make this oath somethin' plainer. You see when I get confused, I'm not able to remimber things as I ought. Sometimes, instid o' one tumbler, I take two at the wrong place; an' sarra bit o' me but called in an' had three wid ould Jack Rogers, that isn't in it at all. On another day I had a couple wid honest Barney Casey, an my way acrass to Bartle Gorman's. I'm not what I was, Masther, ahagm; so I'd thank you to dhraw it out more clearer, if you can, nor it was.”

“I see, Mr. Connell; I comprehend wid the greatest ase in life, the very plan for it. We must reduce the oath to Geography, for I'm at home there, bein' a Surveyor myself. I'll lay down a map o' the parish, an' draw the houses of your friends at their proper places, so that you'll never be out o' your latitude at all.”

“Faix, I doubt that, Masther—ha, ha, ha!” replied Peter; “I'm afeard I will, of an odd time, for I'm not able to carry what I used to do; but no matther: thry what you can do for me this time, any how. I think I could bear the long dozen still if I didn't make mistakes.”

O'Flaherty accordingly set himself to work; and as his knowledge, not only of the parish, but of every person and house in it, was accurate, he soon had a tolerably correct skeleton map of it drawn for Peter's use.

“Now,” said he, “lend me your ears.”

“Faix, I'll do no sich thing,” replied Peter—“I know a thrick worth two of it. Lend you my ears, inagh!—catch me at it! You have a bigger pair of your own nor I have—ha, ha, ha!”

“Well, in other words, pay attintion. Now, see this dot—that's your own house.”

“Put a crass there,” said Peter, “an' thin I'll know it's the Crass-roads.”

“Upon my reputation, you're right; an' that's what I call a good specimen of ingenuity. I'll take the hint from that, an' we'll make it a Hieroglyphical as well as a Geographical oath. Well, there's a crass, wid two tumblers. Is that clear?”

“It is, it is! faix”

“Now here we draw a line to your son Dan's. Let me see; he keeps a mill, an' sells cloth. Very good. I'll dhraw a mill-wheel an' a yard-wand. There's two tumblers. Will you know that?”

“I see it: go an, nothin' can be clearer. So far, I can't go asthray.”

“Well, what next? Two behind your own garden. What metaphor for the garden? Let me see!—let me cogitate! A dragon—the Hesperides! That's beyant you. A bit of a hedge will do, an' a gate.”

“Don't put a gate in, it's not lucky. You know, when a man takes to dhrink, they say he's goin' a gray gate, or a black gate, or a bad gate. Put that out, an' make the hedge longer, an' it'll do—wid the two tumblers, though.”

“They're down. One at the Reverend Father Mulcahy's. How will we thranslate the priest?”

“Faix, I doubt that will be a difficquilt business.”

“Upon my reputation, I agree wid you in that, especially whin he repates Latin. However, we'll see. He writes P.P. afther his name;—pee-pee is what we call the turkeys wid. What 'ud you think o' two turkeys?”

“The priest would like them roasted, but I couldn't undherstand that. No; put down the sign o' the horsewhip, or the cudgel; for he's handy, an' argues well wid both?”

“Good! I'll put down the horsewhip first, an' the cudgel alongside of it; then the tumbler, an' there'll be the sign o' the priest.”

“Ay, do, Masther, an' faix the priest 'll be complate—there can be no mistakin' him thin. Divil a one but that's a good thought!”

“There it is in black an' white. Who comes next? Frank M'Carroll. He's a farmer. I'll put down a spade an' a harrow. Well, that's done—two tumblers.”

“I won't mistake that, aither. It's clear enough.”

“Bartle Gorman's of Cargah. Bartle's a little lame, an' uses a staff wid a cross on the end that he houlds in his hand. I'll put down a staff wid a cross on it.”

“Would there be no danger of me mistakin' that for the priest's cudgel?”

“Divil the slightest. I'll pledge my knowledge of geography, they're two very different weapons.”

“Well, put it down—I'll know it.”

“Roger M'Gaugy of Nurchasy. What for him? Roger's a pig-driver. I'll put down pig. You'll comprehend that?”

“I ought; for many a pig I sould in my day. Put down the pig; an' if you could put two black spots upon his back, I'd know it to be one I sould him about four years agone—the fattest ever was in the country—it had to be brought home on a car, for it wasn't able to walk wid fat.”

“Very good; the spots are on it. The last is Owen Smith of Lisbuy. Now, do you see that I've drawn a line from place to place, so that you have nothing to do only to keep to it as you go. What for Owen?”

“Owen! Let me see—Owen! Pooh! What's come over me, that I've nothin' for Owen? Ah! I have it. He's a horse-jockey: put down a gray mare I sould him about five years agone.”

“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”

“How is that, your Reverence?” said Peter. “God help me,” he added, “don't be hard an me, sir, for I'm to be pitied. Don't be hard on me, for the short time I'll be here. I know it won't be long—I'll be wid her soon. Asthore machree, we'll' be together, I hope, afore long—an', oh! if it was the will o' God, I would be glad if it was afore night!”

The poor, shattered, heart-broken creature wept bitterly, for he felt somewhat sensible of the justice of the reproof which he expected from the priest, as well as undiminished sorrow for his wife.

“I'm not going to be hard on you,” said the good-natured priest; “I only called to tell you a dream that your son Dan had last night about you and his mother.”

“About Ellish! Oh, for heaven's sake what about her, Father, avourneen?”

“She appeared to him, last night,” replied Father Mulcahy, “and told him that your drinking kept her out of happiness.”

“Queen of heaven!” exclaimed Peter, deeply affected, “is that true? Oh,” said he, dropping on his knees, “Father, ahagur machree, pardon me—oh, forgive me! I now promise, solemnly and seriously, to drink neither in the house nor out of it, for the time to come, not one drop at all, good, bad, or indifferent, of either whiskey, wine, or punch—barrin' one glass. Are you now satisfied? an' do you think she'll get to happiness?”

“All will be well, I trust,” said the priest. “I shall mention this to Dan and the rest, and depend upon it, they, too, will be happy to hear it.”

“Here's what Mr. O'Flaherty an' myself made up,” said Peter: “burn it, Father; take it out of my sight, for it's now no use to me.”

“What is this at all?” said Mr. Mulcahy, looking into it. “Is it an oath?”

“It's the Joggraphy of one I swore some time ago; but it's now out of date—I'm done wid it.”

The priest could not avoid smiling when he perused it, and on getting from Peter's lips an explanation of the hieroglyphics, he laughed heartily at the ingenious shifts they had made to guide his memory.

Peter, for some time after this, confined himself to one glass, as he had promised; but he felt such depression and feebleness, that he ventured slowly, and by degrees, to enlarge the “glass” from which he drank. His impression touching the happiness of his wife was, that as he had for several months strictly observed his promise, she had probably during that period gone to heaven. He then began to exercise his ingenuity gradually, as we have said, by using, from time to time, a glass larger than the preceding one; thus receding from the spirit of his vow to the letter, and increasing the quantity of his drink from a small glass to the most capacious tumbler he could find. The manner in which he drank this was highly illustrative of the customs which prevail on this subject in Ireland. He remembered, that in making the vow, he used the words, “neither in the house nor out of it;” but in order to get over this dilemma, he usually stood with one foot outside the threshold, and the other in the house, keeping himself in that position which would render it difficult to determine whether he was either out or in. At other times, when he happened to be upstairs, he usually thrust one-half of his person out of the window, with the same ludicrous intention of keeping the letter of his vow.

Many a smile this adroitness of his occasioned to the lookers-on: but further ridicule was checked by his wobegone and afflicted look. He was now a mere skeleton, feeble and tottering.

One night, in the depth of winter, he went into the town where his two sons resided; he had been ill in mind and body during the day, and he fancied that change of scene and society might benefit him. His daughter and son-in-law, in consequence of his illness, watched him so closely, that he could not succeed in getting his usual “glass.” This offended him, and he escaped without their knowledge to the son who kept the inn. On arriving there, he went upstairs, and by a douceur to the waiter, got a large tumbler filled with spirits. The lingering influences of a conscience that generally felt strongly on the side of a moral duty, though poorly instructed, prompted him to drink it in the usual manner, by keeping one-half of his body, as, nearly as he could guess, out of the window, that it might be said he drank it neither in nor out of the house. He had scarcely finished his draught, however, when he lost his balance, and was precipitated upon the pavement. The crash of his fall was heard in the bar, and his son, who had just come in, ran, along with several others, to ascertain what had happened. They found him, however, only severely stunned. He was immediately brought in, and medical aid sent for; but, though he recovered from the immediate effects of the fall, the shock it gave to his broken constitution, and his excessive grief, carried him off in a few months afterwards. He expired in the arms of his son and daughter, and amidst the tears of those who knew his simplicity of character, his goodness of heart, and his attachment to the wife by whose death that heart had been broken.

Such was the melancholy end of the honest and warm-hearted Peter Connell, who, unhappily, was not a solitary instance of a man driven to habits of intoxication and neglect of business by the force of sorrow, which time and a well-regulated mind might otherwise have overcome. We have held him up, on the one hand, as an example worthy of imitation in that industry and steadiness which, under the direction of his wife, raised him from poverty to independence and wealth; and, on the other, as a man resorting to the use of spirituous liquors that he might be enabled to support affliction—a course which, so far from having sustained him under it, shattered his constitution, shortened his life, and destroyed his happiness. In conclusion, we wish our countrymen of Peter's class would imitate him in his better qualities, and try to avoid his failings.