ent
control, an industrious man. To thought or reflection he was not,
however, accustomed; he had, besides, never received any education; if
his morals were correct, it was because a life of active employment had
kept him engaged in pursuits which repressed immorality, and separated
him from those whose society and influence might have been prejudicial
to him. He had scarcely known calamity, and when it occurred he was
prepared for it neither by experience nor a correct view of moral duty.
On the morning of his wife's funeral, such was his utter prostration
both of mind and body, that even his own sons, in order to resist the
singular state of collapse into which he had sunk, urged him to take
some spirits. He was completely passive in their hands, and complied.
This had the desired effect, and he found himself able to attend the
funeral. When the friends of Ellish assembled, after the interment, as
is usual, to drink and talk together, Peter, who could scarcely join
in the conversation, swallowed glass after glass of punch with great
rapidity. In the mean time, the talk became louder and more animated;
the punch, of course, began to work, and as they sat long, it was
curious to observe the singular blending of mirth and sorrow, singing
and weeping, laughter and tears, which characterized this remarkable
scene. Peter, after about two hours' hard drinking, was not an exception
to the influence of this trait of national manners. His heart having
been deeply agitated, was the more easily brought under the effects of
contending emotions. He was naturally mirthful, and when intoxication
had stimulated the current of his wonted humor, the influence of this
and his recent sorrow produced such an anomalous commixture of fun and
grief as could seldom, out of Ireland, be found checkering the mind of
one individual.

It was in the midst of this extraordinary din that his voice was heard
commanding silence in its loudest and best-humored key:

"Hould yer tongues," said he; "bad win to yees, don't you hear me
wantin' to sing! Whist wid yees. Hem--och--'Eise up'--Why, thin, Phil
Callaghan, you might thrate me wid more dacency, if you had gumption in
you; I'm sure no one has a betther right to sing first in this company
nor myself; an' what's more, I will sing first. Hould your tongues!
Hem!"

He accordingly commenced a popular song, the air of which, though
simple, was touchingly mournful.

"Och, rise up, Willy Reilly, an'