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.”