“There is no doubt but I would,” said the tailor:  “If I miss the wife, I’ll kick up such a dust as never was seen in the parish, an’ you’re the first man that I’ll lick.  But now that I’m in love,” he continued, “sure, I ought to look out for the wife.”

“Ah!  Neal,” said the schoolmaster, “you are tempting destiny:  your temerity be, with all its melancholy consequences, upon your own head.”

“Come,” said the tailor, “it wasn’t to hear you groaning to the tune of ‘Dhrimmind-hoo,’ or ‘The ould woman rockin’ her cradle,’ that I came; but to know if you could help me in makin’ out the wife.  That’s the discoorse.”

“Look at me, Neal,” said the schoolmaster, solemnly; “I am at this moment, and have been any time for the last fifteen years, a living caveto against matrimony.  I do not think that earth possesses such a luxury as a single solitary life.  Neal, the monks of old were happy men:  they were all fat and had double chins; and, Neal, I tell you, that all fat men are in general happy.  Care cannot come at them so readily as at a thin man; before it gets through the strong outworks, of flesh and blood with which they are surrounded, it becomes treacherous to its original purpose, joins the cheerful spirits it meets in the system, and dances about the heart in all the madness of mirth; just like a sincere ecclesiastic, who comes to lecture a good fellow against drinking, but who forgets his lecture over his cups, and is laid under the table with such success, that he either never comes to finish his lecture, or comes often; to be laid under the table, Look at me Neal, how wasted, fleshless, and miserable, I stand before you.  You know how my garments have shrunk in, and what a solid man I was before marriage.  Neal, pause, I beseech you:  otherwise you stand a strong chance of becoming a nonentity like myself.”

“I don’t care what I become,” said the tailor; “I can’t think that you’d be so:  unsonable as to expect that any of the Malones; should pass out of the world widout either bein’ bate or marrid.  Have rason, Mr. O’Connor, an’ if you can help me to the wife, I promise to take in your coat the next time—­for nothin’.”

“Well, then,” said Mr. O’Connor, “what-would you think of the butcher’s daughter, Biddy Neil?  You have always had a thirst for blood, and here you may have it gratified in an innocent manner, should you ever become sanguinary again.  ’Tis true, Neal, she is twice your size, and possesses three times your strength; but for that very reason, Neal, marry her if you can.  Large animals are placid; and heaven preserve those bachelors, whom I wish well, from a small wife:  ’tis such who always wield the sceptre of domestic life, and rule their husbands with a rod of iron.”

“Say no more, Mr. O’Connor,” replied the tailor, “she’s the very girl I’m in love wid, an’ never fear, but I’ll overcome her heart if I it can be done by man.  Now, step over the way to my house, an’ we’ll have a sup on the head of it.  Who’s that calling?”