"Thomas M'Mahon," said he, "I'm disposed to blush--do you hear me, I
say? I am disposed to blush, I repate, for your want of--he doesn't hear
me:--will you pay attention? I am really disposed to blush"--and as he
uttered the words he stirred M'Mahon by shaking his shoulders two or
three times, in order to gain his attention.
"Are you?" replied the other, replying in an absent manner to his words.
"God help you then, and assist you, for it's few can do it."
"Can do what?"
"Och, I don't know; whatever you wor sayin'."
"Patience, my good friend, Thomas M'Mahon. I would call you Tom
familiarly, but that you are in affliction, and it is well known that
every one in affliction is, or at least ought to be, treated with
respect and much sympathetical consolation. You are now in deep sorrow;
but don't you knows that death is the end of all things? and believe me
there are many objects in this world which a wise and experienced man
would lose wid much greater regret than he would a mere wife. Think, for
instance, how many men there are--dreary and subdued creatures--who
dare not call their souls, if they have any, or anything else they do
possess, their own; think, I repate, of those who would give nine-tenths
of all they are worth simply to be in your present condition! Wretches
who from the moment they passed under the yoke matrimonial, to which all
other yokes are jokes, have often heard of liberty but never enjoyed it
for one single hour--the Lord help them!"
"Amen!" exclaimed M'Mahon, unconsciously.
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