He was now a
married man.--Sneakingiy, and with a cowardly crawl did he creep along
as if every step brought him nearer to the gallows. The schoolmaster's
march of misery was far slower than Neal's: the latter distanced him.
Before three years passed, he had shrunk up so much, that he could not
walk abroad of a windy day without carrying weights in his pockets to
keep him firm on the earth, which he once trod with the step of a giant.
He again sought the schoolmaster, with whom indeed he associated as
much as possible. Here he felt certain of receiving sympathy; nor was
he disappointed. That worthy, but miserable, man and Neal, often retired
beyond the hearing of their respective wives, and supported each other
by every argument in their power. Often have they been heard, in the
dusk of evening, singing behind a remote hedge that melancholy ditty,
"Let us both be unhappy together;" which rose upon the twilight breeze
with a cautious quaver of sorrow truly heart-rending and lugubrious.
"Neal," said Mr. O'Connor, on one of those occasions, "here is a book
which I recommend to your perusal; it is called 'The Afflicted Man's
Companion;' try if you cannot glean some consolation out of it."
"Faith," said Neal, "I'm forever oblaged to you, but I don't want it.
I've had 'The Afflicted Man's Companion' too long, and divil an atom of
consolation I can get out of it.
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