And when my wife died, I never took snuff again.

Sometimes in her life she'd take a bit of snuff out (from) my box; and when I'd say, 'Dear wife, what do you do that for ?' she'd tell me, 'It's good for my head.' And so when she died I never took any (none) since.
"Some men won't eat meat because the brother or sister that died was fond of (to) it; some won't drink ale for five or ten years; some won't eat the favourite fish that the child ate.

Some won't eat potatoes, or drink milk, or eat apples; and all for the dead.
"Some won't play cards or the fiddle--'that's my poor boy's tune'-- and some won't dance--'No, I can't dance, the last time I danced was with my poor wife (or girl) that's been dead this four years.' "'Come, brother, let's go and have a drop of ale; the fiddler is there.' 'No, brother, I never drank a drop of ale since my aunt went (died).' 'Well, take some tobacco, brother ?' 'No, no, I have not smoked since my wife fell in the water and never came out again alive.' 'Well, let's go and play at cock-shy, we two'll play you two for a pint o' ale.' 'No, I never played at cock-shy since my father died; the last time I played was with him.' "And Lena, the wife of my nephew Job, never ate plums after her husband died." This is a strange manner of mourning, but it is more effective than the mere wearing of black, since it is often a long-sustained and trying tribute to the dead.

Its Oriental-Indian origin is apparent enough.

But among the German Gipsies, who, I am firmly convinced, represent in language and customs their English brethren as the latter were three centuries ago, this reverence for the departed assumes an even deeper and more serious character.