“Art, if you love me, leave it to my management.”
“Ho, Jemmy,” said the mother, addressing her husband, “only put
your ears to this! _Ho, dher manim_, this is that skamin' piece of
_feasthealagh_ (* nonesense) they call _grah_ (*love). Ho, by my
sowl, it shows what moseys they is to think that--what's this you call
it?--low-lov-loaf, or whatsomever the devil it is, has to do wid makin'
a young couple man and wife. Didn't I hate the ground you stud on when
I was married upon you? but I had the _airighid_. Ho, faix, I had the
shiners.”
“Divil a word o' lie in that, Madjey, asthore. You had the money, an'
I got it, and wern't we as happy, or ten times happier, than if we had
married for love?”
“To be sartin we am; an' isn't we more unhappier now, nor if we had got
married for loaf, glory be to godness!”
“Father,” said Margaret, anxious to put an end to this ludicrous debate,
“this is the only man I will ever marry.”
“And by Him that made me,” said her father, “you will never have my
consent to that marriage, nor my blessin'.”
“Art,” said she, “not one word. Here, in the presence of my father and
mother, and in the presence of God himself, I say I will be your wife,
and only yours.”
“And,” said her father, “see whether a blessin' will attend a marriage
where a child goes against the will of her parents.”
“I'm of age now to think and act for myself, father; an' you know this
is the first thing I ever disobeyed you in, an' I hope it 'ill be the
last. Am I goin' to marry one that's discreditable to have connected
with our family? So far from that, it is the credit that is comin' to
us. Is a respectable young man, without spot or stain on his name, with
the good-will of all that know him, and a good trade--is such a person,
father, so very high above us? Is one who has the blood of the great
Fermanagh Maguires in his veins not good enough for your daughter,
because you happen to have a few bits of metal that he has not? Father,
you will give us your consent an' your blessin' too; but remember that
whether you do, or whether you don't, I'll not break my vow; I'll marry
him.”
“Margaret,” said the father, in a calm, collected voice, “put both
consent and blessin' out of the question; you will never have either
from me.”
“Ho _dher a Ihora heena_,” exclaimed the mother, “I'm the boy for one
that will see the buckle crossed against them, or I'd die every day
this twelve months upon the top and tail o' Knockmany, through wind an'
weather. You darlin' scoundrel,” she proceeded, addressing Art, in what
she intended to be violent abuse--“God condemn your sowl to happiness,
is I or am my husband to be whillebelewin' on your loaf? Eh, answer us
that, if you're not able, like a man, as you is?”
Margaret, whose humor and sense of the ludicrous were exceedingly
strong, having seldom heard her mother so excited before, gave one arch
look at Art, who, on the contrary, felt perfectly confounded at the
woman's language, and in that look there was a kind of humorous entreaty
that he would depart. She nodded towards the door, and Art, having shook
hands with her, said--
“Good-by, Jemmy Murray, I hope you'll change your mind still; your
daughter never could got any one that loves her as I do, or that could
treat her with more tendherness and affection.”
“Be off, you darlin' vagabone,” said Mrs. Murray, “the heavens be your
bed, you villain, why don't you stay where you is, an' not be malivogin
an undacent family this way.”
“Art Maguire,” replied Murray, “you heard my intention, and I'll never
change it.” Art then withdrew.
Our readers may now anticipate the consequences of the preceding
conversation. Murray and his wife having persisted in their refusal to
sanction Margaret's marriage with Maguire, every argument and influence
having been resorted to in vain, Margaret and he made what is termed
a runaway match of it, that is, a rustic elopement, in which the young
couple go usually to the house of some friend, under the protection
of whose wife the female remains until her marriage, when the husband
brings her home.
And now they commence life. No sooner were they united, than Art,
feeling what was due to her who had made such and so many sacrifices for
him, put his shoulder to the wheel with energy and vigor. Such aid as
his father could give him, he did give; that which stood him most in
stead, however, was the high character and unsullied reputation of his
own family. Margaret's conduct, which was looked upon as a proof of
great spirit and independence, rendered her, if possible, still better
loved by the people than before. But, as we said, there was every
confidence placed in Art, and the strongest hopes of his future success
and prosperity in life expressed by all who knew him; and this was
reasonable. Here was a young man of excellent conduct, a first-rate
workman, steady, industrious, quiet, and, above all things, sober; for
the three or four infractions of sobriety that took place during his
apprenticeship, had they even been generally known, would have been
reputed as nothing; the truth is, that both he and Margaret commenced
life, if not with a heavy purse, at least with each a light heart. He
immediately took a house in Ballykeerin, and, as it happened that a
man of his own trade, named Davis, died about the same time of lockjaw,
occasioned by a chisel wound in the ball of the thumb, as a natural
consequence, Art came in for a considerable portion of his business;
so true is it, that one man's misfortune is another man's making. His
father did all he could for him, and Margaret's sisters also gave them
some assistance, so that, ere the expiration of a year, they found
themselves better off than they had reason to expect, and, what crowned
their happiness--for they were happy--was the appearance of a lovely
boy, whom, after his father, they called. Arthur. Their hearts had not
much now to crave after--happiness was theirs, and health; and, to make
the picture still more complete, prosperity, as the legitimate reward
of Art's industry and close attention to business, was beginning to dawn
upon them.
One morning, a few months after this time, as she sat with their lovely
babe in her arms, the little rogue playing with the tangles of her raven
hair, Art addressed her in the fulness of as affectionate a heart as
ever beat in a human bosom:--
“Well, Mag,” said he, “are you sorry for not marryin' Mark Hanratty?”
She looked at him, and then at their beautiful babe, which was his
image, and her lip quivered for a moment; she then smiled, and kissing
the infant, left a tear upon its face.
He started, “My God, Margaret,” said he, “what is this?”
“If that happy tear,” she replied, “is a proof of it, I am.”
Art stooped, and kissing her tenderly, said--“May God make me, and keep
me worthy of you, my darling wife!”
“Still, Art,” she continued, “there is one slight drawback upon my
happiness, and that is, when it comes into my mind that in marryin' you,
I didn't get a parent's blessin'; it sometimes makes my mind sad, and I
can't help feelin' so.”
“I could wish you had got it myself,” replied her husband, “but you know
it can't be remedied now.”
“At all events,” she said, “let us live so as that we may desarve it; it
was my first and last offence towards my father and mother.”
“And it's very few could say as much, Mag, dear; but don't think of it,
sure, may be, he may come about yet.”
“I can hardly hope that,” she replied, “after the priest failin'.”
“Well, but,” replied her husband, taking up the child in his arms, “who
knows what this little man may do for us--who knows, some day, but we'll
send a little messenger to his grandfather for a blessin' for his mammy
that he won't have the heart to refuse.”
This opened a gleam of satisfaction in her mind. She and her husband
having once more kissed the little fellow, exchanged glances of
affection, and he withdrew to his workshop.
Every week and month henceforth added to their comfort. Art advanced in
life, in respectability, and independence; he was, indeed, a pattern
to all tradesmen who wish to maintain in the world such a character
as enforces esteem and praise; his industry was incessant, he was ever
engaged in something calculated to advance himself; up early and
down late was his constant practice--no man could exceed, him in
punctuality--his word was sacred--whatever he said was done; and so
general were his habits of industry, integrity, and extreme good conduct
appreciated, that he was mentioned as a fresh instance of the high
character sustained by all who had the old blood of the Fermanagh
Maguires in their veins. In this way he proceeded, happy in the
affections of his admirable wife--happy in two lovely children--happy in
his circumstances--in short, every way happy, when, to still add to that
happiness, on the night of the very day that closed the term of his oath
against liquor--that closed the seventh year--his wife presented him
with their third child, and second daughter.
In Ireland there is generally a very festive spirit prevalent during
christenings, weddings, or other social meetings of a similar nature;
and so strongly is this spirit felt, that it is--or was, I should rather
say--not at all an unusual thing for a man, when taking an oath
against liquor, to except christenings or weddings, and very frequently
funerals, as well as Christmas and Easter. Every one acquainted with
the country knows this, and no one need be surprised at the delight with
which Art Maguire hailed this agreeable coincidence. Art, we have said
before, was naturally social, and, although he did most religiously
observe his oath, yet, since the truth must be told, we are bound
to admit that, on many and many an occasion, he did also most
unquestionably regret the restraint that he had placed upon himself with
regard to liquor. Whenever his friends were met together, whether at
fair, or market, wedding, christening, or during the usual festivals, it
is certain that a glass of punch or whiskey never crossed his nose
that he did not feel a secret hankering after it, and would often have
snuffed in the odor, or licked his lips at it, were it not that he
would have considered the act as a kind of misprision of perjury. Now,
however, that he was free, and about to have a christening in his house,
it was at least only reasonable that he should indulge in a glass,
if only for the sake of drinking the health of “the young lady.” His
brother Frank happened to be in town that evening, and Art prevailed on
him to stop for the night.
“You must stand for the young colleen, Frank,” said he, “and who do you
think is to join you?”
“Why, how could I guess?” replied Frank.
“The sorra other but little Toal Finnigan, that thought to take Margaret
from me, you renumber.”
“I remimber he wanted to marry her, and I know that he's the most
revengeful and ill-minded little scoundrel on the face of the earth; if
ever there was a devil in a human bein', there's one in that misshapen
but sugary little vagabone. His father was bad enough when he was
alive, and worse than he ought to be, may God forgive him now, but this
spiteful skinflint, that's a curse to the poor of the country, as he is
their hatred, what could tempt you to ax him to stand for any child of
yours?”
“He may be what he likes, Frank, but all I can say is, that I found
him civil and obligin', an' you know the devil's not so black as he's
painted.”
“I know no such thing, Art,” replied the other; “for that matter, he may
be a great deal blacker; but still I'd advise you to have nothing to say
to Toal--he's a bad graft, egg and bird; but what civility did he ever
show you?”
“Why, he--he's a devilish pleasant little fellow, any way, so he is;
throth it's he that spakes well of you, at any rate; if he was ten
times worse than he is, he has a tongue in his head that will gain him
friends.”
“I see, Art,” said Frank, laughing, “he has been layin' it thick an'
sweet on you. My hand to you, there's not so sweet-tongued a knave in
the province; but mind, I put you on your guard--he's never pure honey
all out, unless where there's bitther hatred and revenge at the bottom
of it--that's well known, so be advised and keep him at a distance; have
nothin' to do or to say to him, and, as to havin' him for a godfather,
why I hardly think the child could thrive that he'd stand for.”
“It's too late for that now,”, replied Art, “for I axed him betther than
three weeks agone.”
“An' did he consint?”
“He did, to be sure.”
“Well, then, keep your word to him, of coorse; but, as soon as the
christenings over, drop him like a hot potato.”
“Why, thin, that's hard enough, Frank, so long as I find the crathur
civil.”
“Ay, but, Art, don't I tell you that it's his civility you should be
afeard of; throth, the same civility ought to get him kicked a dozen
times a day.”
“Faix and,” said Art, “kicked or not, here he comes; whisht! don't be
oncivil to the little bachelor at any rate.”
“Oncivil, why should I? the little extortionin' vagabone never injured
or fleeced me; but, before he puts his nose into the house, let me
tell you wanst more, Art, that he never gets sweet upon any one that he
hasn't in hatred for them at the bottom; that's his carracther.”
“I know it is,” said Art, “but, until I find it to be true, I'll take
the ginerous side, an' I won't believe it; he's a screw, I know, an' a
skinflint, an'--whisht! here he is.”
“Toal Finnigan, how are you?” said Art; “I was goin' to say how is every
tether length of you, only that I think it would be impossible to get a
tether short enough to measure you.”
“Ha, ha, ha, that's right good--divil a man livin' makes me laugh so
much as--why then, Frank Maguire too!--throth, Frank, I'm proud to see
you well--an' how are you, man? and--well, in throth I am happy to see
you lookin' so well, and in good health; an' whisper, Frank, it's your
own fau't that I'm not inquirin' for the wife and childre.”
“An' I can return the compliment, Toal; it's a shame for both of us to
be bachelors at this time o' day.”
“Ah,” said the little fellow, “I wasn't Frank Maguire, one of the best
lookin' boys in the barony, an' the most respected, an' why not? Well,
divil a thing afther all like the ould blood, an' if I wanted a pure
dhrop of that same, maybe I don't know where to go to look for it--maybe
I don't, I say!”
“It's Toal's fault that he wasn't married many a year ago,” said Art;
“he refused more wives, Frank, than e'er a boy of his years from this to
Jinglety cooeh--divil a lie in it; sure he'll tell you himself.”
Now, as Toal is to appear occasionally, and to be alluded to from time
to time in this narrative, we shall give the reader a short sketch or
outline of his physical appearance and moral character. In three words,
then, he had all his father's vices multiplied tenfold, and not one of
his good qualities, such as they were; his hair was of that nondescript
color which partakes at once of the red, the fair, and the auburn; it
was a bad dirty dun, but harmonized with his complexion to a miracle.
That complexion, indeed, was no common one; as we said, it was one
of those which, no matter how frequently it might have been scrubbed,
always presented the undeniable evidences of dirt so thorougly ingrained
into the pores of the skin, that no process could remove it, short
of flaying him alive. His vile, dingy dun bristles stood out in all
directions from his head, which was so shaped as to defy admeasurement;
the little rascal's body was equally ill-made, and as for his limbs,
we have already described them, as reaping-hooks of flesh and blood,
terminated by a pair of lark-heeled feet, as flat as smoothing-irons.
Now, be it known, that notwithstanding these disadvantages, little Toal
looked upon himself as an Adonis upon a small scale, and did certainly
believe that scarcely any female on whom he threw his fascinating eye
could resist being enamored of him. This, of course, having become
generally known, was taken advantage of, and many a merry country girl
amused both herself and others at his expenses while he imagined her to
be perfectly serious.
“Then how did you escape at all,” said Frank--“you that the girls are so
fond of?”
“You may well ax,” said Toal; “but at any rate, it's the divil entirely
to have them too fond of you. There's raison in every thing, but wanst
a woman takes a strong fancy to the cut of your face, you're done for,
until you get rid of her. Throth I suffered as much persecution that way
as would make a good batch o' marthyrs. However, what can one do?”
“It's a hard case, Toal,” said Art; “an' I b'lieve you're as badly off,
if not worse, now than ever.”
“In that respect,” replied Toal, “I'm ladin' the life of a murdherer. I
can't set my face out but there's a pursuit after me--chased an' hunted
like a bag fox; devil a lie I'm tellin' you.”
“But do you intend to marry still, Toal?” asked Frank; “bekaise if you
don't, it would be only raisonable for you to make it generally known
that your mind's made up to die a bachelor.”
“I wouldn't bring the penalty an' expenses of a wife an' family on me,
for the handsomest woman livin',” said Toal. “Oh no; the Lord in mercy
forbid that! Amin, I pray.”
“But,” said Art, “is it fair play to the girls not to let that be
generally known, Toal?”
“Hut,” replied the other, “let them pick it out of their larnin', the
thieves. Sure they parsecuted me to sich a degree, that they desarve no
mercy at my hands. So, Art,” he proceeded, “you've got another mouth to
feed! Oh, the Lord pity you! If you go on this way, what 'ill become of
you at last?”
“Don't you know,” replied Art, “that God always fits the back to the
burden, and that he never sends a mouth but he sends something to fill
it.”
The little extortioner shrugged his shoulders, and raising his eyebrows,
turned up his eyes--as much as to say, What a pretty notion of life you
have with such opinions as these!
“Upon my word, Toal,” said Art, “the young lady we've got home to us is
a beauty; at all events, her godfathers need not be ashamed of her.”
“If she's like her own father or mother,” replied Toal, once more
resuming the sugar-candy style, “she can't be anything else than a
beauty, It's well known that sich a couple never stood undher the roof
of Aughindrummon Chapel, nor walked the street of Ballykeerin.”
Frank winked at Art, who, instead of returning the wink, as he ought
to have done, shut both his eyes, and then looked at Toal with an
expression of great compassion--as if he wished to say, Poor fellow, I
don't think he can be so bad-hearted as the world gives him credit for.
“Come, Toal,” he replied, laughing, “none of your bother now. Ay was
there, many a finer couple under the same roof, and on the same street;
so no palaver, my man; But are you prepared to stand for the girsha? You
know it's nearly a month since I axed you?”
“To be sure I am; but who's the midwife?”
“Ould Kate Sharpe; as lucky a woman as ever came about one's house.”
“Throth, then, I'm sorry for that,” said Toal, “for she's a woman I
don't like; an' I now say beforehand, that devil a traneen she'll be the
betther of me, Art.”
“Settle that,” replied Art, “between you; at all events, be ready on
Sunday next--the christenin's fixed for it.”
After some farther chat, Toal, who, we should have informed our readers,
had removed from his father's old residence into Ballykeerin, took his
departure, quite proud at the notion of being a godfather at all; for in
truth it was the first occasion on which he ever had an opportunity of
arriving at that honor.
Art was a strictly conscientious man; so much so, indeed, that he never
defrauded a human being to the value of a farthing; and as for truth,
it was the standard principle of his whole life. Honesty, truth, and
sobriety are, indeed, the three great virtues upon which all that
is honorable, prosperous, and happy is founded. Art's conscientious
scruples were so strong, that although in point of fact the term of his
oath had expired at twelve o'clock in the forenoon, he would not permit
himself to taste a drop of spirits until after twelve at night.
“It's best,” said he to his brother, “to be on the safe side at all
events: a few hours is neither one way nor the other. We haven't now
more than a quarther to go, and then for a tight drop to wet my whistle,
an' dhrink the little girshas health an' her mother's. Throth I've put
in a good apprenticehip to sobriety, anyhow. Come, Madjey,” he added,
addressing the servant-maid, “put down the kettle till we have a little
jorum of our own; Frank here and myself; and all of yez.”
“Very little jorum will go far wid me, you know, Art,” replied his
brother; “an' if you take my advice, you'll not go beyond bounds
yourself either.”
“Throth, Frank, an' I'll not take either yours nor any other body's,
until little Kate's christened. I think that afther a fast of seven
years I'm entitled to a stretch.”
“Well, well,” said his brother; “I see you're on for it; but as you said
yourself a while ago, it's best to be on the safe side, you know.”
“Why, dang it, Frank, sure you don't imagine I'm goin' to drink the town
dhry; there's raison in everything.”
At length the kettle was boiled, and the punch made; Art took his
tumbler in hand, and rose up; he looked at it, then glanced at his
brother, who observed that he got pale and agitated.
“What ails you?” said he; “is there any thing wrong wid you?”
“I'm thinkin',” replied Art, “of what I suffered wanst by it; an'
besides, it's so long since I tasted it, that somehow I jist feel for
all the world as if the oath was scarcely off of me yet, or as if I was
doin' what's not right.”
“That's mere weakness,” said Frank; “but still, if you have any scruple,
don't drink it; I bekaise the truth is, Art, you couldn't have a scruple
that will do you more good than one against liquor.”
“Well, I'll only take this tumbler an' another to-night; and then we'll
go to bed, plase goodness.”
His agitation then passed away, and he drank a portion of the liquor.
“I'm thinkin', Art,” said Frank, “that it wouldn't be aisy to find two
men that has a betther right to be thankful to God for the good fortune
we've both had, than yourself and me. The Lord has been good, to me, for
I'm thrivin' to my heart's content, and savin' money every day.”
“And glory be to his holy name,” said Art, looking with a strong sense
of religious feeling upward, “so am I; and if we both hould to this,
we'll die rich, plaise goodness. I have saved up very well, too; and
here I sit this night as happy a man as is in Europe. The world's
flowin' on me, an' I want for nothin'; I have good health, a clear
conscience, and everything that a man in my condition of life can stand
in need of, or wish for; glory be to God for it all!”
“Amen,” said Frank; “glory be to his name for it!”
“But, Frank,” said Art, “there's one thing that I often wonder at, an'
indeed so does every one a'most.”
“What is that, Art?”
“Why, that you don't think o' marryin'. Sure you have good means to
keep a wife, and rear a family now; an' of coorse we all wonder that you
don't.”
“Indeed, to tell you the truth, Art, I don't know myself what's the
raison of it--the only wife I think of is my business; but any way, if
you was to see the patthern of married life there is undher the roof
wid me, you'd not be much in consate wid marriage yourself, if you war a
bachelor.”
“Why,” inquired the other, “don't they agree?”
“Ay do they, so well that they get sometimes into very close an' lovin'
grips togather; if ever there was a scald alive she's one o' them, an'
him that was wanst so careless and aisey-tempered, she has now made him
as bad as herself--has trained him regularly until he has a tongue that
would face a ridgment. Tut, sure divil a week that they don't flake one
another, an' half my time's, taken up reddin' them.”
“Did you ever happen to get the reddin' blow? eh? ha, ha, ha!”
“No, not yet; but the truth is, Art, that an ill-tongued wife has driven
many a husband to ruin, an' only that I'm there to pay attention to the
business, he'd be a poor drunken beggarman long ago, an' all owin' to
her vile temper.”
“Does she dhrink?”
“No, sorra drop--this wickedness all comes natural to her; she wouldn't
be aisy out of hot wather, and poor Jack's parboiled in it every day in
the year.”
“Well, it's I that have got the treasure, Frank; from the day that I
first saw her face till the minute we're spakin' in, I never knew her
temper to turn--always the same sweet word, the same flow of spirits,
and the same light laugh; her love an' affection for me an' the childher
there couldn't be language found for. Come, throth we'll drink her
health in another tumbler, and a speedy uprise to her, asthore machree
that she is, an' when I think of how she set every one of her people at
defiance, and took her lot wid myself so nobly, my heart burns wid love
for her, ay, I feel my very heart burnin' widin me.”
Two tumblers were again mixed, and Margaret's health was drunk.
“Here's her health,” said Art, “may God grant her long life and
happiness!”
“Amen!” responded Frank, “an' may He grant that she'll never know a
sorrowful heart!”
Art laid down his tumbler, and covered his eyes with his hands for a
minute or two.
“I'm not ashamed, Frank,” said he, “I'm not a bit ashamed of these
tears--she desarves them--where is her aiquil? oh, where is her
aiquil? It's she herself that has the tear for the distresses of her
fellow-creatures, an' the ready hand to relieve them; may the Almighty
shower down his blessins on her!”
“Them tears do you credit,” replied Frank, “and although I always
thought well of you, Art, and liked you betther than any other in the
family, although I didn't say much about it, still, I tell you, I think
betther of you this minute than I ever did in my life.”
“There's only one thing in the wide world that's throublin' her,”
said Art, “an' that is, that she hadn't her parents' blessin' when she
married me, nor since--for ould Murray's as stiff-necked as a mule, an'
the more he's driven to do a thing the less he'll do it.”
“In that case,” observed Frank, “the best plan is to let him alone;
maybe when it's not axed for he'll give it.”
“I wish he would,” said Art, “for Margaret's sake; it would take away a
good deal of uneasiness from her mind.”
The conversation afterwards took several turns, and embraced a variety
of topics, till the second tumbler was finished.
“Now,” said Art, “as there's but the two of us, and in regard of the
occasion that's in it, throth we'll jist take one more a piece.”
“No,” replied Frank, “I never go beyant two, and you said you wouldn't.”
“Hut, man, divil a matther for that; sure there's only ourselves two,
as I said, an' Where's the harm? Throth, it's a long time since I felt
myself so comfortable, an' besides, it's not every night we have you wid
us. Come, Frank, one more in honor of the occasion.”
“Another drop won't cross my lips this night,” returned his brother,
firmly, “so you needn't be mixin' it.”
“Sorra foot you'll go to bed to-night till you take another; there, now
it's mixed, so you know you must take it now.”
“Not a drop.”
“Well, for the sake of poor little Kate, that you're to stand for; come,
Frank, death alive, man!”
“Would my drinkin' it do Kate any good?”
“Hut, man alive, sure if one was to lay down the law that way upon every
thing, they might as well be out of the world at wanst; come, Frank.”'
“No, Art, I said I wouldn't, and I won't break my word.”
“But, sure, that's only a trifle; take the liquor; the sorra betther
tumbler of punch ever was made: it's Barney Scaddhan's whiskey.” *
* Scaddhan, a herring, a humorous nickname bestowed
upon him, because he made the foundation of his fortune
by selling herrings.
“An' if Barney Scaddhan keeps good whiskey, is that any rason why
I should break my word, or would you have me get dhrunk because his
liquor's betther than another man's?”
“Well, for the sake of poor Margaret, then, an' she so fond o' you;
sure many a time she tould me that sorra brother-in-law ever she had she
likes so well, an' I know it's truth; that I may never handle a plane
but it is; dang it, Frank, don't be so stiff.”
“I never was stiff, Art, but I always was, and always will be, firm,
when I know I'm in the right; as I said about the child, what good would
my drinkin' that tumbler of punch do Margaret? None in life; it would
do her no good, and it would do myself harm. Sure, we did drink her
health.”
“An' is that your respect for her?” said Art, in a huff, “if that's it,
why--”
“There's not a man livin' respects her more highly, or knows her worth
betther than I do,” replied Frank, interrupting him, “but I simply ax
you, Art, what mark of true respect would the fact of my drinkin' that
tumbler of punch be to her? The world's full of these foolish errors,
and bad ould customs, and the sooner they're laid aside, an' proper ones
put in their place, the betther.”
“Oh, very well, Frank, the sorra one o' me will ask you to take it agin;
I only say, that if I was in your house, as you are in mine, I wouldn't
break squares about a beggarly tumbler of punch.”
“So much the worse, Art, I would rather you would; there, now, you
have taken your third tumbler, yet you said when we sat down that you'd
confine yourself to two; is that keepin' your word? I know you may call
breakin' it now a trifle, but I tell you, that when a man begins to
break his word in trifles, he'll soon go on to greater things, and maybe
end without much regardin' it in any thing.”
“You don't mane to say, Frank, or to hint, that ever I'd come to sich a
state as that I wouldn't regard my word.”
“I do not; but even if I did, by followin' up this coorse you'd put
yourself in the right way of comin' to it.”
“Throth, I'll not let this other one be lost either,” he added, drawing
over to him the tumbler which he had filled for his brother; “I've an
addition to my family--the child an' mother doin' bravely, an' didn't
taste a dhrop these seven long years; here's your health, at all events,
Frank, an' may the Lord put it into your heart to marry a wife, an' be
as happy as I am. Here, Madgey, come here, I say; take that whiskey an'
sugar, an' mix yourselves a jorum; it's far in the night, but no matther
for that--an' see, before you mix it, go an' bring my own darlin' Art,
till he dhrinks his mother's health.”
“Why now, Art,” began his brother, “is it possible that you can have the
conscience to taich the poor boy sich a cursed habit so soon? What
are you about this minute but trainin' him up to what may be his own
destruction yet?”
“Come now, Frank, none of your moralizin',” the truth is, that the punch
was beginning rapidly to affect his head; “none of your moralizin',
throth it's a preacher you ought to be, or a lawyer, to lay down the
law. Here, Madgey, bring him to me; that's my son, that there isn't the
like of in Ballykeerin, any way. Eh, Frank, it's ashamed of him I ought
to be, isn't it? Kiss me, Art, and then kiss your uncle Frank, the best
uncle that ever broke the world's bread is the same Frank--that's a good
boy, Art; come now, drink your darlin' mother's health in this glass of
brave punch; my mother's health, say, long life an' happiness to her!
that's a man, toss it off at wanst, bravo; arra, Frank, didn't he do
that manly? the Lord love him, where 'ud you get sich a fine swaddy as
he is of his age? Oh, Frank, what 'ud become of me if anything happened
that boy? it's a mad-house would hould me soon. May the Lord in heaven
save and guard him from all evil and clanger!”
Frank saw that it was useless to remonstrate with him at such a
moment, for the truth is, intoxication was setting in fast, and all his
influence over him was gone.
“Here, Atty, before you go to bed agin, jist a weeshy sup more to drink
your little sisther's health; sure Kate Sharpe brought you home a little
sisther, Atty.”
“The boy's head will not be able to stand so much,” said Frank; “you
will make him tipsy.”
“Divil a tipsy; sure it's only a mere draineen.”
He then made the little fellow drink the baby's health, after which he
was despatched to bed.
“Throth, it's in for a penny in for a pound wid myself. I know, Frank,
that--that there's something or other wrong wid my head, or at any rate
wid my eyes; for everything, somehow, is movin'. Is everything movin',
Frank?”
“You think so,” said Frank, “because you're fast getting tipsy--if you
arn't tipsy all out.”
“Well, then, if I'm tip--tipsy, divil a bit the worse I can be by
another tumbler. Come, Frank, here's the ould blood of Ireland--the
Maguires of Fermanagh! And now, Frank, I tell you, it would more become
you to drink that toast, than to be sittin' there like an oracle, as you
are; for upon my sowl, you're nearly as bad. But, Frank.”
“Well, Art.”
“Isn't little Toal Finnigan a civil little fellow--that is--is--if
he was well made. 'There never stood,' says he, 'sich a couple in the
chapel of--of Aughindrumon, nor there never walked sich a couple up or
down the street of Ballykeerin--that's the chat,' says he: an' whisper,
Frank, ne--neither did there. Whe--where is Margaret's aiquil, I'd--I'd
like to know? an' as for me, I'll measure myself across the shouldhers
aginst e'er a--a man, woman, or child in--in the parish. Co--come here,
now, Frank, till I me--measure the small o' my leg ag--aginst yours;
or if--if that makes you afeard, I'll measure the--the ball of my leg
aginst the ball of yours. There's a wrist, Frank; look at that? jist
look at it.”
“I see it; it is a powerful wrist.”
“But feel it.”
“Tut, Art, sure I see it.”
“D--n it, man, jist feel it--feel the breadth of--of that bone.
Augh--that's the--the wrist; so anyhow, here's little Toal Finnigan's
health, an' I don't care what they say, I like little Toal, an' I will
like little Toal; bekaise--aise if--if he was the divil, as--as they say
he is, in disguise--ha, ha, ha! he has a civil tongue in his head.”
He then commenced and launched out into the most extravagant praises of
himself, his wife, his children; and from these he passed to the ould
blood of Ireland, and the Fermanagh Maguires.
“Where,” he said, “whe--where is there in the country, or anywhere else,
a family that has sich blood as ours in their veins? Very well; an'
aren't we proud of it, as we have a right to be? Where's the Maguire
that would do a mane or shabby act? tha--that's what I'd like to know.
Isn't the word of a Maguire looked upon as aiquil to--to an--another
man's oath; an' where's the man of them that was--as ever known to break
it? Eh Frank? No; stead--ed--steady's the word wid the Maguires, and
honor bright.”
Frank was about to remind him that he had in his own person given a
proof that night that a Maguire could break his word, and commit
a disreputable action besides; but as he saw it was useless, he
judiciously declined then making any observation whatsoever upon it.
After a good deal of entreaty, Frank succeeded in prevailing on him to
go to bed; in which, however, he failed, until Art had inflicted on
him three woful songs, each immensely long, and sung in that peculiarly
fascinating drawl, which is always produced by intoxication. At length,
and when the night was more than half spent, he assisted him to bed--a
task of very considerable difficulty, were it not that it was relieved
by his receiving from the tipsy man several admirable precepts, and an
abundance of excellent advice, touching his conduct in the world; not
forgetting religion, on which he dwelt with a maudlin solemnity of
manner, that was, or would have been to strangers, extremely ludicrous.
Frank, however, could not look upon it with levity. He understood
his brother's character and foibles too well, and feared that
notwithstanding his many admirable qualities, his vanity and want of
firmness, or, in other words, of self-dependence, might overbalance them
all.
The next morning his brother Frank was obliged to leave betimes, and
consequently had no opportunity of advising or remonstrating with him.
On rising, he felt sick and feverish, and incapable of going into his
workshop. The accession made to his family being known, several of his
neighbors came in to inquire after the health of his wife and infant;
and as Art, when left to his own guidance, had never been remarkable
for keeping a secret, he made no scruple of telling them that he had
got drunk the night before, and was, of course, quite out of order that
morning. Among the rest, the first to come in was little Toal Finnigan,
who, in addition to his other virtues, possessed a hardness of head--by
which we mean a capacity for bearing drink--that no liquor, or no
quantity of liquor, could overcome.
“Well,” said Toal, “sure it's very reasonable that you should be out of
ordher; after bein' seven years from it, it doesn't come so natural to
you as it would do. Howandiver, you know that there's but the one cure
for it--a hair of the same dog that bit you; and if you're afeared to
take the same hair by yourself, why I'll take a tuft of it wid you,
an' we'll dhrink the wife's health--my ould sweetheart--and the little
sthranger's.”
“Throth I believe you're right,” said Art, “in regard to the cure; so
in the name of goodness we'll have a gauliogue to begin the day wid, an'
set the hair straight on us.”
During that day, Art was neither drunk nor sober, but halfway between
the two states. He went to his workshop about two o'clock; but his
journeymen and apprentices could smell the strong whiskey off him, and
perceive an occasional thickness of pronunciation in his speech, which
a good deal surprised them. When evening came, however, his neighbors,
whom he had asked in, did not neglect to attend; the bottle was again
produced, and poor Art, the principle of restraint having now been
removed, re-enacted much the same scene as on the preceding night, with
this exception only, that he was now encouraged instead of being checked
or reproved.
There were now only three days to elapse until the following Sabbath,
on which day the child was to be baptized; one of them, that is, the one
following his first intoxication with Frank, was lost to him, for, as
we have said, though not precisely drunk, he was not in a condition to
work, nor properly to give directions. The next he felt himself in much
the same state, but with still less of regret.
“The truth is,” said he, “I won't be rightly able to do any thing till
afther this christenin', so that I may set down the remaindher o' the
week as lost; well, sure that won't break me at any rate. It's long
since I lost a week before, and we must only make up for it; afther the
christenin' I'll work double tides.”
This was all very plausible reasoning, but very fallacious
notwithstanding; indeed, it is this description of logic which conceals
the full extent of a man's errors from, himself, and which has sent
thousands forward on their career to ruin. Had Art, for instance, been
guided by his steady and excellent brother, or, what would have been
better still, by his own good sense and firmness, he would have got up
the next morning in health, with an easy mind, and a clear conscience,
and been able to resume his work as usual. Instead of that, the
night's debauch produced its natural consequences, feverishness and
indisposition, which, by the aid of a bad proverb, and worse company,
were removed by the very cause which produced them. The second night's
debauch lost the following day, and then, forsooth, the week was nearly
gone, and it wasn't worth while to change the system, as if it was ever
too soon to mend, or as if even a single day's work were not a matter of
importance to a mechanic. Let any man who feels himself reasoning as Art
Maguire did, rest assured that there is an evil principle within him,
which, unless he strangle it by prompt firmness, and a strong conviction
of moral duty, will ultimately be his destruction.
There was once a lake, surrounded by very beautiful scenery, to which
its waters gave a fine and picturesque effect. This lake was situated on
an elevated part of the country, and a little below it, facing the
west, was a precipice, which terminated a lovely valley, that gradually
expanded until it was lost in the rich campaign country below. From this
lake there was no outlet of water whatsoever, but its shores at the same
time were rich and green, having been all along devoted to pasture.
Now, it so happened that a boy, whose daily occupation was to tend his
master's sheep, went one day when the winds were strong, to the edge of
the lake, on the side to which they blew, and began to amuse himself by
making a small channel in the soft earth with his naked foot. This small
identation was gradually made larger and larger by the waters--whenever
the wind blew strongly in that direction--until, in the course of time,
it changed into a deep chasm, which wore away the earth that intervened
between the lake and the precipice. The result may be easily guessed.
When the last portion of the earth gave way, the waters of the lake
precipitated themselves upon the beautiful and peaceful glen, carrying
death and destruction in their course, and leaving nothing but a dark
unsightly morass behind them. So is it with the mind of man. When
he gives the first slight assent to a wrong tendency, or a vicious
resolution, he resembles the shepherd's boy, who, unconscious of the
consequences that followed, made the first small channel in the earth
with his naked foot. The vice or the passion will enlarge itself by
degrees until all power of resistance is removed; and the heart becomes
a victim to the impetuosity of an evil principle to which no assent of
the will ever should have been given.
Art, as we have said, lost the week, and then came Sunday for the
christening. On that day, of course, an extra cup was but natural,
especially as it would put an end to his indulgence on the one hand, and
his idleness on the other. Monday morning would enable him to open a new
leaf, and as it was the last day--that is, Sunday was--why, dang it,
he would take a good honest jorum. Frank, who had a greater regard for
Art's character than it appeared Art himself had, Spoke to him privately
on the morning of the christening, as to the necessity and decency
of keeping himself sober on that day; but, alas! during this friendly
admonition he could perceive, that early as it was, his brother was
not exactly in a state of perfect sobriety. His remonstrances were very
unpalatable to Art, and as a consciousness of his conduct, added to the
nervousness produced by drink, had both combined to produce irritability
of temper, he addressed himself more harshly to his brother than he had
ever done in his life before. Frank, for the sake of peace, gave up the
task, although he saw clearly enough that the christening was likely to
terminate, at least so far as Art was concerned, in nothing less than
a drunken debauch. This, indeed, was true. Little Toal, who drank more
liquor than any two among them, and Frank himself, were the only sober
persons present, all the rest having successfully imitated the example
set them by Art, who was carried to bed at an early hour in the evening.
This was but an indifferent preparation for his resolution to commence
work on Monday morning, as the event proved. When the morning came,
he was incapable of work; a racking pain in the head, and sickness of
stomach, were the comfortable assurances of his inability. Here was
another day lost; but finding that it also was irretrievably gone, he
thought it would be no great harm to try the old cure--a hair of the
dog--as before, and it did not take much force of reasoning to persuade
himself to that course. In this manner he went on, losing day after day,
until another week was lost. At length he found himself in his workshop,
considerably wrecked and debilitated, striving with tremulous and
unsteady hands to compensate for his lost time; it was now, however,
too late--the evil habit had been contracted--the citadel had been
taken--the waters had been poisoned at their source--the small track
with the naked foot had been made. From this time forward he did little
but make resolutions to-day, which he broke tomorrow; in the course of
some time he began to drink with his own workmen, and even admitted his
apprentices to their potations. Toal Finnigan, and about six or eight
dissolute and drunken fellows, inhabitants of Ballykeerin, were his
constant companions, and never had they a drinking bout that he was
not sent for: sometimes they would meet in his own workshop, which was
turned into a tap-room, and there drink the better part of the day. Of
course the workmen could not be forgotten in their potations, and, as a
natural consequence, all work was suspended, business at a stand, time
lost, and morals corrupted.
His companions now availed themselves of his foibles, winch they drew
out into more distinct relief. Joined to an overweening desire to
hear himself praised, was another weakness, which proved to be very
beneficial to his companions; this was a swaggering and consequential
determination, when tipsy, to pay the whole reckoning, and to treat
every one he knew.
He was a Maguire--he was a gentleman--had the old blood in his veins,
and that he might never handle a plane, if any man present should pay a
shilling, so long as he was to the fore. This was an argument in which
he always had the best of it; his companions taking care, even if he
happened to forget it, that some chance word or hint should bring it to
his memory.
“Here, Barney Scaddhan--Barney, I say, what's the reckonin', you sinner?
Now, Art Maguire, divil a penny of this you'll pay for--you're too
ginerous, an' have the heart of a prince.”
“And kind family for him to have the heart of a prince, sure we all know
what the Fermanagh Maguires wor; of coorse we won't let him pay.”
“Toal Finnigan, do you want me to rise my hand to you? I tell you that
a single man here won't pay a penny o' reckonin', while I'm to the good;
and, to make short work of it, by the contints o' the book, I'll strike
the first of ye that'll attempt it. Now!”
“Faix, an' I for one,” said Toal, “won't come undher your fist; it's
little whiskey ever I'd drink if I did.”
“Well, well,” the others would exclaim, “that ends it; howendiver, never
mind, Art, I'll engage we'll have our revenge on you for that--the next
meetin' you won't carry it all your own way; we'll be as stiff as you'll
be stout, my boy, although you beat us out of it now.”
“Augh,” another would say, in a whisper especially designed for him, “by
the livin' farmer there never was one, even of the Maguires, like him,
an' that's no lie.”
Art would then pay the reckoning with the air of a nobleman, or, if he
happened to be without money, he would order it to be scored to him, for
as yet his credit was good.
It is wonderful to reflect how vanity blinds common sense, and turns
all the power of reason and judgment to nothing. Art was so thoroughly
infatuated by his own vanity, that he was utterly incapable of seeing
through the gross and selfish flattery with which they plied him. Nay,
when praising him, or when sticking him in for drink, as it is termed,
they have often laughed in his very face, so conscious were they that it
could be done with impunity.
This course of life could not fail to produce suitable consequences to
his health, his reputation, and his business. His customers began to
find now that the man whose word had never been doubted, and whose
punctuality was proverbial, became so careless and negligent in
attending to his orders, that it was quite useless to rely upon his
promises, and, as a very natural consequence, they began to drop off
one after another, until he found to his cost that a great number of his
best and most respectable supporters ceased to employ him.
When his workmen, too, saw that he had got into tippling and irregular
habits, and that his eye was not, as in the days of his industry,
over them, they naturally became careless and negligent, as did the
apprentices also. Nor was this all; the very individuals who had been
formerly remarkable for steadiness, industry, and sobriety--for Art
would then keep no other--were now, many of them, corrupted by his own
example, and addicted to idleness and drink. This placed him in a very
difficult position; for how, we ask, could he remonstrate with them so
long as he himself transgressed more flagrantly than they did? For this
reason he was often forced to connive at outbreaks of drunkenness and
gross cases of neglect, which no sober man would suffer in those whom he
employed.
“Take care of your business, and your business will take care of you,”
is a good and a wholesome proverb, that cannot bo too strongly impressed
on the minds of the working classes. Art began to feel surprised that
his business was declining, but as yet his good sense was strong enough
to point out to him the cause of it. His mind now became disturbed, for
while he felt conscious that his own neglect and habits of dissipation
occasioned it, he also felt that he was but a child in the strong grasp
of his own propensities. This was anything but a consoling reflection,
and so long as it lasted he was gloomy, morbid, and peevish; his
excellent wife was the first to remark this, and, indeed, was the first
that had occasion to remark it, for even in this stage of his life, the
man who had never spoken to her, or turned his eye upon her, but with
tenderness and affection, now began, especially when influenced by
drink, to give manifestations of temper that grieved her to the heart.
Abroad, however, he was the same good-humored fellow as ever, with a few
rare exceptions--when he got quarrelsome and fought with his companions.
His workmen all were perfectly aware of his accessibility to flattery,
and some of them were not slow to avail themselves of it: these were
the idle and unscrupulous, who, as they resembled himself, left nothing
unsaid or undone to maintain his good opinion, and they succeeded. His
business now declined so much, that he was obliged to dismiss some of
them, and, as if he had been fated to ruin, the honest and independent,
who scorned to flatter his weaknesses, were the very persons put out
of his employment, because their conduct was a silent censure upon his
habits, and the men he retained were those whom he himself had made
drunken and profligate by his example; so true is it that a drunkard is
his own enemy in a thousand ways.
Here, then, is our old friend Art falling fast away from the proverbial
integrity of his family--his circumstances are rapidly declining--his
business running to a point--his reputation sullied, and his
temper becoming sharp and vehement; these are strong indications of
mismanagement, neglect, and folly, or, in one word, of a propensity to
drink.
About a year and a half has now elapsed, and Art, in spite of several
most determined resolutions to reform, is getting still worse in every
respect. It is not to be supposed, however, that during this period he
has not had visitations of strong feeling--of repentance--remorse--or
that love of drink had so easy a victory over him as one would imagine.
No such thing. These internal struggles sometimes affected him even unto
agony, and he has frequently wept bitter tears on finding himself the
victim of this terrible habit. He had not, however, the courage to
look into his own condition with a firm eye, or to examine the state of
either his heart or his circumstances with the resolution of a man who
knows that he must suffer pain by the inspection. Art could not bear the
pain of such an examination, and, in order to avoid feeling it, he had
recourse to the oblivion of drink; not reflecting that the adoption of
every such remedy for care resembles the wisdom of the man, who, when
raging under the tortures of thirst, attempted to allay them by drinking
sea-water. Drink relieved him for a moment, but he soon found that in
his case the remedy was only another name for the disease.
It is not necessary to assure our readers that during Art's unhappy
progress hitherto, his admirable brother Frank felt wrung to the heart
by his conduct. All that good advice, urged with good feeling and good
sense, could do, was tried on him, but to no purpose; he ultimately lost
his temper on being reasoned with, and flew into a passion with Frank,
whom he abused for interfering, as he called it, in business which did
not belong to him. Notwithstanding this bluster, however, there was no
man whom he feared so much; in fact, he dreaded his very appearance, and
would go any distance out of his way rather than come in contact with
him. He felt Frank's moral ascendency too keenly, and was too bitterly
sensible of the neglect with which he had treated his affectionate and
friendly admonitions, to meet him with composure. Indeed, we must say,
that, independently of his brother Frank, he was not left to his own
impulses, without many a friendly and sincere advice. The man had been
so highly respected--his name was so stainless--his conduct so good,
so blameless; he stood forth such an admirable pattern of industry,
punctuality, and sobriety, that his departure from all these virtues
occasioned general regret and sorrow. Every friend hoped that he
would pay attention to his advice, and every friend tried it, but,
unfortunately, every friend failed. Art, now beyond the reach of
reproof, acted as every man like him acts; he avoided those who, because
they felt an interest in his welfare, took the friendly liberty of
attempting to rescue him, and consequently associated only with those
who drank with him, flattered him, skulked upon him, and laughed at him.
One friend, however, he had, who, above all others, first in place and
in importance, we cannot overlook--that friend was his admirable and
affectionate wife. Oh, in what language can we adequately describe
her natural and simple eloquence, her sweetness of disposition, her
tenderness, her delicacy of reproof, and her earnest struggles to win
back her husband from the habits which were destroying him! And in
the beginning she was often successful for a time, and many a tear of
transient repentance has she occasioned him to shed, when she succeeded
in touching his heart, and stirring his affection for her and for their
children.
In circumstances similar to Art's, however, we first feel our own
errors, we then feel grateful to those who have the honesty to reprove
us for them: by and by, on finding that we are advancing on the wrong
path, we begin to disrelish the advice, as being only an unnecessary
infliction of pain; having got so far as to disrelish the advice,
we soon begin to disrelish the adviser; and ultimately, we become so
thoroughly wedded to our own selfish vices, as to hate every one who
would take us out of their trammels.
When Art found that the world, as he said, was going against him,
instead of rallying, as he might, and ought to have done, he began
to abuse the world, and attribute to it all the misfortunes which he
himself, and not the world, had occasioned him. The world, in fact,
is nothing to any man but the reflex of himself; if you treat yourself
well, and put yourself out of the power of the world, the world will
treat you well, and respect you; but if you neglect yourself, do not at
all be surprised that the world and your friends will neglect you also.
So far the world acts with great justice and propriety, and takes
its cue from your own conduct; you cannot, therefore, blame the world
without first blaming yourself.
Two years had now elapsed, and Art's business was nearly gone; he had
been obliged to discharge the drunken fellows we spoke of, but not until
they had assisted in a great measure to complete his ruin. Two years of
dissipation, neglect of business, and drunkenness, were quite sufficient
to make Art feel that it is a much easier thing to fall into poverty and
contempt, than to work a poor man's way, from early struggle and the tug
of life, to ease and independence.
His establishment was now all but closed; the two apprentices had
scarcely anything to do, and, indeed, generally amused themselves in
the workshop by playing Spoil Five--a fact which was discovered by Art
himself, who came on them unexpectedly one day when tipsy; but, as he
happened to be in an extremely good humor, he sat down and took a hand
along with them. This was a new element of enjoyment to him, and instead
of reproving them for their dishonest conduct, he suffered himself to
be drawn into the habit of gambling, and so strongly did this grow upon
him, that from henceforth he refused to participate in any drinking
bout unless the parties were to play for the liquor. For this he had now
neither temper nor coolness; while drinking upon the ordinary plan
with his companions, he almost uniformly paid the reckoning from sheer
vanity; or, in other words, because they managed him; but now that it
depended upon what he considered to be skill, nothing ever put him
so completely out of temper as to be put in for it. This low gambling
became a passion with him; but it was a passion that proved to be the
fruitful cause of fights and quarrels without end. Being seldom either
cool or sober, he was a mere dupe in the hands of his companions; but
whether by fair play or foul, the moment he perceived that the game had
gone against him, that moment he generally charged his opponents with
dishonesty and fraud, and then commenced a fight. Many a time has
he gone home, beaten and bruised, and black, and cut, and every way
disfigured in these vile and blackguard contests; but so inveterately
had this passion for card-playing--that is, gambling for liquor--worked
itself upon him, that he could not suffer a single day to pass without
indulging in it. Defeat of any kind was a thing he could never think of;
but for a Maguire--one of the great Fermanagh Maguires--to be beaten
at a rascally game of Spoil Five, was not to be endured; the matter was
impossible, unless by foul play, and as there was only one method of
treating those who could stoop to the practice of foul play, why he
seldom lost any time in adopting it. This was to apply the fist, and as
he had generally three or four against him, and as, in most instances,
he was in a state of intoxication, it usually happened that he received
most punishment.
Up to this moment we have not presented Art to our readers in any other
light than that of an ordinary drunkard, seen tipsy and staggering in
the streets, or singing as he frequently was, or fighting, or playing
cards in the public-houses. Heretofore he was not before the world, and
in everybody's eye; but he had now become so common a sight in the town
of Ballykeerin, that his drunkenness was no longer a matter of surprise
to its inhabitants. At the present stage of his life he could not bear
to see his brother Frank; and his own Margaret, although unchanged and.
loving as ever, was no longer to him the Margaret that she had been.
He felt how much he had despised her advice, neglected her comfort, and
forgotten the duties which both God and nature had imposed upon him,
with respect to her and their children. These feelings coming upon him
during short intervals of reflection, almost drove him mad, and he
has often come home to her and them in a frightful and terrible
consciousness that he had committed some great crime, and that she and
their children were involved in its consequences.
“Margaret,” he would say, “Margaret, what is it I've done aginst you and
the childre? I have done some great crime aginst you all, for surely if
I didn't, you wouldn't look as you do--Margaret, asthore, where is the
color that was in your cheeks? and my own Art here--that always pacifies
me when nobody else can--even Art doesn't look what he used to be.”
“Well, sure he will, Art, dear,” she would reply; “now will you let me
help you to bed? it's late; it's near three o'clock; Oh Art, dear, if
you were----”
“I won't go to bed--I'll stop here where I am, wid my head on the table,
till mornin'. Now do you know--come here, Margaret--let me hear you--do
you know, and are you sensible of the man you're married to?”
“To be sure I am.”
“No, I tell you; I say you are not. There is but one person in the house
that knows that.”
“You're right, Art darlin'--you're right. Come here, Atty; go to your
father; you know what to say, avick.”
“Well, Art,” he would continue, “do you know who your father is?”
“Ay do I; he's one of the great Fermanagh Maguires--the greatest family
in the kingdom. Isn't that it?”
“That's it, Atty darlin'--come an' kiss me for that; yes, I'm one of the
great Fermanagh Maguires. Isn't that a glorious thin', Atty?”
“Now, Art, darlin', will you let me help you to bed--think of the hour
it is.”
“I won't go, I tell you. I'll sit here wid my head on the table all
night. Come here, Atty. Atty, it's wondherful how I love you--above all
creatures livin' do I love you. Sure I never refuse to do any thing for
you, Atty; do I now?”
“Well, then, will you come to bed for me?”
“To be sure I will, at wanst;” and the unhappy man instantly rose and
staggered into his bedroom, aided and supported by his wife and child;
for the latter lent whatever little assistance he could give to his
drunken father, whom he tenderly loved.
His shop, however, is now closed, the apprentices are gone, and the last
miserable source of their support no longer exists. Poverty now sets
in, and want and destitution. He parts with his tools; but not for the
purpose of meeting the demands of his wife and children at home; no;
but for drink--drink--drink--drink. He is now in such a state that he
cannot, dares not, reflect, and consequently, drink is more necessary
to him than ever. His mind, however, is likely soon to be free from
the pain of thinking; for it is becoming gradually debauched and
brutified--is sinking, in fact, to the lowest and most pitiable state of
degradation. It was then, indeed, that he felt how the world deals with
a man who leaves himself depending on it.
[Illustration: PAGE AM1018-- They immediately expelled him]
His friends had now all abandoned him; decent people avoided him--he
had fallen long ago below pity, and was now an object of contempt.
His family at home were destitute; every day brought hunger--positive,
absolute want of food wherewith to support nature. His clothes were
reduced to tatters; so were those of his wife and children. His frame,
once so strong and athletic, was now wasted away to half its wonted
size; his hands were thin, tremulous, and flesh-less; his face pale and
emaciated; and his eye dead and stupid. He was now nearly alone in the
world. Low and profligate as were his drunken companions, yet even they
shunned him; and so contemptuously did they treat him, now that he was
no longer able to pay his way, or enable the scoundrels to swill at his
expense, that whenever he happened to enter Barney Scaddhan's tap, while
they were in it, they immediately expelled him without ceremony, or
Barney did it for them. He now hated home; there was nothing there for
him, but cold, naked, shivering destitution. The furniture had gone by
degrees for liquor; tables, chairs, kitchen utensils, bed and bedding,
with the exception of a miserable blanket for Margaret and the child,
had all been disposed of for about one-tenth part of their value.
Alas, what a change is this from comfort, industry, independence, and
respectability, to famine, wretchedness, and the utmost degradation!
Even Margaret, whose noble heart beat so often in sympathy with the
distresses of the poor, has scarcely any one now who will feel sympathy
with her own. Not that she was utterly abandoned by all. Many a time
have the neighbors, in a stealthy way, brought a little relief in the
shape of food, to her and her children. Sorry are we to say, however,
that there were in the town of Ballykeerin, persons whom she had herself
formerly relieved, and with whom the world went well since, who now
shut their eyes against her misery, and refused to assist her. Her lot,
indeed, was now a bitter one, and required all her patience, all her
fortitude to enable her to bear up under it. Her husband was sunk
down to a pitiable pitch, his mind consisting, as it were, only of two
elements, stupidity and ill-temper. Up until the disposal of all the
furniture, he had never raised his hand to her, or gone beyond verbal
abuse; now, however, his temper became violent and brutal. All sense
of shame--every pretext for decency--all notions of self-respect, were
gone, and nothing was left to sustain or check him. He could not look in
upon himself and find one spark of decent pride, or a single principle
left that contained the germ of his redemption. He now gave himself over
as utterly lost, and consequently felt no scruple to stoop to any
act, no matter how mean or contemptible. In the midst of all this
degradation, however, there was one recollection which he never gave up;
but alas, to what different and shameless purposes did he now prostitute
it! That which had been in his better days a principle of just pride, a
spur to industry, an impulse to honor, and a safeguard to integrity, had
now become the catchword of a mendicant--the cant or slang, as it
were, of an impostor. He was not ashamed to beg in its name--to ask
for whiskey in its name--and to sink, in its name, to the most sordid
supplications.
“Will you stand the price of a glass? I'm Art Maguire; one of the great
Maguires of Fermanagh! Think of the blood of the Maguires, and stand
a glass. Barney Scaddhan won't trust me now; although many a pound and
penny of good money I left him.”
“Ay,” the person accosted would reply, “an' so sign's on you; you would
be a different man to-day, had you visited Barney Scaddhan's seldomer,
or kept out of it altogether.”
“It's not a sarmon I want; will you stand the price of a glass?”
“Not a drop.”
“Go to blazes, then, if you won't. I'm a betther man than ever you
wor, an' have betther blood in my veins. The great Fermanagh Maguires
forever!”
But, hold--we must do the unfortunate man justice. Amidst all this
degradation, and crime, and wretchedness, there yet shone undimmed one
solitary virtue. This was an abstract but powerful affection for his
children, especially for his eldest son; now a fine boy about eight or
nine. In his worst and most outrageous moods--when all other influence
failed--when the voice of his own Margaret, whom he once loved--oh how
well! fell heedless upon his ears--when neither Frank, nor friend, nor
neighbor could manage nor soothe him--let but the finger of his boy
touch him, or a tone of his voice fall upon his ear, and he placed
himself in his hands, and did whatever the child wished him.
One evening about this time, Margaret was sitting upon a small hassock
of straw, that had been made for little Art, when he began to walk.
It was winter, and there was no fire; a neighbor, however, had out of
charity lent her a few dipped rushes, that they might not be in utter
darkness. One of these was stuck against the wall, for they had no
candlestick; and oh, what a pitiable and melancholy spectacle did
its dim and feeble light present! There she sat, the young, virtuous,
charitable, and lovely Margaret of the early portion of our narrative,
surrounded by her almost naked children--herself with such thin and
scanty covering as would wring any heart but to know it. Where now was
her beauty? Where her mirth, cheerfulness, and all her lightness of
heart? Where? Let her ask that husband who once loved her so well, but
who loved his own vile excesses and headlong propensities better. There,
however, she sat, with a tattered cap on, through the rents of which her
raven hair, once so beautiful and glossy, came out in matted elf-locks,
and hung down about her thin and wasted neck. Her face was pale and
ghastly as death; her eyes were without fire--full of languor--full
of sorrow; and alas, beneath one of them, was too visible, by its
discoloration, the foul mark of her husband's brutality. To this had
their love, their tenderness, their affection come; and by what? Alas!
by the curse of liquor--the demon of drunkenness--and want of manly
resolution. She sat, as we have said, upon the little hassock, while
shivering on her bosom was a sickly-looking child, about a year old, to
whom she was vainly endeavoring to communicate some of her own natural
warmth. The others, three in number, were grouped together for the
same reason; for poor little Atty--who, though so very young, was his
mother's only support, and hope, and consolation--sat with an arm about
each, in order, as well as he could, to keep off the cold--the night
being stormy and bitter. Margaret sat rocking herself to and fro, as
those do who indulge in sorrow, and crooning for her infant the sweet
old air of “_Tha ma cullha's na dhuska me_,” or “I am asleep and don't
waken me!”--a tender but melancholy air, which had something peculiarly
touching in it on the occasion in question.
“Ah,” she said, “I am asleep and don't waken me; if it wasn't for your
sakes, darlins, it's I that long to be in that sleep that we will
never waken from; but sure, lost in misery as we are, what could yez do
without me still?”
“What do you mane, mammy?” said Atty; “sure doesn't everybody that goes
to sleep waken out of it?”
[Illustration: PAGE AM1019-- There's a sleep that nobody wakens from]
“No, darlin'; there's a sleep that nobody wakens from.”
“Dat quare sleep, mammy,” said a little one. “Oh, but me's could, mammy;
will we eva have blankets?”
The question, though simple, opened up the cheerless, the terrible
future to her view. She closed her eyes, put her hands on them, as if
she strove to shut it out, and shivered as much at the apprehension of
what was before her, as with the chilly blasts that swept through the
windowless house.
“I hope so, dear,” she replied; “for God is good.”
“And will he get us blankets, mammy?”.
“Yes, darlin', I hope so.”
“Me id rady he'd get us sometin' to ait fust, mammy; I'm starvin' wid
hungry;” and the poor child began to cry for food.
The disconsolate mother was now assailed by the clamorous outcries of
nature's first want, that of food. She surveyed her beloved little brood
in the feeble light, and saw in all its horror the fearful impress of
famine stamped upon their emaciated features, and strangely lighting up
their little heavy eyes. She wrung her hands, and looking up silently to
heaven, wept aloud for some minutes.
“Childre,” she said at length, “have patience, poor things, an' you'll
soon get something to eat. I sent over Nanny Hart to my sisther's, an'
when she comes back yell get something;--so have patience, darlins, till
then.”
“But, mother,” continued little Atty, who could not understand her
allusion to the sleep from which there is no awakening; “what kind of
sleep is it that people never waken from?”
“The sleep that's in the grave, Atty, dear; death is the sleep I mean.”
“An' would you wish to die, mother?”
“Only for your sake, Atty, and for the sake of the other darlins, if
it was the will of God, I would; and,” she added, with a feeling of
indescribable anguish, “what have I now to live for but to see you all
about me in misery and sorrow!”
The tears as she spoke ran silently, but bitterly, down her cheeks.
“When I think of what your poor lost father was,” she added, “when we
wor happy, and when he was good, and when I think of what he is now--oh,
my God, my God,” she sobbed' out, “my manly young husband, what curse
has come over you that has brought you down to this! Curse! oh, fareer
gair, it's a curse that's too well known in the country--it's the curse
that laves many an industrious man's house as ours is this bitther
night--it's the curse that takes away good name and comfort, and honesty
(that's the only thing it has left us)--that takes away the strength of
both body and mind--that banishes dacency and shame--that laves many a
widow and orphan to the marcy of an unfeelin' world--that fills the
jail and the madhouse--that brings many a man an' woman to a disgraceful
death--an' that tempts us to the commission of every evil;--that curse,
darlins, is whiskey--drinkin' whiskey--an' it is drinkin' whiskey that
has left us as we are, and that has ruined your father, and destroyed
him forever.”
“Well, but there's no other curse over us, mother?”