“No, darlin',” she replied; “not a curse--but my father and mother both
died, and did not give me their blessin'; but now, Atty, don't ask me
anything more about that, bekase I can't tell you.” This she added from
a feeling of delicacy to her unhappy husband, whom, through all his
faults and vices, she constantly held up to her children as an object of
respect, affection, and obedience.
Again the little ones were getting importunate for food, and their cries
were enough to touch any heart, much less that of a tender and loving
mother. Margaret herself felt that some unusual delay must have
occurred, or the messenger she sent to her sister must have long since
returned; just then a foot was heard outside the door, and there was an
impatient cessation of the cries, in the hope that it was the return
of Nanny Hart--the door opened, and Toal Finnigan entered this wretched
abode of sorrow and destitution.
There was something peculiarly hateful about this man, but in the eyes
of Margaret there was something intensely so. She knew right well that
he had been the worst and most demoralizing companion her husband ever
associated with, and she had, besides, every reason to believe that,
were it not for his evil influence over the vain and wretched man, he
might have overcome his fatal propensity to tipple. She had often told
Art this; but little Toal's tongue was too sweet, when aided by his
dupe's vanity. Many a time had she observed a devilish leer of satanic
triumph in the misshapen little scoundrel's eye, when bringing home
her husband in a state of beastly intoxication, and for this reason,
independently of her knowledge of his vile and heartless disposition,
and infamous character, she detested him. After entering, he looked
about him, and even with the taint light of the rush she could mark that
his unnatural and revolting features were lit up with a hellish triumph.
“Well, Margaret Murray,” said he, “I believe you are now nearly as badly
off as you can be; your husband's past hope, and you are as low as a
human bein' ever was. I'm now satisfied; you refused to marry me--you
made a May-game of me--a laughin' stock of me, and your father tould my
father that I had legs like reapin' hooks! Now, from the day you refused
to marry me, I swore I'd never die till I'd have my revinge, and I have
it; who has the laugh now, Margaret Murray?”
“You say,” she replied calmly, “that I am as low as a human bein' can
be, but that's false, Toal Finnigan, for I thank God I have committed no
crime, and my name is pure and good, which is more than any one can say
for you; begone from my place.”
“I will,” he replied, “but before I go jist let me tell you, that I have
the satisfaction to know that, if I'm not much mistaken, it was I that
was the principal means of leavin' you as you are, and your respectable
husband as he is; so my blessin' be wid you, an that's more than your
father left you. Raipin' hooks, indeed!”
The little vile Brownie then disappeared.
Margaret, the moment he was gone, immediately turned round, and going to
her knees, leaned, with her half-cold infant still in her arms, against
a creaking chair, and prayed with as much earnestness as a distracted
heart permitted her. The little ones, at her desire, also knelt, and in
a few minutes afterwards, when her drunken husband came home, he found
his miserable family, grouped as they were in their misery, worshipping
God in their own simple and touching manner. His entrance disturbed
them, for Margaret knew she must go through the usual ordeal to which
his nightly return was certain to expose her.
“I want something to ait,” said he.
“Art, dear,” she replied--and this was the worst word she ever uttered
against him--“Art, dear, I have nothing for you till by an' by; but I
will then.”
“Have you any money?”
“Money, Art! oh, where would I get it? If I had money I wouldn't be
without something' for you to eat, or the childre here that tasted
nothin' since airly this mornin'.”
“Ah, you're a cursed useless wife,” he replied, “you brought nothin' but
bad luck to me an' them; but how could you bring anything else, when you
didn't get your father's blessin'.”
“But, Art, don't you remember,” she said meekly in reply, “you surely
can't forget for whose sake I lost it.”
“Well, he's fizzin' now, the hard-hearted ould scoundrel, for keepin'
it from you; he forgot who you wor married to, the extortin' ould
vagabone--to one of the great Fermanagh Maguires, an' he' not fit to
wipe their shoes. The curse o' heaven upon you an' him, wherever he is!
It was an unlucky day to me I ever seen the face of one of you--here,
Atty, I've some money; some strange fellow at the inn below stood to me
for the price of a naggin, an' that blasted Barney Scaddhan wouldn't let
me in, bekase, he said, I was a disgrace to his house, the scoundrel.”
“The same house was a black sight to you, Art.”
“Here, Atty, go off and, get me a naggin.”
“Wouldn't it be better for you to get something to eat, than to drink
it, Art.”
“None of your prate, I say, go off an' bring me a naggin o' whiskey, an'
don't let the grass grow under your feet.”
The children, whenever he came home, were awed into silence, but
although they durst not speak, there was an impatient voracity visible
in their poor features, and now wolfish little eyes, that was a terrible
thing to witness. Art took the money, and went away to bring his father
the whiskey.
“What's the reason,” said he, kindling into sudden fury, “that you
didn't provide something for me to eat? Eh? What's the reason?” and
he approached her in a menacing attitude. “You're a lazy, worthless
vagabone. Why didn't you get me something to ait, I say? I can't stand
this--I'm famished.”
“I sent to my sister's,” she replied, laying-down the child; for she
feared that if he struck her and knocked her down, with the child in
her arms, it might be injured, probably killed, by the fall; “when the
messenger comes back from my sister's----”
“D--n yourself and your sister,” he replied, striking her a blow at
the same time upon the temple. She fell, and in an instant her face was
deluged with blood.
“Ay, lie there,” he continued, “the loss of the blood will cool you.
Hould your tongues, you devils, or I'll throw yez out of the house,” he
exclaimed to the children, who burst into an uproar of grief on seeing
their “mammy,” as they called her, lying bleeding and insensible.
“That's to taich her not to have something for me to ait. Ay,” he
proceeded, with a hideous laugh--“ha, ha, ha! I'm a fine fellow--amn't
I? There she lies now, and yet she was wanst Margaret Murray!--my own
Margaret--that left them all for myself; but sure if she did, wasn't I
one of the great Maguires of Fermanagh?--Get up, Margaret; here, I'll
help you up, if the divil was in you!”
He raised her as he spoke, and perceived that consciousness was
returning. The first thing she did was to put up her hand to her temple,
where she felt the warm blood. She gave him one look of profound sorrow.
“Oh, Art dear,” she exclaimed, “Art dear--” her voice failed her, but the
tears flowed in torrents down her cheeks.
“Margaret,” said he, “you needn't spake to me that way. You know any how
I'm damned--damned--lol de rol lol--tol de rol lol! ha, ha, ha! I have
no hope either here or hereafther--divil a morsel of hope. Isn't that
comfortable? eh?--ha, ha, ha”--another hideous laugh. “Well, no matter;
we'll dhrink it out, at all events. Where's Atty, wid the whiskey? Oh,
here he is! That's a good boy, Atty.”
“Oh, mammy darlin',” exclaimed the child, on seeing the blood streaming
from her temple--“mammy darlin', what happened you?”
“I fell, Atty dear,” she replied, “and was cut.”
“That's a lie, Atty; it was I, your fine chip of a father, that struck
her. Here's her health, at all events! I'll make one dhrink of it; hoch!
they may talk as they like, but I'll stick to Captain Whiskey.”
“Father,” said the child, “will you come over and lie down upon the
straw, for your own me, for your own Atty; and then you'll fall into a
sound sleep?”
“I will, Atty, for you--for you--I will, Atty; but mind, I wouldn't do
it for e'er another livin'.”
One day wid Captain Whiskey I wrastled a fall, But, t'aix, I was no
match for the Captain at all, Though the landlady's measures they wor
damnably small--But I'll thry him to morrow when I'm sober.
“Come,” said the child, “lie down here on the straw; my poor mammy says
we'll get clane straw to-morrow; and we'll be grand then.”
His father, who was now getting nearly helpless, went over and threw
himself upon some straw--thin and scanty and cold it was--or rather,
in stooping to throw himself on it he fell with what they call in the
country a soss; that is, he fell down in a state of utter helplessness;
his joints feeble and weak, and all his strength utterly prostrated.
Margaret, who in the meantime was striving to stop the effusion of blood
from her temple, by the application of cobwebs, of which there was no
scarcity in the house, now went over, and loosening his cravat, she got
together some old rags, of which she formed, as well as she could, a
pillow to support his head, in order to avoid the danger of his being
suffocated.
“Poor Art,” she exclaimed, “if you knew what you did, you would cut that
hand off you sooner than raise it to your own Margaret, as you used to
call me. It is pity that I feel for you, Art dear, but no anger; an'
God, who sees my heart, knows that.”
Now that he was settled, and her own temple bound up, the children once
more commenced their cry of famine; for nothing can suspend the stern
cravings of hunger, especially when fanged by the bitter consciousness
that there is no food to be had. Just then, however, the girl returned
from her sister's, loaded with oatmeal--a circumstance which changed the
cry of famine into one of joy.
But now, what was to be done for fire, there was none in the house.
“Here is half-a-crown,” said the girl, “that she sent you; but she put
her hands acrass, and swore by the five crasses, that unless you left
Art at wanst, they'd never give you a rap farden's worth of assistance
agin, if you and they wor to die in the streets.”
“Leave him!” said Margaret; “oh never! When I took him, I took him for
betther an' for worse, and I'm not goin' to neglect my duty to him now,
because he's down. All the world has desarted him, but I'll never desart
him. Whatever may happen, Art dear--poor, lost Art--whatever may happen,
I'll live with you, beg with you, die with you; anything but desart
you.”
She then, after wiping the tears which accompanied her words, sent out
the girl, who bought some turf and milk, in order to provide a meal of
wholesome food for the craving children.
“Now,” said she to the girl, “what is to be done? for if poor Art
sees this meal in the morning, he will sell the best part of it to get
whiskey; for I need scarcely tell you,” she added, striving to palliate
his conduct, “that he cannot do without it, however he might contrive to
do without his breakfast.” But, indeed, this was true. So thoroughly was
he steeped in drunkenness--in the low, frequent, and insatiable appetite
for whiskey--that, like tobacco or snuff, it became an essential portion
of his life--a necessary-evil, without which he could scarcely exist. At
all events, the poor children had one comfortable meal, which made them
happy; the little stock that remained was stowed away in some nook or
other, where Art was not likely to find it; the girl went home, and we
were about to say that the rest of this miserable family went to bed;
but, alas! they had no bed to go to, with the exception of a little
straw, and a thin single blanket to cover them.
If Margaret's conduct during these severe and terrible trials was not
noble and heroic, we know not what could be called so. The affection
which she exhibited towards her husband overcame everything. When Art
had got about half way in his mad and profligate career, her friends
offered to support her, if she would take refuge with them and abandon
him; but the admirable woman received the proposal as an insult; and the
reply she gave is much the same as the reader has heard from her lips,
with reference to the girl's message from her sister.
Subsequently, they offered to take her and the children; but this also
she indignantly rejected. She could not leave him, she said, at the very
time when it was so necessary that her hands should be about him. What
might be the fate of such a man if he had none to take care of him?
No, this almost unexampled woman, rather than desert him in such
circumstances, voluntarily partook in all the wretchedness, destitution,
and incredible misery which his conduct inflicted on her, and did so
patiently, and without a murmur.
In a few days after the night we have described, a man covered with
rags, without shoe, or stocking, or shirt, having on an old hat, through
the broken crown of which his hair, wefted with bits of straw, stood
out, his face shrunk and pale, his beard long and filthy, and his eyes
rayless and stupid--a man of this description, we say, with one child in
his arms, and two more accompanying him, might be seen begging
through the streets of Ballykeerin; yes, and often in such a state of
drunkenness as made it frightful to witness his staggering gait, lest he
might tumble over upon the infant, or let it fair out of his arms. This
man was Art Maguire; to such a destiny had he come, or rather had he
brought himself at last; Art Maguire--one of the great Maguires of
Fermanagh!
But where is she--the attached, the indomitable in love--the patient,
the much enduring, the uncomplaining? Alas! she is at length separated
from him and them; her throbbing veins are hot and rife with fever--her
aching head is filled with images of despair and horror--she is calling
for her husband--her young and manly husband--and says she will not be
parted from him--she is also calling for her children, and demands to
have them. The love of the mother and of the wife is now furious; but,
thank God, the fury that stimulates it is that of disease, and not of
insanity. The trials and privations which could not overcome her noble
heart, overcame her physical frame, and on the day succeeding that woful
night she was seized with a heavy fever, and through the interference
of some respectable inhabitants of the town, was conveyed to the fever
hospital, where she now lies in a state of delirium.
And Frank Maguire--the firm, the industrious, and independent--where is
he? Unable to bear the shame of his brother's degradation, he gave up
his partnership, and went to America, where he now is; but not without
having left in the hands of a friend something for his unfortunate
brother to remember him by; and it was this timely aid which for the
last three quarters of a year has been the sole means of keeping life in
his brother's family.
Thus have we followed Art Maguire from his youth up to the present stage
of his life, attempting, as well as we could, to lay open to our readers
his good principles and his bad, together with the errors and ignorances
of those who had the first formation of his character--we mean his
parents and family. We have endeavored to trace, with as strict an
adherence to truth and nature as possible, the first struggles of a
heart naturally generous and good, with the evil habit which beset him,
as well as with the weaknesses by which that habit was set to work upon
his temperament. Whether we have done this so clearly and naturally
as to bring home conviction of its truth to such of our readers as may
resemble him in the materials which formed his moral constitution, and
consequently, to hold him up as an example to be avoided, it is not for
ourselves to say. If our readers think so, or rather feel so, then we
shall rest satisfied of having performed our task as we ought.
Our task, however, is not accomplished. It is true, we have accompanied
him with pain and pity to penury, rags, and beggary--unreformed,
unrepenting, hardened, shameless, desperate. Do our readers now suppose
that there is anything in the man, or any principle external to him,
capable of regenerating and elevating a heart so utterly lost as his?
But hush! what is this? How dark the moral clouds that have been hanging
over the country for a period far beyond the memory of man! how black
that dismal canopy which is only lit by fires that carry and shed around
them disease, famine, crime, madness, bloodshed, and death. How hot,
sultry, and enervating to the whole constitution of man, physically and
mentally, is the atmosphere we have been breathing so long! The miasma
of the swamp, the simoom of the desert, the merciless sirocco,
are healthful when compared to such an atmosphere. And, hark! what
formidable being is that who, with black expanded wings, flies about
from place to place, and from person to person, with a cup of fire in
his hands, which he applies to their eager lips? And what spell or
charm lies in that burning cup, which, no sooner do they taste than they
shout, clap their hands with exultation, and cry out, “We are happy! we
are happy!” Hark; he proclaims himself, and shouteth still louder than
they do; but they stop their ears, and will not listen; they shut their
eyes and will not see. What sayeth he? “I am the Angel of Intemperance,
Discord, and Destruction, who oppose myself to God and all his laws--to
man, and all that has been made for his good; my delight is in misery
and unhappiness, in crime, desolation, ruin, murder, and death in a
thousand shapes of vice and destitution. Such I am, such I shall be, for
behold, my dominion shall last forever!”
But hush again! Look towards the south! What faint but beautiful light
is it, which, fairer than that of the morning, gradually breaketh upon
that dark sky? See how gently, but how steadily, its lustre enlarges
and expands! It is not the light of the sun, nor of the moon, nor of the
stars, neither is it the morning twilight, which heralds the approach of
day; no, but it is the serene effulgence which precedes and accompanies
a messenger from God, who is sent to bear a new principle of happiness
to man! This principle is itself an angelic spirit, and lo! how the sky
brightens, and the darkness flees away like a guilty thing before it!
Behold it on the verge of the horizon, which is now glowing with the
rosy hues of heaven--it advances, it proclaims its mission:--hark!
“I am the Angel of Temperance, of Industry, of Peace! who oppose myself
to the Spirit of Evil and all his laws--I am the friend of man, and
conduct him to the true enjoyment of all that has been made for his
good. My mission is to banish misery, unhappiness, and crime, to save
mankind from desolation, ruin, murder, and death, in a thousand shapes
of vice and destitution.”
And now see how he advances in beauty and power, attended by knowledge,
health, and truth, while the harmonies of domestic life, of civil
concord, and social duty, accompany him, and make music in his path. But
where is the angel of intemperance, discord, and destruction? Hideous
monster, behold him! No longer great nor terrible, he flies, or rather
totters, from before his serene opponent--he shudders--he stutters and
hiccups in his howlings--his limbs are tremulous--his hands shake as
if with palsy--his eye is lustreless and bloodshot, and his ghastly
countenance the exponent of death. He flies, but not unaccompanied;
along with him are crime, poverty, hunger, idleness, his music the groan
of the murderer, the clanking of the madman's chain, filled up by the
report of the suicide's pistol, and the horrible yell of despair! And
now he and his evil spirits are gone, the moral atmosphere is bright and
unclouded, and the Angel of Temperance, Industry, and Peace goes abroad
throughout the land, fulfilling his beneficent mission, and diffusing
his own virtues into the hearts of a regenerated people!
Leaving allegory, however, to the poets, it is impossible that, treating
of the subject which we have selected, we could, without seeming to
undervalue it, neglect to say a few words upon the most extraordinary
moral phenomenon, which, apart from the miraculous, the world ever saw;
we allude to the wonderful Temperance Movement, as it is called, which,
under the guiding hand of the Almighty, owes its visible power and
progress to the zeal and incredible exertions of one pious and humble
man--the Very Rev. Theobald Matthew, of Cork. When we consider the
general, the proverbial character, which our countrymen have, during
centuries, borne for love of drink, and their undeniable habits of
intemperance, we cannot but feel that the change which has taken place
is, indeed, surprising, to say the least of it. But, in addition to
this, when we also consider the natural temperament of the Irishman--his
social disposition--his wit, his humor, and his affection--all of which
are lit up by liquor--when we just reflect upon the exhilaration of
spirits produced by it--when we think upon the poverty, the distress,
and the misery which too generally constitute his wretched lot, and
which it will enable him, for a moment, to forget--and when we remember
that all his bargains were made over it--that he courted his sweetheart
over it--got married over it--wept for his dead over it--and generally
fought his enemy of another faction, or the Orangeman of another creed,
when under its influence:--when we pause over all these considerations,
we can see how many temptations our countrymen had to overcome in
renouncing it as they did; and we cannot help looking at it as a moral
miracle, utterly without parallel in the history of man.
Now we are willing to give all possible credit, and praise, and honor to
Father Matthew; but we do not hesitate to say, that even he would have
failed in being, as he is, the great visible exponent of this admirable
principle, unless there had been other kindred principles in the
Irishman's heart, which recognized and clung to it. In other words it is
unquestionable, that had the religious and moral feelings of the Irish
people been neglected, the principle of temperance would never have
taken such deep root in the heart of the nation as it has done. Nay, it
could not; for does not every man of common sense know, that good moral
principles seldom grow in a bad moral soil, until it is cultivated for
their reception. It is, therefore, certainly a proof that the Roman
Catholic priesthood of Ireland had not neglected the religious
principles of the people. It may, I know, and it has been called a
superstitious contagion; but however that may be, so long as we have
such contagions among us, we will readily pardon the superstition. Let
superstition always assume a shape of such beneficence and virtue to
man, and we shall not quarrel with her for retaining the name. Such a
contagion could never be found among any people in whom there did not
exist predisposing qualities, ready to embrace and nurture the good
which came with it.
Our argument, we know, may be met by saying that its chief influence was
exerted on those whose habits of dissipation, immorality, and irreligion
kept, them aloof from the religious instruction of the priest. But to
those who know the Irish heart, it is not necessary to say that many
a man addicted to drink is far from being free from the impressions of
religion, or uninfluenced by many a generous and noble virtue. Neither
does it follow that every such man has been neglected by his priest, or
left unadmonished of the consequences which attended his evil habit.
But how did it happen, according to that argument, that it was this
very class of persons--the habitual, or the frequent, or the occasional
drunkard--that first welcomed the spirit of temperance, and availed
themselves of its blessings? If there had not been the buried seeds of
neglected instruction lying in their hearts, it is very improbable that
they would have welcomed and embraced the principle as they did. On the
other hand, it is much more likely that they would have fled from,
and avoided a spirit which deprived them of the gratification of their
ruling and darling passion. Evil and good, we know, do not so readily
associate.
Be this, however, as it may, we have only to state, in continuation
of our narrative, that at the period of Art Maguire's most lamentable
degradation, and while his admirable but unhappy wife was stretched upon
the burning bed of fever, the far low sounds of the Temperance Movement
were heard, and the pale but pure dawn of its distant light seen
at Ballykeerin. That a singular and novel spirit accompanied it, is
certain; and that it went about touching and healing with all the power
of an angel, is a matter not of history, but of direct knowledge and
immediate recollection. Nothing, indeed, was ever witnessed in any
country similar to it. Whereever it went, joy, acclamation, ecstasy
accompanied it; together with a sense of moral liberty, of perfect
freedom from the restraint, as it were, of some familiar devil, that had
kept its victims in its damnable bondage. Those who had sunk exhausted
before the terrible Molpch of Intemperance, and given themselves over
for lost, could now perceive that there was an ally at hand, that was
able to bring them succor, and drag them back from degradation and
despair, to peace and independence, from contempt and infamy, to respect
and praise. Nor was this all. It was not merely into the heart of the
sot and drunkard that it carried a refreshing consciousness of joy and
deliverance, but into all those hearts which his criminal indulgence had
filled with heaviness and sorrow. It had, to be sure, its dark side
to some--ay, to thousands. Those who lived by the vices
--the low indulgences and the ruinous excesses--of their
fellow-creatures--trembled and became aghast at its approach. The vulgar
and dishonest publican, who sold a _bona fide_ poison under a false
name; the low tavern-keeper; the proprietor of the dram-shop; of the
night-house; and the shebeen--all were struck with terror and dismay.
Their occupation was doomed to go. No more in the dishonest avarice of
gain where they to coax and jest with the foolish tradesman, until they
confirmed him in the depraved habit, and led him on, at his own expense,
and their profit, step by step, until the naked and shivering sot, now
utterly ruined, was kicked out, like Art Maguire, to make room for those
who were to tread in his steps, and share his fate.
No more was the purity and inexperience of youth to be corrupted by evil
society, artfully introduced for the sordid purpose of making him spend
his money, at the expense of health, honesty, and good name.
No more was the decent wife of the spendthrift tradesman, when forced by
stern necessity, and the cries of her children, to seek her husband in
the public house, of a Saturday night, anxious as she was to secure what
was left unspent of his week's wages, in order to procure to-morrow's
food--no more was she to be wheedled into the bar, to get the landlord's
or the landlady's treat, in order that the outworks of temperance, and
the principles of industry, perhaps of virtue, might be gradually broken
down, for the selfish and diabolical purpose of enabling her drunken
husband to spend a double share of his hardly-earned pittance.
Nor more was the male servant, in whom every confidence was placed, to
be lured into these vile dens of infamy, that he might be fleeced or his
money, tutored into debauchery or dishonesty, or thrown into the society
of thieves and robbers, that he might become an accomplice in their
crimes, and enable them to rob his employer with safety. No more was the
female servant, on the other hand, to be made familiar with tippling,
or corrupted by evil company, until she became a worthless and degraded
creature, driven out of society, without reputation or means of
subsistence, and forced to sink to that last loathsome alternative of
profligacy which sends her, after a short and wicked course, to the
jeering experiments of the dissecting-room.
Oh, no; those wretches who lived by depravity, debauchery, and
corruption, were alarmed almost into distraction by the approach
of temperance, for they knew it would cut off the sources of their
iniquitous gains, and strip them of the vile means of propagating
dishonesty and vice, by which they lived. But even this wretched class
were not without instances of great disinterestedness and virtue;
several of them closed their debasing establishments, forfeited their
ill-gotten means of living, and trusting to honesty and legitimate
industry, voluntarily assumed the badge of temperance, and joined its
peaceful and triumphant standard!
Previous to this time, however, and, indeed, long before the joyful
sounds of its advancing motion were heard from afar, it is not to be
taken for granted that the drunkards of the parish of Ballykeerin Avere
left to the headlong impulses of their own evil propensities. Before Art
Maguire had fallen from his integrity and good name, there had not been
a more regular attendant at mass, or at his Easter and Christmas
duties, in the whole parish; in this respect he was a pattern, as Father
Costelloe, the priest, often said, to all who were anxious to lead a
decent and creditable life, forgetting their duty neither to God nor
man. A consciousness of his fall, however, made him ashamed in the
beginning to appear at mass, until he should decidedly reform, which he
proposed and resolved to do, or thought he resolved, from week to week,
and from day to day. How he wrought out these resolutions our readers
know too well; every day and every week only made him worse and worse,
until by degrees all thought of God, or prayer, or priest, abandoned
him, and he was left to swelter in misery among the very dregs of
his prevailing vice, hardened and obdurate. Many an admonition has he
received from Father Costelloe, especially before he become hopeless,
and many a time, when acknowledging his own inability to follow up his
purposes of amendment, has he been told by that good and Christian man,
that he must have recourse to better and higher means of support, and
remember that God will not withhold his grace from those who ask it
sincerely and aright. Art, however, could not do so, for although he had
transient awakenings of conscience, that were acute while they lasted,
yet he could not look up to God with a thorough and heartfelt resolution
of permanent reformation. The love of liquor, and the disinclination to
give it up, still lurked in his heart, and prevented him from setting
about his amendment in earnest. If they had not, he would have taken a
second oath, as his brother Frank often advised him to do, but without
effect. He still hoped to be able to practise moderation, and drink
within bounds, and consequently persuaded himself that total abstinence
was not necessary in his case. At length Father Costelloe, like all
those who were deeply anxious for his reformation, was looked upon as
an unwelcome adviser, whose Christian exhortations to a better course of
life were anything but agreeable, because he spoke truth; and so strong
did this feeling grow in him, that in his worst moments he would rather
sink into the earth than meet him: nay, a glimpse of him at any distance
was sure to make the unfortunate man hide himself in some hole or corner
until the other had passed, and all danger of coming under his reproof
was over. Art was still begging with his children, when, after a long
and dangerous illness, it pleased God to restore his wife to him and
them. So much pity, and interest, and respect did she excite during
her convalescence--for it was impossible that her virtues, even in the
lowest depths of her misery, could be altogether unknown--that the heads
of the hospital humanely proposed to give her some kind of situation in
it, as soon as she should regain sufficient strength to undertake its
duties. The mother's love, however, still prompted her to rejoin her
children, feeling as she did, and as she said, how doubly necessary now
her care and attention to them must be. She at length yielded to their
remonstrances, when they assured her that to return in her present weak
condition to her cold and desolate house, and the utter want of all
comfort which was to be found in it, might, and, in all probability,
would, be fatal to her; and that by thus exposing herself too soon to
the consequences of cold and destitution, she might leave her children
motherless. This argument prevailed, but in the meantime she stipulated
that her children and her husband, if the latter were in a state of
sufficient sobriety, should be permitted occasionally to see her, that
she might inquire into their situation, and know how they lived. This
was acceded to, and, by the aid of care and nourishing food, she soon
found herself beginning to regain her strength.
In the meantime the Temperance movement was rapidly and triumphantly
approaching. In a town about fifteen miles distant there was a meeting
advertised to be held, at which the great apostle himself was to
administer the pledge; Father Costelloe announced it from the altar, and
earnestly recommended his parishioners to attend, and enrol themselves
under the blessed banner of Temperance, the sober man as well as the
drunkard.
“It may be said,” he observed, “that sober men have no necessity for
taking the pledge; and if one were certain that every sober man was
to remain sober during his whole life, there would not, indeed, be a
necessity for sober men to take it; but, alas! my friends, you know how
subject we are to those snares, and pitfalls, and temptations of life
by which our paths are continually beset. Who can say to-day that he
may not transgress the bounds of temperance before this day week? Your
condition in life is surrounded by inducements to drink. You scarcely
buy or sell a domestic animal in fair or market, that you are not
tempted to drink; you cannot attend a neighbor's funeral that you are
not tempted to drink--'tis the same at the wedding and the christening,
and in almost all the transactions of your lives. How then can you
answer for yourselves, especially when your spirits may happen to be
elevated, and your hearts glad? Oh! it is then, my friends, that the
tempter approaches you, and probably implants in your unguarded hearts
the germ of that accursed habit which has destroyed millions. How often
have you heard it said of many men, even within the range of your own
knowledge, 'Ah, he was an industrious, well-conducted, and respectable
man--until he took to drink!' Does not the prevalence of such a vile
habit, and the fact that so many sober men fall away from that virtue,
render the words that I have just uttered a melancholy proverb in the
country? Ah, there he is--in rags and misery; yet he was an industrious,
well-conducted, and respectable man once, that is--before he took to
drink! Prevention, my dear friends, is always better than cure, and in
binding yourselves by this most salutary obligation, you know not how
much calamity and suffering--how much general misery--how much disgrace
and crime you may avoid. And, besides, are we not to look beyond this
world? Is a crime which so greatly depraves the heart, and deadens its
power of receiving the wholesome impressions of religion and truth, not
one which involves our future happiness or misery? Ah, my dear brethren,
it is indeed a great and a cross popular error to say that sober men
should not take this pledge. I hope I have satisfied you that it is a
duty they owe themselves to take it, so long as they feel that they are
frail creatures, and liable to sin and error; and not only themselves,
but their children, their friends, and all who might be affected, either
for better or worse, by their example.
“There is another argument, however, which I cannot overlook, while
dwelling upon this important subject. We know that the drunkard, if God
should, through the instrumentality of this great and glorious movement,
put the wish for amendment into his heart, still feels checked and
deterred by a sense of shame; because, the truth is, if none attended
these meetings but such men, that very fact alone would prove a great
obstruction in the way of their reformation. Many, too many, are
drunkards; but every man is not an open drunkard, and hundreds, nay,
thousands, would say, 'By attending these meetings of drunken men, I
acknowledge myself to be a drunkard also;' hence they will probably
decline going through shame, and consequently miss the opportunity of
retrieving themselves. Now, I say, my friends, it is the duty of sober
men to deprive them of this argument, and by an act, which, after all,
involves nothing of self-denial, but still an act of great generosity,
to enable them to enter into this wholesome obligation, without being
openly exposed to the consequences of having acknowledged that they were
intemperate.”
He then announced the time and place of the meeting, which was in the
neighboring town of Drumnabrogue, and concluded by again exhorting
them all, without distinction, to attend it and take the pledge. His
exhortations were not without effect; many of his parishioners did
attend, and among them some of Art's former dissolute companions.
Art himself, when spoken to, and pressed to go, hiccuped and laughed
at the notion of any such pledge reforming him; a strong proof that
all hope of recovering himself, or of regaining his freedom from
drunkenness, had long ago deserted him. This, if anything further was
necessary to do so, completed the scene of his moral prostration and
infamy. Margaret, who was still in the hospital, now sought to avail
herself of the opportunity which presented itself, by reasoning with,
and urging him to go, but, like all others, her arguments were laughed
at, and Art expressed contempt for her, Father Matthew, and all the
meetings that had yet taken place.
“Will takin' the pledge,” he asked her, “put a shirt to my back, a thing
I almost forget the use of, or a good coat? Will it put a dacent house
over my head, a good bed under me, and a warm pair of blankets on us to
keep us from shiverin', an' coughin', an' barkin' the whole night long
in the could?
“No, faith, I'll not give up the whiskey, for it has one comfort, it
makes me sleep in defiance o' wind and weather; it's the only friend I
have left now--it's my shirt--its my coat--my shoes and stockin's--my
house--my blankets--my coach--my carriage--it makes me a nobleman, a
lord; but, anyhow, sure I'm as good, ay, by the mortual, and better,
for amn't I one of the great Maguires of Fermanagh! Whish, the ou--ould
blood forever, and to the divil wid their meetins!”
“Art,” said his wife, “I believe if you took the pledge that it would
give you all you say, and more; for it would bring you back the respect
and good-will of the people, that you've long lost.”
“To the divil wid the people! I'll tell you what, if takin' the pledge
reforms Mechil Gam, the crooked disciple that he is, or Tom Whiskey,
mind--mind me--I say if it reforms them, or young Barney Scaddhan, thin
you may spake up for it, an' may be, I'll listen to you.”
At length the meeting took place, and the three men alluded to by Art,
attended it as they said they would; each returned home with his pledge;
they rose up the next morning, and on that night went to bed sober.
This was repeated day after day, week after week, month after month, and
still nothing characterized them but sobriety, peace, and industry.
Unfortunately, so far as Art Maguire was concerned, it was out of his
power, as it was out of that of hundreds, to derive any benefit from
the example which some of his old hard-drinking associates had so
unexpectedly set both him and them. No meeting had since occurred within
seventy or eighty miles of Ballykeerin, and yet the contagion of good
example had spread through that and the adjoining parishes in a manner
that was without precedent. In fact, the people murmured, became
impatient, and, ere long, demanded from their respective pastors
that another meeting should be held, to afford them an opportunity of
publicly receiving the pledge; and for that purpose they besought the
Rev. gentlemen to ask Father Matthew to visit Ballykeerin. This wish
was complied with, and Father Matthew consented, though at considerable
inconvenience to himself, and appointed a day for the purpose specified.
This was about three or four months after the meeting that was held in
the neighboring town already alluded to.
For the last six weeks Margaret had been able to discharge the duties of
an humble situation in the hospital, on the condition that she should
at least once a day see her children. Poor as was the situation in
question, it enabled her to contribute much more to their comfort, than
she could if she had resided with them, or, in other words, begged with
them; for to that, had she returned home, it must have come; and, as the
winter was excessively severe, this would have killed her, enfeebled as
she had been by a long and oppressive fever. Her own good sense taught
her to see this, and the destitution of her children and husband--to
feel it. In this condition then were they--depending on the scanty aid
which her poor exertions could afford them, eked out by the miserable
pittance that he extorted as a beggar--when the intelligence arrived
that the great Apostle of Temperance had appointed a day on which to
hold a teetotal meeting in the town of Ballykeerin.
It is utterly unaccountable how the approach of Father Matthew, and of
these great meetings, stirred society into a state of such extraordinary
activity, not only in behalf of temperance, but also of many other
virtues; so true is it, that when one healthy association is struck it
awakens all those that are kindred to it into new life. In addition to a
love of sobriety, the people felt their hearts touched, as it were, by
a new spirit, into kindness and charity, and a disposition to discharge
promptly and with good-will all brotherly and neighborly offices.
Harmony, therefore, civil, social, and domestic, accompanied the
temperance movement wherever it went, and accompanies it still wherever
it goes; for, like every true blessing, it never comes alone, but brings
several others in its train.
The morning in question, though cold, was dry and bright; a small
platform had been raised at the edge of the market-house, which was open
on one side, and on it Father Matthew was to stand. By this simple means
he would be protected from rain, should any fall, and was sufficiently
accessible to prevent any extraordinary crush among the postulants.
But how will we attempt to describe the appearance which the town of
Ballykeerin presented on the morning of this memorable and auspicious
day? And above all, in what terms shall we paint the surprise, the
wonder, the astonishment with which they listened to the music of the
teetotal band, which, as if by magic, had been formed in the town of
Drumnabogue, where, only a few months before, the meeting of which we
have spoken had been held. Indeed, among all the proofs of national
advantages which the temperance movement has brought out, we are not to
forget those which it has bestowed on the country--by teaching us what
a wonderful capacity for music, and what a remarkable degree of
intellectual power, the lower classes of our countrymen are endowed
with, and can manifest when moved by adequate principles. Early as
daybreak the roads leading to Ballykeerin presented a living stream of
people listening onwards towards the great rendezvous; but so much
did they differ in their aspect from almost any other assemblage of
Irishmen, that, to a person ignorant of their purpose, it would be
difficult, if not impossible, to guess the cause, not that moved them in
such multitudes towards the same direction, but that marked them by such
peculiar characteristics. We have seen Irishmen and Irishwomen going to
a country race in the summer months, when labor there was none; we
have seen them going to meetings of festivity and amusement of all
descriptions;--to fairs, to weddings, to dances--but we must confess,
that notwithstanding all our experience and intercourse with them, we
never witnessed anything at all resembling their manner and bearing on
this occasion. There was undoubtedly upon them, and among them, all the
delightful enjoyment of a festival spirit; they were easy, cheerful,
agreeable, and social; but, in addition to this, there was clearly
visible an expression of feeling that was new even to themselves, as
well as to the spectators. But how shall we characterize this feeling?
It was certainly not at variance with the cheerfulness which they felt,
but, at the same time, it shed over it a serene solemnity of manner
which communicated a moral grandeur to the whole proceeding that fell
little short of sublimity. This was a principle of simple virtue upon
which all were equal; but it was more than that, it was at once a
manifestation of humility, and an exertion of faith in the aid and
support of the Almighty, by whose grace those earnest but humble people
felt and trusted that they would be supported. And who can say that
their simplicity of heart--their unaffected humility, and their firmness
of faith have not been amply rewarded, and triumphantly confirmed by the
steadfastness with which they have been, with extremely few exceptions,
faithful to their pledge.
About nine o'clock the town of Ballykeerin was crowded with a multitude
such as had never certainly met in it before. All, from the rustic
middle classes down, were there. The crowd was, indeed, immense, yet,
notwithstanding their numbers, one could easily mark the peculiar class
for whose sake principally the meeting had been called together.
There was the red-faced farmer of substance, whose sunburnt cheeks, and
red side-neck, were scorched into a color that disputed its healthy hue
with the deeper purple tint of strong and abundant drink.
“Such a man,” an acute observer would say, “eats well, and drinks well,
but is very likely to pop off some day, without a minute's warning, or
saying good-by to his friends.”
Again, there was the pale and emaciated drunkard, whose feeble and
tottering gait, and trembling hands, were sufficiently indicative of his
broken-down constitution, and probably of his anxiety to be enabled to
make some compensation to the world, or some provision on the part of
his own soul, to balance the consequences of an ill-spent life, during
which morals were laughed at, and health destroyed.
There was also the healthy-looking drunkard of small means, who, had he
been in circumstances to do so, would have gone to bed drunk every night
in the year. He is not able, from the narrowness of his circumstances,
to drink himself into apoplexy on the one hand, or debility on the
other; but he is able, notwithstanding, to drink the clothes off his
back, and the consequence is, that he stands before you as ragged,
able-bodied, and thumping a specimen of ebriety as you could wish to
see during a week's journey. There were, in fact, the vestiges of
drunkenness in all their repulsive features, and unhealthy variety.
There stood the grog-drinker with his blotched face in full flower, his
eye glazed in his head, and his protuberant paunch projecting over his
shrunk and diminished limbs.
The tippling tradesman too was there, pale and sickly-looking, his thin
and over-worn garments evidently insufficient to keep out the chill of
morning, and prevent him from shivering every now and then, as if he
were afflicted with the ague.
In another direction might be seen the servant out of place, known by
the natty knot of his white cravat, as well as by the smartness with
which he wears his dress, buttoned up as it is, and coaxed about him
with all the ingenuity which experience and necessity bring to the aid
of vanity. His napeless hat is severely brushed in order to give the
subsoil an appearance of the nap which is gone, but it won't do; every
one sees that his intention is excellent, were it possible for address
and industry to work it out. This is not the case, however, and the hat
is consequently a clear exponent of his principles and position, taste
and skill while he was sober--vain pride and trying poverty now in his
drunkenness.
The reckless-looking sailor was also there (but with a serious air now),
who, having been discharged for drunkenness, and refused employment
everywhere else, for the same reason, was obliged to return home, and
remain a burden upon his friends. He, too, has caught this healthy
epidemic, and the consequence is, that he will once more gain
employment, for the production of his medal will be accepted as a
welcome proof of his reformation.
And there was there, what was better still, the unfortunate female, the
victim of passion and profligacy, conscious of her past life, and almost
ashamed in the open day to look around her. Poor thing! how her heart,
that was once innocent and pure, now trembles within a bosom where
there is awakened many a painful recollection of early youth, and the
happiness of home, before that unfortunate night, when, thrown off
her guard by accursed liquor, she ceased to rank among the pure and
virtuous. Yes, all these, and a much greater variety, were here actuated
by the noble resolution to abandon forever the evil courses, the vices,
and the profligacy into which they were first driven by the effects of
drink.
The crowd was, indeed, immense, many having come a distance of twenty,
thirty, some forty, and not a few fifty miles, in order to free
themselves, by this simple process, from the influence of the
destructive habit which either was leading, or had led them, to ruin.
Of course it is not to be supposed that among such a vast multitude
of people there were not, as there always is, a great number of those
vagabond impostors who go about from place to place, for the purpose of
extorting charity from the simple and credulous, especially when under
the influence of liquor. All this class hated the temperance movement,
because they knew right well that sobriety in the people was there
greatest enemy; the lame, the blind, the maimed, the deaf, and the dumb,
were there in strong muster, and with their characteristic ingenuity
did everything in their power, under the pretence of zeal and religious
enthusiasm, to throw discredit upon the whole proceedings. It was this
vile crew, who, by having recourse to the aid of mock miracles, fancied
they could turn the matter into derision and contempt, and who, by
affecting to be cured of their complaints, with a view of having
their own imposture, when detected, imputed to want of power in Father
Matthew;--it was this vile crew, we say, that first circulated the
notion that he could perform miracles. Unfortunately, many of the
ignorant among the people did in the beginning believe that he possessed
this power, until he himself, with his characteristic candor, disclaimed
it. For a short time the idea of this slightly injured the cause, and
afforded to its enemies some silly and senseless arguments, which, in
lieu of better, they were glad to bring against it.
At length Father Matthew, accompanied by several other clergymen and
gentlemen, made his appearance on the platform; then was the rush, the
stretching of necks, and the bitter crushing, accompanied by devices
and manoeuvres of all kinds, to catch a glimpse of him. The windows were
crowded by the more respectable classes, who were eager to witness the
effects of this great and sober enthusiasm among the lower classes. The
proceedings, however, were very simple. He first addressed them in
a plain and appropriate discourse, admirably displaying the very
description of eloquence which was best adapted to his auditory. This
being concluded, he commenced distributing the medal, for which every
one who received it, gave a shilling, the latter at the same time
repeating the following words: “I promise, so long as I shall continue
a member of the Teetotal Temperance Society, to abstain from all
intoxicating liquors, unless recommended for medical purposes, and to
discourage by all means in my power the practice of intoxication in
others.” Father Matthew then said, “May God bless you, and enable you to
keep your promise!”
Such was the simple ceremony by which millions have been rescued from
those terrible evils that have so long cursed and afflicted society in
this country.
In this large concourse there stood one individual, who presented in his
person such symptoms of a low, grovelling, and unremitting indulgence in
drink, as were strikingly observable even amidst the mass of misery and
wretchedness that was there congregated. It is rarely, even in a life,
that an object in human shape, encompassed and pervaded by so many of
the fearful results of habitual drunkenness, comes beneath observation.
Sometimes we may see it in a great city, when we feel puzzled, by the
almost total absence of reason in the countenance, to know whether the
utter indifference to nakedness and the elements, be the consequence of
drunken destitution, or pure idiocy. To this questionable appearance had
the individual we speak of come. The day was now nearly past, and the
crowd had considerably diminished, when this man, approaching Father
Matthew, knelt down, and clasping his skeleton hands, exclaimed--
“Father, I'm afeard I cannot trust myself.”
“Who can?” said Father Matthew; “it is not in yourself you are to place
confidence, but in God, who will support you, and grant you strength, if
you ask for it sincerely and humbly.”
These words, uttered in tones of true Christian charity, gave comfort to
the doubting heart of the miserable creature, who said--
“I would wish to take the pledge, if I had money; but I doubt it's too
late--too late for me! Oh, if I thought it wasn't!”
“It's never too late to repent,” replied the other, “or to return from
evil to good. If you feel your heart inclined to the right I course, do
not let want of money prevent you from pledging yourself to sobriety and
temperance.”
“In God's name, then, I will take it,” he replied; and immediately
repeated the simple words which constitute the necessary form.
“May God bless you,” said Father Matthew, placing his hand on his head,
“and enable you to keep your promise!”
This man, our readers already guess, was Art Maguire.
Having thus taken the medal, and pledged himself to sobriety, and a
total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors, his first feeling was
very difficult to describe. Father Matthew's words, though few and
brief, had sunk deep into his heart, and penetrated his whole spirit.
He had been for many a long day the jest and jibe of all who knew him;
because they looked upon his recovery as a hopeless thing, and spoke to
him accordingly in a tone of contempt and scorn--a lesson to us that we
never should deal harshly with the miserable. Nor, however, he had been
addressed in accents of kindness, and in a voice that proclaimed an
interest in his welfare. This, as we said, added to the impressive
spirit that prevailed around, touched him, and he hurried home.
On reaching his almost empty house, he found Margaret and the children
there before him; she having come to see how the poor things fared--but
being quite ignorant of what had just taken place with regard to her
husband.
“Art,” said she, with her usual affectionate manner; “you will want
something to eat; for if you're not hungry, your looks! belie you very
much. I have brought something for you and these creatures.”
Art looked at her, then at their children, then at the utter desolation
of the house, and spreading his two hands over his face, he wept aloud.
This was repentance. Margaret in exceeding surprise, rose and approached
him:--
“Art dear,” she said, “in the name of God, what's the matter?”
“Maybe my father's sick, mother,” said little Atty; “sure, father, if
you are, I an' the rest will go out ourselves, an' you can stay at home;
but we needn't go this day, for my mammy brought us as much as will put
us over it.”
To neither the mother nor child did he make any reply; but wept on and
sobbed as if his heart would break.
“Oh my God, my God,” he exclaimed bitterly, “what have I brought you to,
my darlin' wife and childre, that I loved a thousand times betther than
my own heart? Oh, what have I brought you to?”
“Art,” said his wife, and her eye kindled, “in the name of the heavenly
God, is this sorrow for the life you led?”
“Ah, Margaret darlin',” he said, still sobbing; “it's long since I ought
to a felt it; but how can I look back on that woful life? Oh my God, my
God! what have I done, an' what have I brought on you!”
“Art,” she said, “say to me that you're sorry for it; only let my ears
hear you saying the words.”
“Oh, Margaret dear,” he sobbed, “from my heart--from the core of my
unhappy heart--I am sorry--sorry for it all.”
“Then there's hope,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and looking up
to heaven, “there is hope--for him--for him--for us all! Oh my heart,”
she exclaimed, quickly, “what is this?” and she scarcely uttered the
words, when she sank upon the ground insensible--sudden joy being
sometimes as dangerous as sudden grief.
Art, who now forgot his own sorrow in apprehension for her, raised her
up, assisted by little Atty, who, as did the rest of the children, cried
bitterly, on seeing his mother's eyes shut, her arms hanging lifelessly
by her side, and herself without motion. Water, however, was brought
by Atty; her face sprinkled, and a little put to her lips, and with
difficulty down her throat. At length she gave a long deep-drawn sigh,
and opening her eyes, she looked tenderly into her husband's face--
“Art dear,” she said, in a feeble voice, “did I hear it right? And you
said you were sorry?”
“From my heart I am, Margaret dear,” he replied; “oh, if you knew what I
feel this minute!”
She looked on him again, and her pale face was lit up with a smile of
almost ineffable happiness.
“Kiss me,” said she; “we are both young yet, Art dear, and we will gain
our lost ground wanst more.”
While she spoke, the tears of delight fell in torrents down her cheeks.
Art kissed her tenderly, and immediately pulling out the medal, showed
it to her.
She took the medal, and after looking at it, and reading the
inscription--
“Well, Art,” she said, “you never broke your oath--that's one comfort.”
“No,” he replied; “nor I'll never break this; if I do,” he added
fervently, and impetuously, “may God mark me out for misery and
misfortune!”
“Whisht, dear,” she replied; “don't give way to these curses--they sarve
no purpose, Art. But I'm so happy this day!”
“An' is my father never to be drunk any more, mammy?” asked the little
ones, joyfully; “an he'll never be angry wid you, nor bate you any
more?”
“Whisht, darlins,” she exclaimed; “don't be spakin' about that; sure
your poor father never beat me, only when he didn't know what he was
doin'. Never mention it again, one of you.”
“Ah, Margaret,” said Art, now thoroughly awakened, “what recompense can
I ever make you, for the treatment I gave you? Oh, how can I think of
it, or look back upon it?”
His voice almost failed him, as he uttered the last words; but his
affectionate wife stooped and kissing away the tears from his cheeks,
said--
“Don't, Art dear; sure this now is not a time to cry;” and yet her own
tears were flowing;--“isn't our own love come back to us? won't we now
have peace? won't we get industrious, and be respected again?”
“Ah, Margaret darling,” he replied, “your love never left you; so don't
put yourself in; but as for me--oh, what have I done? and what have I
brought you to?”
“Well, now, thanks be to the Almighty, all's right. Here's something for
you to ait; you must want it.”
“But,” he replied, “did these poor crathurs get anything? bekase if they
didn't, I'll taste nothin' till they do.”
“They did indeed,” said Margaret; and all the little ones came joyfully
about him, to assure him that they had been fed, and were not hungry.
The first feeling Art now experienced on going abroad was shame--a
deep and overwhelming sense of shame; shame at the meanness of his past
conduct--shame at his miserable and unsightly appearance--shame at all
he had done, and at all he had left undone. What course now, however,
was he to adopt? Being no longer stupified and besotted by liquor, into
a state partly apathetic, partly drunken, and wholly shameless, he could
not bear the notion of resuming his habits of mendicancy. The decent but
not the empty and senseless, pride of his family was now reawakened in
him, and he felt, besides, that labor and occupation were absolutely
necessary to enable him to bear up against the incessant craving which
he felt for the pernicious stimulant. So strongly did this beset him,
that he suffered severely from frequent attacks of tremor and sensations
that resembled fits of incipient distraction. Nothing, therefore,
remained for him but close employment, that would keep both mind and
body engaged.
When the fact of his having taken the pledge became generally known,
it excited less astonishment than a person might imagine; in truth, the
astonishment would have been greater, had he refused to take it at all,
so predominant and full of enthusiasm was the spirit of temperance at
that period. One feeling, however, prevailed with respect to him, which
was, that privation of his favorite stimulant would kill him--that his
physical system, already so much exhausted and enfeebled, would, break
down---and that poor Art would soon go the way of all drunkards.
On the third evening after he had taken the pledge, he went down to the
man who had succeeded himself in his trade, and who, by the way, had
been formerly one of his own journeymen, of the very men who, while he
was running his career of dissipation, refused to flatter his vanity,
or make one in his excesses, and who was, moreover, one of the very
individuals he had dismissed. To this man he went, and thus accosted
him--his name was Owen Gallagher.
“Owen,” said he, “I trust in God that I have gained a great victory of
late.”