"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 a.s.sure 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 G.o.d that I have gained a great victory of late."

The man understood him perfectly well, and replied--

"I hope so, Art; I hear you have taken the pledge."

"Belyin' on G.o.d's help, I have."

"Well," replied Owen, "you couldn't rely on betther help."

"No," said Art, "I know I could not; but, Owen, I ran a wild and a terrible race of it--I'm grieved an' shamed to think--even to think of it."

"An' that's a good sign, Art, there couldn't be betther; for unless a man's heart is sorry for his faults, and ashamed of them too, it's not likely he'll give them over."

"I can't bear to walk the streets," continued Art, "nor to rise my head; but still something must be done for the poor wife and childre."

"Ah, Art," replied Owen, "that is the wife! The goold of Europe isn't value for her; an' that's what every one knows."

"But who knows it, an' feels it as I do?" said Art, "or who has the right either? howandiver, as I said, something must be done; Owen, will you venture to give me employment? I know I'm in bad trim to come into a dacent workshop, but you know necessity has no law;--it isn't my clo'es that will work, but myself; an', indeed, if you do employ me, it's not much I'll be able to do this many a day; but the truth is, if I don't get something to keep me busy, I doubt I won't be able to stand against what I feel both in my mind and body."

These words were uttered with such an air of deep sorrow and perfect sincerity as affected Gallagher very much.

"Art," said he, "there was no man so great a gainer by the unfortunate coorse you tuck as I was, for you know I came into the best part of your business; G.o.d forbid then that I should refuse you work, especially as you have turned over a new lafe;--or to lend you a helpin' hand either, now that I know it will do you and your family good, and won't go to the public-house. Come wid me."

He took down his hat as he spoke, and brought Art up to one of those general shops that are to be found in every country town like Ballykeerin.

"Mr. Trimble," said he, "Art Maguire wants a plain substantial suit o'

clothes, that will be chape an' wear well, an' I'll be accountable for them; Art, sir, has taken the pledge, an' is goin' to turn over a new lafe, an' be as he wanst was, I hope."

"And there is no man," said the worthy shopkeeper, "in the town of Ballykeerin that felt more satisfaction than I did when I heard he had taken it. I know what he wants, and what you want for him, and he shall have it both cheap and good."

Such was the respect paid to those who n.o.bly resolved to overcome their besetting sin of drink, and its consequent poverty or profligacy, that the knowledge alone that they had taken the pledge, gained them immediate good-will, as it was ent.i.tled to do. This, to be sure, was in Art's favor; but there was about him, independently of this, a serious spirit of awakened resolution and sincerity which carried immediate conviction along with it.

"This little matter," said the honest carpenter, with natural consideration for Art, "will, of coorse, rest between you an' me, Mr.

Trimble."

"I understand your feeling, Owen," said he, "and I can't but admire it; it does honor to your heart."

"Hut," said Gallagher, "it's nothin'; sure it's jist what Art would do for myself, if we wor to change places."

Thus it is with the world, and ever will be so, till human nature changes. Art had taken the first step towards his reformation, and Owen felt that he was sincere; this step, therefore, even slight as it was, sufficed to satisfy his old friend that he would be safe in aiding him.

Gallagher's generosity, however, did not stop here; the a.s.sistance which he gave Art, though a matter of secrecy between themselves, was soon visible in Art's appearance, and that of his poor family. Good fortune, however, did not stop here; in about a week after this, when Art was plainly but comfortably dressed, and working with Gallagher, feeble as he was, upon journeyman's wages, there came a letter from his brother Frank, enclosing ten pounds for the use of his wife and children. It was directed to a friend in Ballykeerin, who was instructed to apply it according to his own discretion, and the wants of his family, only by no means to permit a single shilling of it to reach his hands, unless on the condition that he had altogether given up liquor. This seemed to Art like a proof that G.o.d had rewarded him for the step he had taken; in a few weeks it was wonderful how much comfort he and his family had contrived to get about them. Margaret was a most admirable manager, and a great economist, and with her domestic knowledge and good sense, things went on beyond their hopes.

Art again was up early and down late--for his strength, by the aid of wholesome and regular food, and an easy mind, was fast returning to him--although we must add here, that he never regained the healthy and powerful const.i.tution which he had lost. His reputation, too, was fast returning; many a friendly salutation he received from those, who, in his degradation, would pa.s.s him by with either ridicule or solemn contempt.

Nothing in this world teaches a man such well-remembered lessons of life as severe experience. Art, although far, very far removed from his former independence, yet, perhaps, might be said never to have enjoyed so much peace of mind, or so strong a sense of comfort, as he did now in his humble place with his family. The contrast between his past misery, and the present limited independence which he enjoyed, if it could be called independence, filled his heart with a more vivid feeling of thankfulness than he had ever known. He had now a bed to sleep on, with _bona fide_ blankets--he had a chair to sit on--a fire on his hearth--and food, though plain, to eat; so had his wife, so had his children; he had also very pa.s.sable clothes to his back, that kept him warm and comfortable, and prevented him from shivering like a reed in the blast; so had his wife, and so had his children. But he had more than this, for he had health, a good conscience, and a returning reputation. People now addressed him as an equal, as a man, as an individual who const.i.tuted a portion of society; then, again, he loved his wife as before, and lived with her in a spirit of affection equal to any they had ever felt. Why, this was, to a man who suffered what he and his family had suffered, perfect luxury.

In truth, Art now wondered at the life he had led,--he could not understand it; why he should have suffered himself, for the sake of a vile and questionable enjoyment--if enjoyment that could be called, which was no enjoyment--at least for the sake of a demoralizing and degrading habit, to fall down under the feet as it were, under the evil tongues, and the sneers--of those who const.i.tuted his world--the inhabitants of Ballykeerin--was now, that he had got rid of the thraldom, perfectly a mystery to him. Be this as it may, since he had regenerated his own character, the world was just as ready to take him up as it had been to lay him down.

Nothing in life gives a man such an inclination for active industry as to find that he is prospering; he has then heart and spirits to work, and does work blithely and cheerfully; so was it with Art. He and his employer were admirably adapted for each other, both being extremely well-tempered, honest, and first-rate workmen. About the expiration of the first twelve months, Art had begun to excite a good deal of interest in the town of Ballykeerin, an interest which was beginning to affect Owen Gallagher himself in a beneficial way. He was now pointed out to strangers as the man, who, almost naked, used to stand drunk and begging upon the bridge of Ballykeerin, surrounded by his starving and equally naked children. In fact, he began to get a name, quite a reputation for the triumph which he had achieved over drunkenness; and on this account Owen Gallagher, when it was generally known in the country that Art worked with him, found his business so rapidly extending, that he was obliged, from time to time, to increase the number of hands in his establishment. Art felt this, and being now aware that his position in life was, in fact, more favorable for industrious exertion than ever, resolved to give up journey work, and once more, if only for the novelty of the thing, to set up for himself. Owen Gallagher, on hearing this from his own lips, said he could not, nor would not blame him, but, he added--

"I'll tell you what we can do, Art--come into partnership wid me, for I think as we're gettin' an so well together, it 'ud be a pity, almost a sin, to part; join me, and I'll give you one-third of the business,"--by which he meant the profits of it.

"Begad," replied Art, laughing, "it's as much for the novelty of the thing I'm doin' it as any thing else; I think it 'ud be like a dhrame to me, if I was to find myself and my family as we wor before." And so they parted.

It is unnecessary here to repeat what we have already detailed concerning the progress of his early prosperity; it is sufficient, we trust, to tell our readers that he rose into rapid independence, and that he owed all his success to the victory that he had obtained over himself. His name was now far and near, and so popular had he become, that no teetotaller would employ any other carpenter. This, at length, began to make him proud, and to feel that his having given up drink, instead of being simply a duty to himself and his family, was altogether an act of great voluntary virtue on his part.

"Few men," he said, "would do it, an' may be, afther all, if I hadn't the ould blood in my veins--if I wasn't one of the great Fermanagh Maguires, I would never a' done it."

He was now not only a vehement Teetotaller, but an unsparing enemy to all who drank even in moderation; so much so, indeed, that whenever a man came to get work done with him, the first question he asked him was--"Are you a Teetotaller?" If the man answered "No," his reply was, "Well, I'm sorry for that, bekase I couldn't wid a safe conscience do your work; but you can go to Owen Gallagher, and he will do it for you as well as any man livin'."

This, to be sure, was the abuse of the principle; but we all know that the best things may be abused. He was, in fact, outrageous in defence of Teetotalism; attended all its meetings; subscribed for Band-money; and was by far the most active member in the whole town of Ballykeerin. It was not simply that he forgot his former poverty; he forgot himself.

At every procession he was to be seen, mounted on a spanking horse, ridiculously over-dressed--the man, we mean, not the horse--flaunting with ribands, and quite puffed up at the position to which he had raised himself.

This certainly was not the humble and thankful feeling with which he ought to have borne his prosperity. The truth, however, was, that Art, in all this parade, was not in the beginning acting upon those broad, open principles of honesty, which, in the transactions of business, had characterized his whole life. He was now influenced by his foibles--by his vanity--and by his ridiculous love of praise. Nor, perhaps, would these have been called into action, were it not through the intervention of his old friend and pot companion, Toal Finnigan. Toal, be it known to the reader, the moment he heard that Art had become a Teetotaller, immediately became one himself, and by this means their intimacy was once more renewed; that is to say, they spoke in friendly terms whenever they met--but no entreaty or persuasion could ever induce Toal to enter Art's house; and the reader need not be told why. At all events, Toal, soon after he joined it, put himself forward in the Teetotal Movement with such prominence, that Art, who did not wish to be outdone in anything, began to get jealous of him. Hence his ridiculous exhibitions of himself in every manner that could attract notice, or throw little Toal into the shade; and hence also the still more senseless determination not to work for any but a Teetotaller; for in this, too, Toal had set him the example. Toal, the knave, on becoming a Teetotaller, immediately resolved to turn it to account; but Art, provided he could show off, and cut a conspicuous figure in a procession, had no dishonest motive in what he did; and this was the difference between them. For instance, on going up the town of Ballykeerin, you might see over the door of a middle-sized house, "Teetotal Meal Shop. N. B.--None but Teetotallers need come here."

Now every one knew Toal too well not to understand this; for the truth is, that maugre his sign, he never refused his meal or other goods to any one that had money to pay for them.

One evening about this time, Art was seated in his own parlor--for he now had a parlor, and was in a state of prosperity far beyond anything he had ever experienced before--Margaret and the children were with him; and as he smoked his pipe, he could not help making an observation or two upon the wonderful change which so short a time had brought about.

"Well, Margaret," said he, "isn't this wondherful, dear? look at the comfort we have now about us, and think of--; but troth I don't like to think of it at all."

"I never can," she replied, "without a troubled and a sinkin' heart; but, Art, don't you remember when I wanst wished you to become a Teetotaller, the answer you made me?"

"May be I do; what was it?"

"Why, you axed me--and you were makin' game of it at the time--whether Teetotallism would put a shirt or a coat to your back--a house over your head--give you a bed to lie on, or blankets to keep you and the childre from shiverin', an' coughin', an' barkin' in the could of the night?

Don't you remember sayin' this?"

"I think I do; ay, I remember something about it now. Didn't I say that whiskey was my coach an' my carriage, an' that it made me a lord?"

"You did; well, now what do you say? Hasn't Teetotallism bate you in your own argument? Hasn't it given you a shirt an' a coat to your back, a good bed to lie on, a house over your head? In short, now, Art, hasn't it given you all you said, an' more than ever you expected? eh, now?"

"I give in, Margaret--you have me there; but," he proceeded, "it's not every man could pull himself up as I did; eh?"