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.