Chapter 29

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.”

The man understood him perfectly well, and replied--

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

“Belyin' on God'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; God 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 nobly 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 entitled 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.”