eformation. 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," s