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.”