e, and nothing was left to sustain or check him. He could not look in
upon himself and find one spark of decent pride, or a single principle
left that contained the germ of his redemption. He now gave himself over
as utterly lost, and consequently felt no scruple to stoop to any
act, no matter how mean or contemptible. In the midst of all this
degradation, however, there was one recollection which he never gave up;
but alas, to what different and shameless purposes did he now prostitute
it! That which had been in his better days a principle of just pride, a
spur to industry, an impulse to honor, and a safeguard to integrity, had
now become the catchword of a mendicant--the cant or slang, as it
were, of an impostor. He was not ashamed to beg in its name--to ask
for whiskey in its name--and to sink, in its name, to the most sordid
supplications.

"Will you stand the price of a glass? I'm Art Maguire; one of the great
Maguires of Fermanagh! Think of the blood of the Maguires, and stand
a glass. Barney Scaddhan won't trust me now; although many a pound and
penny of good money I left him."

"Ay," the person accosted would reply, "an' so sign's on you; you would
be a different man to-day, had you visited Barney Scaddhan's seldomer,
or kept out of it altogether."

"It's not a sarmon I want; will you stand the price of a glass?"

"Not a drop."

"Go to blazes, then, if you won't. I'm a betther man than ever you
wor, an' have betther blood in my veins. The great Fermanagh Maguires
forever!"

But, hold--we must do the unfortunate man justice. Amidst all this
degradation, and crime, and wretchedness, there yet shone undimmed one
solitary virtue. This was an abstract but powerful affection for his
children, especially for his eldest son; now a fine boy about eight or
nine. In his worst and most outrageous moods--when all other influence
failed--when the voice of his own Margaret, whom he once loved--oh how
well! fell heedless upon his ears--when neither Frank, nor friend, nor
neighbor could manage nor soothe him--let but the finger of his boy
touch him, or a tone of his voice fall upon his ear, and he placed
himself in his hands, and did whatever the child wished him.

One evening about this time, Margaret was sitting upon a small hassock
of straw, that had been made for little Art, when he began to walk.
It was winter, and there was no fire; a neighbor, however, had out of
charity lent her a few dipped rushes, that they mig