Arthur, or, as he was more familiarly called by the people, Art Maguire, was the son of parents who felt and knew that they were descended from higher and purer blood than could be boasted of by many of the families in their neighborhood.  Art’s father was a small farmer, who held about ten acres of land, and having a family of six children—­three sons, and as many daughters—­he determined upon putting one or two of the former to a trade, so soon as they should be sufficiently grown up for that purpose.  This, under his circumstances was a proper and provident resolution to make.  His farm was too small to be parceled out, as is too frequently the case, into small miserable patches, upon each of which a young and inconsiderate couple are contented to sit down, with the prospect of rearing up and supporting a numerous family with wofully inadequate means; for although it is generally a matter of certainty that the families of these young persons will increase, yet it is a perfectly well-known fact that the little holding will not, and the consequence is, that families keep subdividing on the one hand, and increasing on the other, until there is no more room left for them.  Poverty then ensues, and as poverty in such cases begets competition, and competition crime, so we repeat that Condy Maguire’s intention, as being one calculated to avoid such a painful state of things, was a proof of his own good sense and forethought.

Arthur’s brother, Frank, was a boy not particularly remarkable for any peculiar brilliancy of intellect, or any great vivacity of disposition.  When at school he was never in a quarrel, nor engaged in any of those wild freaks which are sore annoyances to a village schoolmaster, and daring outrages against his authority.  He was consequently a favorite not only with the master, but with all the sober, well-behaved boys of the school, and many a time has Teague Rooney, with whom he was educated, exclaimed, as he addressed him: 

“Go to your sate, Frank abouchal; faith, although there are boys endowed wid more brilliancy of intellect than has fallen to your lot, yet you are the very youth who understands what is due to legitimate authority, at any rate, an’ that’s no small gift in itself; go to your sate, sorrow taw will go to your substratum this bout, for not having your lesson; for well I know it wasn’t idleness that prevented you, but the natural sobriety and slowness of intellect you are gifted wid.  If you are slow, however, you are sure, and I’ll pledge my reputaytion aginst that of the great O’Flaherty himself, that you and your brinoge of a brother will both live to give a beautiful illustration of the celebrated race between the hare and the tortoise yet.  Go to your sate wid impunity, and tell your dacent mother I was inquiring for her.”