“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 might not be in utter darkness.  One of these was stuck against the wall, for they had no candlestick; and oh, what a pitiable and melancholy spectacle did its dim and feeble light present!  There she sat, the young, virtuous, charitable, and lovely Margaret of the early portion of our narrative, surrounded by her almost naked children—­herself with such thin and scanty covering as would wring any heart but to know it.  Where now was her beauty?  Where her mirth, cheerfulness, and all her lightness of heart?  Where?  Let her ask that husband who once loved her so well, but who loved his own vile excesses and headlong propensities better.  There, however, she sat, with a tattered cap on, through the rents of which her raven hair, once so beautiful and glossy, came out in matted elf-locks, and hung down about her thin and wasted neck.  Her face was pale and ghastly as death; her eyes were without fire—­full of languor—­full of sorrow; and alas, beneath one of them, was too visible, by its discoloration, the foul mark of her husband’s brutality.  To this had their love, their tenderness, their affection come; and by what?  Alas! by the curse of liquor—­the demon of drunkenness—­and want of manly resolution.  She sat, as we have said, upon the little hassock, while shivering on her bosom was a sickly-looking child, about a year