But where is she—­the attached, the indomitable in love—­the patient, the much enduring, the uncomplaining?  Alas! she is at length separated from him and them; her throbbing veins are hot and rife with fever—­her aching head is filled with images of despair and horror—­she is calling for her husband—­her young and manly husband—­and says she will not be parted from him—­she is also calling for her children, and demands to have them.  The love of the mother and of the wife is now furious; but, thank God, the fury that stimulates it is that of disease, and not of insanity.  The trials and privations which could not overcome her noble heart, overcame her physical frame, and on the day succeeding that woful night she was seized with a heavy fever, and through the interference of some respectable inhabitants of the town, was conveyed to the fever hospital, where she now lies in a state of delirium.

And Frank Maguire—­the firm, the industrious, and independent—­where is he?  Unable to bear the shame of his brother’s degradation, he gave up his partnership, and went to America, where he now is; but not without having left in the hands of a friend something for his unfortunate brother to remember him by; and it was this timely aid which for the last three quarters of a year has been the sole means of keeping life in his brother’s family.

Thus have we followed Art Maguire from his youth up to the present stage of his life, attempting, as well as we could, to lay open to our readers his good principles and his bad, together with the errors and ignorances of those who had the first formation of his character—­we mean his parents and family.  We have endeavored to trace, with as strict an adherence to truth and nature as possible, the first struggles of a heart naturally generous and good, with the evil habit which beset him, as well as with the weaknesses by which that habit was set to work upon his temperament.  Whether we have done this so clearly and naturally as to bring home conviction of its truth to such of our readers as may resemble him in the materials which formed his moral constitution, and consequently, to hold him up as an example to be avoided, it is not for ourselves to say.  If our readers think so, or rather feel so, then we shall rest satisfied of having performed our task as we ought.

Our task, however, is not accomplished.  It is true, we have accompanied him with pain and pity to penury, rags, and beggary—­unreformed, unrepenting, hardened, shameless, desperate.  Do our readers now suppose that there is anything in the man, or any principle external to him, capable of regenerating and elevating a heart so utterly lost as his?