home the money.  It was difficult, indeed, for the poor tailor to bear what he felt; it is true he bore it as long as he could; but at length he became suicidal, and often had thoughts of “making his own quietus with his bare bodkin.”  After many deliberations and afflictions, he ultimately made the attempt; but, alas! he found that the blood of the Malones refused to flow upon so ignominious an occasion.  So he solved the phenomenon; although the truth was, that his blood was not “i’ the vein” for’t; none was to be had.  What then was to be done?  He resolved to get rid of life by some process; and the next that occurred to him was hanging.  In a solemn spirit he prepared a selvage, and suspended himself from the rafter of his workshop; but here another disappintment awaited him—­he would not hang.  Such was his want of gravity, that his own weight proved insufficient to occasion his death by mere suspension.  His third attempt was at drowning, but he was too light to sink; all the elements,—­all his own energies joined themselves, he thought, in a wicked conspiracy to save his life.  Having thus tried every avenue to destruction, and failed in all, he felt like a man doomed to live for ever.  Henceforward he shrunk and shrivelled by slow degrees, until in the course of time he became so attenuated, that the grossness of human vision could no longer reach him.

This, however, could not last always.  Though still alive, he was, to all intents and purposes, imperceptible.  He could now only be heard; he was reduced to a mere essence—­the very echo of human existence, vox el praiterea nihil.  It is true the schoolmaster asserted that he occasionally caught passing glimpses of him; but that was because he had been himself nearly spiritualized by affliction, and his visual ray purged in the furnace of domestic tribulation.  By and by Neal’s voice lessened, got fainter and more indistinct, until at length nothing but a doubtful murmur could be heard, which ultimately could scarcely be distinguished from a ringing in the ears.

Such was the awful and mysterious fate of the tailor, who, as a hero, could not of course die; he merely dissolved like an icicle, wasted into immateriality, and finally melted away beyond the perception of mortal sense.  Mr. O’Connor is still living, and once more in the fulness of perfect health and strength.  His wife, however, we may as well hint, has been dead more than two years.

ART MAGUIRE;

OR, THE BROKEN PLEDGE.

PREFACE.