“I think,” said his father, “he will be the betther of a little drop of the poteen made into punch, an’ for that matter we can all take a sup of it; as there’s no one here but ourselves, we will have it snug an’ comfortable.”

Nothing resembles an April day more than the general disposition of the Irish people.  When old Denis’s proposal for the punch was made, the gloom which hung over the family—­originating, as it did, more in joy than in soitow—­soon began to disappear.  Their countenances gradually brightened, by and by mirth stole out, and ere the punch had accomplished its first round, laughter, and jest, and good-humor,—­each, in consequence of the occasion, more buoyant and vivacious than usual, were in full play.  Denis himself, when animated by the unexcised liquor, threw off his dejection, and’ ere the night was half spent found himself in the highest region of pedantry.

“I would not,” said he, “turn my back upon any other candidate in the province, in point of preparatory excellence and ardency of imagination.  I say, sitting here beside you, my worthy and logical father, I would not retrograde from any candidate for the honors of the Catholic Church in the province—­in the kingdom—­in Europe; and it is not improbable but I might progradiate another step, and say Christendom at large.  And now, what’s a candidate?  Father, you have some apprehension in you, and are a passable second-hand controversialist—­what’s a candidate?  Will you tell me?”

“I give it up, Denis; but you’ll tell us.”

“Yes, I will tell you.  Candidate signifies a man dressed in fustian; it comes from candidus, which is partly Greek, partly Latin, and partly Hebrew.  It was the learned designation for Irish linen, too, which in the time of the Romans was in great request at Home; but it was changed to signify fustian, because it was found that everything a man promised on becoming a candidate for any office, turned out to be only fustian when he got it.”

“Denis, avourneen,” said his mother, “the greatest comfort myself has is to be thinkin’ that when you’re a priest, you can be sayin’ masses for my poor sinful sowl.”

“Yes, there is undoubtedly comfort in, that reflection; and depend upon it, my dear mother, that I’ll be sure to clinch your masses in the surest mode.  I’ll not fly over them like Camilla across a field of potato oats, without discommoding a single walk, as too many of my worthy brethren—­I mane as! too many of those whose worthy brother I will soon be—­do in this present year of grace.  I’m no fool at the Latin, but, as I’m an unworthy candidate for Maynooth, I cannot even understand every fifteenth word they say when reading mass, independently of the utter scorn with which they treat; these two Scholastic old worthies, called!  Syntax and Prosody.”

“Denis,” said the father, “nothing would give me greater delight than to be present at your first mass, an’ your first sarmon; and next to that I would like to be stumpin’ about wid a dacent staff in my hand, maybe wid a bit of silver on the head of it, takin’ care of your place when you’d have a parish.”