In Ireland there is generally a very festive spirit prevalent during christenings, weddings, or other social meetings of a similar nature; and so strongly is this spirit felt, that it is—­or was, I should rather say—­not at all an unusual thing for a man, when taking an oath against liquor, to except christenings or weddings, and very frequently funerals, as well as Christmas and Easter.  Every one acquainted with the country knows this, and no one need be surprised at the delight with which Art Maguire hailed this agreeable coincidence.  Art, we have said before, was naturally social, and, although he did most religiously observe his oath, yet, since the truth must be told, we are bound to admit that, on many and many an occasion, he did also most unquestionably regret the restraint that he had placed upon himself with regard to liquor.  Whenever his friends were met together, whether at fair, or market, wedding, christening, or during the usual festivals, it is certain that a glass of punch or whiskey never crossed his nose that he did not feel a secret hankering after it, and would often have snuffed in the odor, or licked his lips at it, were it not that he would have considered the act as a kind of misprision of perjury.  Now, however, that he was free, and about to have a christening in his house, it was at least only reasonable that he should indulge in a glass, if only for the sake of drinking the health of “the young lady.”  His brother Frank happened to be in town that evening, and Art prevailed on him to stop for the night.

“You must stand for the young colleen, Frank,” said he, “and who do you think is to join you?”

“Why, how could I guess?” replied Frank.

“The sorra other but little Toal Finnigan, that thought to take Margaret from me, you renumber.”

“I remimber he wanted to marry her, and I know that he’s the most revengeful and ill-minded little scoundrel on the face of the earth; if ever there was a devil in a human bein’, there’s one in that misshapen but sugary little vagabone.  His father was bad enough when he was alive, and worse than he ought to be, may God forgive him now, but this spiteful skinflint, that’s a curse to the poor of the country, as he is their hatred, what could tempt you to ax him to stand for any child of yours?”

“He may be what he likes, Frank, but all I can say is, that I found him civil and obligin’, an’ you know the devil’s not so black as he’s painted.”

“I know no such thing, Art,” replied the other; “for that matter, he may be a great deal blacker; but still I’d advise you to have nothing to say to Toal—­he’s a bad graft, egg and bird; but what civility did he ever show you?”

“Why, he—­he’s a devilish pleasant little fellow, any way, so he is; throth it’s he that spakes well of you, at any rate; if he was ten times worse than he is, he has a tongue in his head that will gain him friends.”