He then commenced and launched out into the most extravagant praises of himself, his wife, his children; and from these he passed to the ould blood of Ireland, and the Fermanagh Maguires.
“Where,” he said, “whe—where is there in the country, or anywhere else, a family that has sich blood as ours in their veins? Very well; an' aren't we proud of it, as we have a right to be? Where's the Maguire that would do a mane or shabby act? tha—that's what I'd like to know. Isn't the word of a Maguire looked upon as aiquil to—to an—another man's oath; an' where's the man of them that was—as ever known to break it? Eh Frank? No; stead—ed—steady's the word wid the Maguires, and honor bright.”
Frank was about to remind him that he had in his own person given a proof that night that a Maguire could break his word, and commit a disreputable action besides; but as he saw it was useless, he judiciously declined then making any observation whatsoever upon it.
After a good deal of entreaty, Frank succeeded in prevailing on him to go to bed; in which, however, he failed, until Art had inflicted on him three woful songs, each immensely long, and sung in that peculiarly fascinating drawl, which is always produced by intoxication. At length, and when the night was more than half spent, he assisted him to bed—a task of very considerable difficulty, were it not that it was relieved by his receiving from the tipsy man several admirable precepts, and an abundance of excellent advice, touching his conduct in the world; not forgetting religion, on which he dwelt with a maudlin solemnity of manner, that was, or would have been to strangers, extremely ludicrous. Frank, however, could not look upon it with levity. He understood his brother's character and foibles too well, and feared that notwithstanding his many admirable qualities, his vanity and want of firmness, or, in other words, of self-dependence, might overbalance them all.
The next morning his brother Frank was obliged to leave betimes, and consequently had no opportunity of advising or remonstrating with him. On rising, he felt sick and feverish, and incapable of going into his workshop. The accession made to his family being known, several of his neighbors came in to inquire after the health of his wife and infant; and as Art, when left to his own guidance, had never been remarkable for keeping a secret, he made no scruple of telling them that he had got drunk the night before, and was, of course, quite out of order that morning. Among the rest, the first to come in was little Toal Finnigan, who, in addition to his other virtues, possessed a hardness of head—by which we mean a capacity for bearing drink—that no liquor, or no quantity of liquor, could overcome.
“Well,” said Toal, “sure it's very reasonable that you should be out of ordher; after bein' seven years from it, it doesn't come so natural to you as it would do. Howandiver, you know that there's but the one cure for it—a hair of the same dog that bit you; and if you're afeared to take the same hair by yourself, why I'll take a tuft of it wid you, an' we'll dhrink the wife's health—my ould sweetheart—and the little sthranger's.”
“Throth I believe you're right,” said Art, “in regard to the cure; so in the name of goodness we'll have a gauliogue to begin the day wid, an' set the hair straight on us.”
During that day, Art was neither drunk nor sober, but halfway between the two states. He went to his workshop about two o'clock; but his journeymen and apprentices could smell the strong whiskey off him, and perceive an occasional thickness of pronunciation in his speech, which a good deal surprised them. When evening came, however, his neighbors, whom he had asked in, did not neglect to attend; the bottle was again produced, and poor Art, the principle of restraint having now been removed, re-enacted much the same scene as on the preceding night, with this exception only, that he was now encouraged instead of being checked or reproved.
There were now only three days to elapse until the following Sabbath, on which day the child was to be baptized; one of them, that is, the one following his first intoxication with Frank, was lost to him, for, as we have said, though not precisely drunk, he was not in a condition to work, nor properly to give directions. The next he felt himself in much the same state, but with still less of regret.
“The truth is,” said he, “I won't be rightly able to do any thing till afther this christenin', so that I may set down the remaindher o' the week as lost; well, sure that won't break me at any rate. It's long since I lost a week before, and we must only make up for it; afther the christenin' I'll work double tides.”