“Rising from her ashes like the Megatherion of Thebes. Where are you now, Master Joe?” said he, with an insolent triumph in his look.
“I 'd just as soon have the phaynix,” said Joe, doggedly. “Go on.”
“How can I go on? How could any man? Demosthenes himself would stand confused in presence of such vulgar interruptions. It is in such temperaments as yours men of genius meet their worst repulses. You are at once the feræ naturæ of humanity, and the pestilential atmosphere that poisons—that poisons—”
“Oh! there you are 'pounded '! Poisons what?”
“Poisons the pellucid rills which should fertilize the soul of man! I'm never pounded. O'Connell himself had to confess that he never saw my equal in graceful imagery and figurative embellishment. 'Listening to O'Shea,' says he, 'is like watching a juggler with eight balls flying round and about him. You may think it impossible he 'll be in time, but never one of them will he fail to catch.' That's what I call oratory. Why is it, I ask, that, when I rise in the house, you 'd hear a pin drop?”
“Maybe they steal out on their tiptoes,” said Joe, innocently.
“No, sir, they stand hushed, eager, anxious, as were the Greeks of old to catch the words of Ulysses. I only wish you saw old P——— working away with his pencil while I 'm speaking.”
“Making a picture of you, maybe!”
“You are as insolent as you are ignorant,—one of those who, in the unregenerate brutality of their coarse nature, repel the attempts of all who would advocate the popular cause. I have said so over and over again. If you would constitute yourself the friend of the people, take care to know nothing of them; neither associate with them, nor mix in their society: as Tommy Moore said of Ireland, 'It's a beautiful country to live out of.'”
“And he was a patriot!” said Joe, contemptuously.