"A little thing of my own," answered Reddy, with a smile.
"I thought so," said Murphy. "By Jove, James, you are a genius!"
"Nonsense!" smiled the poet; "just a little classic trifle—I think them little classic allusions is pleasing in general—Tommy Moore is very happy in his classic allusions, you may remark—not that I, of course, mean to institute a comparison between so humble an individual as myself and Tommy Moore, who has so well been called 'the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own;' and if you will permit me, in a kindred spirit—I hope I may say the kindred spirit of a song—in that kindred spirit I propose his health—the health of Tommy Moore!"
"Don't say Tommy!" said the doctor, in an irascible tone; "call the man Tom, sir;—with all my heart, Tom Moore!"
The table took the word from Jack Growling, and "Tom Moore," with all the honours of "hip and hurra!" rang round the walls of the village inn—and where is the village in Ireland that health has not been hailed with the fiery enthusiasm of the land whose lays he hath "wedded to immortal verse,"—the land which is proud of his birth, and holds his name in honour?
There is a magic in a great name; and in this instance that of Tom Moore turned the current from where it was setting, and instead of quizzing the nonsense of the fool who had excited their mirth, every one launched forth in praise of their native bard, and couplets from his favourite songs rang from lip to lip.
"Come, Ned of the Hill," said Murphy, "sing us one of his songs,—I know you have them all as pat as your prayers."
"And says them oftener," said the doctor, who still continued scribbling over the letter.
Edward, at the urgent request of many, sang that most exquisite of the melodies, "And doth not a meeting like this make amends?" and long rang the plaudits, and rapidly circulated the bottle, at its conclusion.
"We'll be the 'Alps in the sunset,' my boys," said Murphy; "and here's the wine to enlighten us! But what are you about there, doctor?—is it a prescription you are writing?"