“Be me conscience! but it’s Dan himself—sorra a wan else,” cried one.
“I was at Tara, an’ it’s just as if he was givin’ Drizzlyeye [Disraeli] that welt about his notorious ancesthor, the impinitent thief on the crass,” observed another.
“Faix, it’s alive, it is. Look at the mouth, reddy for to say ‘Repale.’”
“There’s an eye!”
“Thrue for ye; there’s more fire in it than in ould Finnegan’s chimbly this minit.”
“Troth, it’s as dhroll as a pet pup’s.”
“Stan’ out o’ that, Mr. O’Leary, or ye’ll get a crack av his fist.”
“Three cheers for the painther, boys!”
These and kindred comments flung a radiated pleasure into the inner heart of the artist—that sanctum which as yet was green and fresh and limpid—while the eulogies, however quaintly and coarsely served up, bore the delicious fragrance which praise ever carries with it like a subtle perfume.
“The love of praise, howe’er concealed by art,