“Here's a better,” rejoined Coleman. “'Exquisitely beautiful Fanny, fairest of that lovely sex, which to distinguish it from us rough-and-ready fox-hunters, who, when once we get our heads at any of the fences of life, go at it, never mind how stiff it may be (matrimony has always appeared to me one of the stiffest), and generally contrive to find ourselves on the other side, with our hind legs well under us;—a sex, I say, which to distinguish it from our own, is called the fair sex, a stock of which I never used to think any great things, reckoning them only fit to canter round the parks with, until I saw you brought out, when I at once perceived that your condition—that is, my feelings—were so inexpressible that...!'” “Ah!” interposed Lawless, “that's where I got bogged, sank in over the fetlocks, and had to give it up as a bad job.”
“In fact your feelings became too many for you,” returned Coleman; “but what have we here?—verses, by all that's glorious!”
“No, no! I'm not going to let you read them,” exclaimed Lawless, attempting to wrest the paper out of his hand.
“Be quiet, Lawless,” rejoined Coleman, holding him off, “sit down directly, sir, or I won't write a word for you: I must see what all your ideas are in order to get some notion of what you want to say; besides, I've no doubt they'll be very original.”
I
“'Sweet Fanny, there are moments
When the heart is not one's own,
When we fain would clip its wild wing's tip,
But we find the bird has flown.
II
“'Dear Fanny, there are moments
When a loss may be a gain,
And sorrow, joy—for the heart's a toy,
And loving's such sweet pain.
III
“'Yes, Fanny, there are moments
When a smile is worth a throne,
When a frown can prove the flower of love,
Must fade, and die alone.'
—“Why, you never wrote those, Lawless?”
“Didn't I?” returned Lawless, “but I know I did, though—copied them out of an old book I found up there, and wrote some more to 'em, because I thought there wasn't enough for the money, besides putting in Fanny's name instead of—what, do you think?—Phillis!—there's a name for you; the fellow must have been a fool. Why, I would not give a dog such an ill name for fear somebody should hang him; but go on.”
“Ah, now we come to the original matter,” returned Coleman, “and very original it seems.”
IV
“'Dear Fanny, there are moments
When love gets you in a fix,
Takes the bit in his jaws, and, without any pause,
Bolts away with you like bricks.
V
“'Yes, Fanny, there are moments
When affection knows no bounds,
When I'd rather be talking with you out a-walking,
Than rattling after the hounds.
VI
“'Dear Fanny, there are moments
When one feels that one's inspired, And... and...'
—“It does not seem to have been one of those moments with you just then,” continued Freddy, “for the poem comes to an abrupt and untimely conclusion, unless three blots, and something that looks like a horse's head, may be a hieroglyphic mode of recording your inspirations, which I'm not learned enough to decipher.”