“A phrase in itself homely,” answered Fanny, “may become elevated by the use to which it is applied.”
“Quite true, Miss Dawson,” said the doctor, joining in the discussion. “But what are these lines which excite Randal's ire?”
“Here they are,” said Moriarty. “I will read them, if you allow me, and then judge between Miss Dawson and me.
'What will you do, love, when I am going,
With white sail flowing,
The seas beyond?
What will you do, love, when—'”
“Stop thief!—stop thief!” cried the doctor. “Why, you are robbing the poet of his reputation as fast as you can. You don't attend to the rhythm of those lines—you don't give the ringing of the verse.”
“That's just what I have said in other words,” said Fanny. “When sung to the melody, they are smooth.”
“But a good reader, Miss Dawson,” said the doctor, “will read verse with the proper accent, just as a musician would divide it into bars; but my friend Randal there, although he can tell a good story and hit off prose very well, has no more notion of rhythm or poetry than new beer has of a holiday.”
“And why, pray, has not new beer a notion of a holiday?”
“Because, sir, it works of a Sunday.”
“Your beer may be new, doctor, but your joke is not—I have seen it before in some old form.”