"Were I Pastor in a boarding-school, I'd quash such books _in toto_;--if I couldn't, Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule, I'd flog her soundly; damme if I wouldn't." WILLIAM, 'tis plain, was getting in a rage; But, Thomas dryly said,--for he was cool-- "I think no gentleman would mend the age By flogging Ladies at a Boarding-school." DICK knock'd the ashes from his pipe, And said, "Friend WILL, You give the Novels a fair wipe; But still, While you, my friend, with passion run 'em down, They're in the hands of all the town. "The reason's plain," proceeded DICK, "And simply thus-- Taste, over-glutted, grows deprave'd, and sick, And needs a _stimulus_. "Time was,--(when honest Fielding writ)-- Tales full of Nature, Character, and Wit, Were reckon'd most delicious boil'd and roast: But stomachs are so cloy'd with novel-feeding, Folks get a vitiated taste in reading, And want that strong provocative, a Ghost. "Or, to come nearer, And put the case a little clearer:-- Mind, just like bodies, suffer enervation, By too much use; And sink into a state of relaxation, With long abuse. "Now, a Romance, with reading Debauchees, Rouses their torpid powers when Nature fails; And all these Legendary Tales Are, to a worn-out mind, Cantharides. "But how to cure the evil?" you will say: "My _Recipe_ is,--laughing it away. "Lay bare the weak farrago of those men Who fabricate such visionary schemes, As if the night-mare rode upon their pen, And trouble'd all their ink with hideous dreams. "For instance--when a solemn Ghost stalks in, And, thro' a mystick tale is busy, Strip me the Gentleman into his skin-- What is he? "Truly, ridiculous enough: Mere trash;--and very childish stuff. "Draw but a Ghost, or Fiend, _of low degree_, And all the bubble's broken!--Let us see." [Illustration] THE WATER-FIENDS. ON a wild Moor, all brown and bleak, Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse, There stood a tenement antique; Lord Hoppergollop's country house. Here Silence reign'd, with lips of glue, And undisturb'd maintain'd her law; Save when the Owl cry'd "whoo! whoo! whoo!" Or the hoarse Crow croak'd "caw! caw! caw!" Neglected mansion!--for, 'tis said, Whene'er the snow came feathering down, Four barbed steeds,--from the Bull's head, Carried thy master up to town. Weak Hoppergollop!--Lords may moan, Who stake, in London, their estate, On two, small, rattling, bits of bone; On _little figure_, or on _great_. Swift whirl the wheels.--He's gone.--A Rose Remains behind, whose virgin look, Unseen, must blush in wintry snows, Sweet, beauteous blossom!----'twas the Cook! A bolder far than my weak note, Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand: Eels might be proud to lose their coat, If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand.