Though sprites appear obedient at his will,
Ghosts are but ghosts; and demons, demons still ;
Alike in matter, and in form the same:
Hobgoblins differ only-in the name:
Yet Lewis trembles lest his fame be won,
And Mistress Radcliffe fears herself outdone.
But these are harmless, Satire must confess,
To the loose novels of Minerva's press;
Such melting tales as Meeke and Rosa tell;
For pious Lane, who knows his readers well,
Can suit all palates with their diff'rent food,
Love for the hoyden, morals for the prude!
Behold! with reams of nonsense newly born,
Th' industrious pack who scribble night and morn;
Five pounds per volume! an enormous bribe,
Enough, methinks, to tempt a hungry scribe.
First Lady Morgan,* Amazonian Fair!
(Ye gods, what will not Lady Morgan dare?)

* Innumerable are the caterers for the Minerva Library: Lady Morgan, Mrs. Meeke, Rosa Matilda, Bridget Bluemantle, Ann of Swansea, Honoria Scott, Captain Hewitsone, Captain Williamson, Cervantes Hogg, Theodore Melville, Francis Lathom, "A Native Officer," and a whole tribe of " single and double pinks," who live upon the bad taste of the public; for

Dulness all her children viewing,
Kindly bounteous, cares for all.

With four octavo volumes shocks the sight;
For who can read as fast as she can write?
Next fair Llewellyn,* modestly indeed,

Would have us name her works, as well as read;
Which to perform, in language just and brief,
Let" bawdry" be inscrib'd on every leaf.
Matilda toils the promis'd boon to win,

And Ann of Swansea wades through thick and thin;
While Bridget Bluemantle's eternal scrawl
Makes truly more waste paper than them all.
Would you with blushes tinge the virgin cheek,
Read "Midnight Weddings," penn'd by Mrs.
Meeke:

Soft amorous stories by Honoria Scott,†
Of ravishments, seductions, and what not:

"Read, and give it a name," a novel in four volumes, by Mrs. Llewellyn.

"Amatory Tales of Spain, France, Switzerland, and the Mediterranean;" by Honoria Scott.

I thought that my catalogue of dull authors had been nearly complete, when I accidentally lighted on "The Amatory Works of Tom Shuffleton." The writer of this volume (a profligate scribbler, one John Gwilliam,) would make the public believe that his trash is from the pen of Thomas Moore, he therefore dates from Dublin instead of Grub Street! It is impossible to conceive a more abject performance; such a gallimaufry of obscene dulness has seldom issued from the Press.

Or Gunning's tales, for Gunning, to my taste,
Is sprightly, witty, any thing-but chaste :
Or "Rival Princes," anger's latest spark,
Pride of them all, and worthy Mrs. Clarke.

I pass.in silence, authors not a few; Cervantes Hogg,* and all the Grub Street Crew: Alas! more worthy of contempt than rage, Their worthless names would but defile my page: The muse shall never gibbet them on high, Obscurely as they liv'd, so let them die.

F. 'Tis pitiful-but why indulge your spleen? Will all this harsh invective mend the scene? Your satire is too pointed, too severe,†

* Cervantes Hogg, Esq. author of the "Rising Sun," and the "Barouche Driver and his Wife,"-despicable catch-penny trash.

"Ah! Bozzy, I smell you in the dark!" whispered Doctor Johnson to his friend James Boswell, as they waded by night through the streets of Auld Reikie, not inaptly denominated the Spice Islands! And I odoriferously nose Mr. Hewson Clarke in the following lines, on the author of "The Modern Dunciad," raked up from the fœtid dunghill of the "Theatrical Inquisitor."

"Just wise enough to play the fool,
Just learn'd enough to err by rule,

With vanity of monstrous size,

That struts and swells, and would be wise;

Instead of wit, with venom fraught,

And little suited to the public ear.

My Lord, who now and then, to serve his ends, Invites some score of literary friends,

Will meet you at his table with an air

That plainly tells you have no bus'ness there.

"Ye Gods!" he cries, "shall I, who think sublime Matilda's motley hash of prose and rhyme, By one, who begs a dinner at my door,

Be school'd-and play 'Sir Oracle' no more?"

P. I guess you well-henceforth no verse of mine

Shall question Rose's* title to "divine;"
No more in critic gall I'll dip my quill,

With owl-like mien that looks like thought;
Our sapient author rushes forth,

Like the pale critics of the north,

And vainly tries with idle rhyme,

That flows in one poor ding-dong chime,
To blast the high unsullied name

Of all the dearest sons of Fame!"

Mr. William Stewart Rose is the author of " Partenopex of Blois." One extract will suffice to show Mr. Rose's talent for writing, what Ben Jonson calls "no language at all."

"With that 'twas wrought of fayery so dight.-
Melior in sooth it was, the sov'reign fay,
The wardress of that keep and garden gay,

She on the bed her dainty limbs down laid."

Let Feist + and Croker scribble what they will;
Let piddling Gwilliam ‡ void his riff-raff stuff,
And damn'd be he that first cries "Hold, enough!"

F. Wisely resolv'd-since this contention ends, All Grub Street and the court shall prove your friends;

+ An attorney's clerk and a maker of verses. A droll story is told of Mr. Feist: he employed a printer to print his poems, (the feast of reason!) obtained a dozen copies for himself, but entirely forgot to pay the expence of publication.

"Wits have short memories, and dunces none."

First and foremost of the indignant tribe who are still smarting from my lash, stands John Gwilliam. This illustrious obscure has written a threatening libel in the "Scourge "--but if John be twice a Dunce, he is thrice a Coward. He winces at my strictures upon his book-very likely-my object was to lash fools; and how could He hope to escape whipping? John has had so often "to ransack for filth his heart, for lies his brain," that he is a perfect adept at abuse. "For almonds he'd cry wh*** to his own mother." Yet

"If he call rogue and rascal from his garret,

He does you no more mischief than a parrot."

The following are extracts from his "Stanzas on the Author of the Modern Dunciad" in " The Scourge."

Behold the prince of darkness comes,

Sucking his dirty inky thumbs;