For Novels, should their critick hints succeed,
The Misses might fare better when they took ’em;
But it would fare extremely ill, indeed,
With gentle Messieurs Lane and Hookham.
“A Novel, now,” says Will, “is nothing more
Than an old castle,—and a creaking door,—
A distant hovel;—
Clanking of chains—a gallery—a light,—
Old armour—and a phantom all in white,—
And there’s a Novel!