the word "babbles" is the right one—a mitigated "brawling"—a continuous murmur without meaning, till you give it one or many—like that of some ceaseless female human being, pleasantly accompanying your reveries that have no relation to what you hear. Her blameless babble has that effect—and were it to stop, you would awake. But Byron's "shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales"—a tale is still about something—however small—and pray what is that something? Nothing. "Tales," then, is not the very word here—nor will "bubbling" make it so—at best it is a prettyism rather than Poetry. The Poet is becoming a Poetaster.
TALBOYS.
I shall never recite another finest descriptive passage from the whole range of our British Poets—during the course of my life—in this Pavilion.
NORTH.
Let us look at the Temple.
TALBOYS.
Be done, I beseech you, sir.
NORTH.
Talboys, you have as logical—as legal a head as any man I know.
TALBOYS.