'Poets' Corner' of some country newspaper; or which, in default of
either vent for his genius, adorn the rainbow leaves of a lady's album.
These are generally written upon some such occasions as contemplating the
Bank of England by midnight, or beholding Saint Paul's in a snow-storm;
and when these gloomy objects fail to afford him inspiration, he pours
forth his soul in a touching address to a violet, or a plaintive lament
that he is no longer a child, but has gradually grown up.

The poetical young gentleman is fond of quoting passages from his
favourite authors, who are all of the gloomy and desponding school. He
has a great deal to say too about the world, and is much given to
opining, especially if he has taken anything strong to drink, that there
is nothing in it worth living for. He gives you to understand, however,
that for the sake of society, he means to bear his part in the tiresome
play, manfully resisting the gratification of his own strong desire to
make a premature exit; and consoles himself with the reflection, that
immortality has some chosen nook for himself and the other great spirits
whom earth has chafed and wearied.

When the poetical young gentleman makes use of adjectives, they are all
superlatives. Everything is of the grandest, greatest, noblest,
mightiest, loftiest; or the lowest, meanest, obscurest, vilest, and most
pitiful. He knows no medium: for enthusiasm is the soul of poetry; and
who so enthusiastic as a poetical young gentleman? 'Mr. Milkwash,' says
a young lady as she unlocks her album to receive the young gentleman's
original impromptu contribution, 'how very silent you are! I think you
must be in love.' 'Love!' cries the poetical young gentleman, starting
from his seat by the fire and terrifying the cat who scampers off at full
speed, 'Love! that burning, consuming passion; that ardour of the soul,
that fierce glowing of the heart. Love! The withering, blighting
influence of hope misplaced and affection slighted. Love did you say!
Ha! ha! ha!'

With this, the poetical young gentleman laughs a laugh belonging only to
poets and Mr. O. Smith of the Adelphi Theatre, and sits down, pen in
hand, to throw off a page or two of verse in the biting, semi-atheistical
demoniac style, which, like the poetical young gentleman himself, is full
of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

THE 'THROWING-OFF' YOUNG GENTLEMAN

There is a certain kind of impostor--a bragging, vaunting, p