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