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, puffing
young gentleman-against whom we are desirous to warn that fairer
part of the creation, to whom we more peculiarly devote these our
labours. And we are particularly induced to lay especial stress
upon this division of our subject, by a little dialogue we held
some short time ago, with an esteemed young lady of our
acquaintance, touching a most gross specimen of this class of men.
We had been urging all the absurdities of his conduct and
conversation, and dwelling upon the impossibilities he constantly
recounted-to which indeed we had not scrupled to prefix a certain
hard little word of one syllable and three letters-when our fair
friend, unable to maintain the contest any longer, reluctantly
cried, 'Well; he certainly has a habit of throwing-off, but then-'