TIME was, and not very long ago either, when a singular epidemic raged
among the young gentlemen, vast numbers of whom, under the influence of
the malady, tore off their neckerchiefs, turned down their shirt collars,
and exhibited themselves in the open streets with bare throats and
dejected countenances, before the eyes of an astonished public. These
were poetical young gentlemen. The custom was gradually found to be
inconvenient, as involving the necessity of too much clean linen and too
large washing bills, and these outward symptoms have consequently passed
away; but we are disposed to think, notwithstanding, that the number of
poetical young gentlemen is considerably on the increase.
We know a poetical young gentleman—a very poetical young gentleman. We
do not mean to say that he is troubled with the gift of poesy in any
remarkable degree, but his countenance is of a plaintive and melancholy
cast, his manner is abstracted and bespeaks affliction of soul: he seldom
has his hair cut, and often talks about being an outcast and wanting a
kindred spirit; from which, as well as from many general observations in
which he is wont to indulge, concerning mysterious impulses, and
yearnings of the heart, and the supremacy of intellect gilding all
earthly things with the glowing magic of immortal verse, it is clear to
all his friends that he has been stricken poetical.
The favourite attitude of the poetical young gentleman is lounging on a
sofa with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, or sitting bolt upright in a
high-backed chair, staring with very round eyes at the opposite wall.
When he is in one of these positions, his mother, who is a worthy,
affectionate old soul, will give you a nudge to bespeak your attention
without disturbing the abstracted one, and whisper with a shake of the
head, that John’s imagination is at some extraordinary work or other, you
may take her word for it. Hereupon John looks more fiercely intent upon
vacancy than before, and suddenly snatching a pencil from his pocket,
puts down three words, and a cross on the back of a card, sighs deeply,
paces once or twice across the room, inflicts a most unmerciful slap upon
his head, and walks moodily up to his dormitory.
The poetical young gentleman is apt to acquire peculiar notions of things
too, which plain ordinary people, unblessed with a poetical obliquity of
vision, would suppose to be rather distorted. For instance, when the
sickening murder and mangling of a wretched woman was affording delicious
food wherewithal to gorge the insatiable curiosity of the public, our
friend the poetical young gentleman was in ecstasies—not of disgust, but
admiration. ‘Heavens!’ cried the poetical young gentleman, ‘how grand;
how great!’ We ventured deferentially to inquire upon whom these
epithets were bestowed: our humble thoughts oscillating between the
police officer who found the criminal, and the lock-keeper who found the
head. ‘Upon whom!’ exclaimed the poetical young gentleman in a frenzy of
poetry, ‘Upon whom should they be bestowed but upon the murderer!’—and
thereupon it came out, in a fine torrent of eloquence, that the murderer
was a great spirit, a bold creature full of daring and nerve, a man of
dauntless heart and determined courage, and withal a great casuist and
able reasoner, as was fully demonstrated in his philosophical colloquies
with the great and noble of the land. We held our peace, and meekly
signified our indisposition to controvert these opinions—firstly, because
we were no match at quotation for the poetical young gentleman; and
secondly, because we felt it would be of little use our entering into any
disputation, if we were: being perfectly convinced that the respectable
and immoral hero in question is not the first and will not be the last
hanged gentleman upon whom false sympathy or diseased curiosity will be
plentifully expended.
This was a stern mystic flight of the poetical young gentleman. In his
milder and softer moments he occasionally lays down his neckcloth, and
pens stanzas, which sometimes find their way into a Lady’s Magazine, or
the ‘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.
[Picture: The Poetical Young Gentleman]
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.