No man could have had the insolence, not even a Cockney poetaster, to kill himself for love, after having scribbled namby-pambys in a pale-blue, gilt-edged album.

They form a prominent feature in every new literary project, and not unfrequently literature, to use a hackneyed phrase, is made their vehiclelike the namby-pamby of an English opera for the strains of Rossini or Weber.