incomparable bijou, that it bears any similitude to some balderdash on the same subject by a certain contemptible individual whose name is unmentionable to ears polite. The present poem ‘On the Oil-of-Bob,’ has excited universal anxiety and curiosity in respect to the owner of the evident pseudonym, ‘Snob’—a curiosity which, happily, we have it in our power to satisfy. ‘Snob’ is the nom de plume of Mr. Thingum Bob, of this city—a relative of the great Mr. Thingum (after whom he is named), and otherwise connected with the most illustrious families of the State. His father, Thomas Bob, Esq. , is an opulent merchant in Smug. Sep. 15—1 t.”
This generous approbation touched me to the heart—the more especially as it emanated from a source so avowedly—so proverbially pure as the Toad . The word “balderdash,” as applied to the “Oil-of-Bob” of the Fly , I considered singularly pungent and appropriate. The words “gem” and “bijou,” however, used in reference to my composition, struck me as being, in some degree, feeble, and seemed to me to be deficient in force. They were not sufficiently prononcés (as we have it in France).
I had hardly finished reading the Toad , when a friend placed in my hands a copy of the Mole , a daily, enjoying high reputation for the keenness of its perception about matters in general, and for the open, honest, aboveground style of its editorials. The Mole spoke of the Lollipop as follows:
“We have just received the Lollipop for October, and must say that never before have we perused any single number of any periodical which afforded us a felicity so supreme. We speak advisedly. The Hum-Drum , the Rowdy-Dow and the Goosetherumfoodle must look well to their