“Were the question demanded of us—­’What is the most exquisite of sublunary pleasures?’ we should reply, without hesitation, the making a fuss, or in the classical words of a western friend, the ’kicking up a bobbery.’  Never was a ‘bobbery’ more delightful than that which we have just succeeded in ‘kicking up’ all around about Boston Common.  We never saw the Frogpondians so lively in our lives.  They seem absolutely to be upon the point of waking up.  In about nine days the puppies may get open their eyes.  That is to say, they may get open their eyes to certain facts which have long been obvious to all the world except themselves-the facts that there exist other cities than Boston—­other men of letters than Professor Longfellow—­other vehicles of literary information than the Down-East Review.’

“We had tact enough not to be ‘taken in and done for’ by the Bostonians. Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes—­(for timeo substitute contemno or turn-up-your-nose-o.) We knew very well that among a certain clique of the Frogpondians, there existed a predetermination to abuse us under any circumstances.  We knew, that write what we would, they would swear it to be worthless.  We knew, that were we to compose for them a ‘Paradise Lost,’ they would pronounce it an indifferent poem.  It would have been very weak in us, then, to put ourselves to the trouble of attempting to please these people.  We preferred pleasing ourselves.  We read before them a ’juvenile’—­a very ‘juvenile’ poem—­and thus the Frogpondians were had—­were delivered up to the enemy bound hand and foot.  Never were a set of people more completely demolished.  They have blustered and flustered—­but what have they done or said that has not made them more thoroughly ridiculous?  What, in the name of Momus, is it possible for them to do or say?  We ‘delivered’ them the ’juvenile poem,’ and they received it with applause.  This is accounted for by the fact, that the clique (contemptible in numbers as in everything else) were overruled by the rest of the assembly.  These malignants did not dare to interrupt by their preconcerted hisses, the respectful and profound attention of the majority.  We have been told, indeed, that as many as three or four of the personal friends of the little old lady entitled Miss Walter, did actually leave the hall during the recitation—­but, upon the whole, this was the very best thing they could do.  We have been told this, we say—­we did not see them take their departure:—­the fact is, they belong to a class of people that we make it a point never to see.  The poem being thus well received, in spite of this ridiculous little cabal—­the next thing to be done was to abuse it in the papers.  Here, they imagined, they were sure of their game.  But what have they accomplished?  The poem, they say, is bad.  We admit it.  We insisted upon this fact in our prefatory remarks,