[B1] "Flib on Bores," Spirit of the Times, Jan. 6, 1842

FLIB ON BORES.—The Bore Philosophic.—"Flib what are you thinking about?"

"Trying to class the various species of bores that intrude into our sanctum. First, there is the Bore Philosophic; a thing that reminds you now of an exceedingly small potatoe; again, of a miniature steam engine, always, panting, puffing, blowing, without doing any thing, and at all times it brings to mind a very little bladder puffed up by an exceedingly big straw. This bore stalks into the sanctum at the busiest times, with its hands in its pockets and its nose projecting, as if to smell out hidden truths; it squats itself in a spare seat, or if there is none, takes your own, and then leaning over the table, deafens you with a continued clatter about this thing and that, what's the reason the wind blows, why people's noses are fixed in the middle of their faces, or why monkies have tails, and other disquisitions equally learned and important. The misery of the thing is, that this bore expects you to reply to all he says. He confuses your ideas, knocks your thoughts into a gin shop, makes you commit the most horrible blunders in the world, which he is the first to find in next day's paper, and points them out to you in the coolest way imaginable, observing at the same time, "that it's no business of his'n, to be sure, but he is really very sorry to see so many mistakes in such a valuable paper——"

"Don't you know, Flib, that all this is libellous? You are slandering a numerous class of very respectable citizens—but supposing that the bores philosophic were an evil, how would you remedy it?"

"Tell 'em I had round toed boots."

Flib was sent down the cellar for coal.

[B2] "Flib's Note Book," Spirit of the Times, Jan. 8, 1842

FLIB'S NOTE BOOK.—In a recent discussion on Iowa eloquence, our Flib produced the following, as a specimen of what is usually said in those diggins in case of an assault and battery upon a child. "How bewtiful," said the lawyer, "it is to see an infant child a-growing up into the full blown individual.—All the symparthies of its little chickabiddy soul a-buddin' forth into a-a-full grown rooster of feelin' as I might say. Now, gentlemen of the Jury, when we take all this into consideration-when we concatenate the internal combinations of the human frame, into a general congulated conglomeration of consistencies, can we, aye, can we hesitate to pronounce that darned Yankee schoolmaster over yonder, both individually and collectively, guilty of spanking the widder Snobbses bewtiful offspring, Jackey Snobbs, almost to death, and bringin' him to the werge of despair, and all that, as might say."

[B3] "Feast of Intellect," Spirit of the Times, Jan. 15, 1842

Feast of Intellect.—The Meeting of Flib and Toney Blink.

The other evening, after leaving the sanctum, we found that we had forgotten to take a copy of the Richmond Star home with us, and the consequence was, that we had to retrace our steps.

Opening the door, we were about entering the sacred precinct, when an unexpected sight caused us to start back.

There, seated in our arm chair, his legs thrown up on the editorial table, covered with green baize, was the sanguine haired Flib, with his merry twinkling, although obliquious eyes fixed upon an individual who sat opposite, while his lips were wreathed into a Cheshire cat grin.

The light of the lamp fell fully upon the countenance of Flib, while the whole figure of the unknown person who sat opposite, was enveloped in shade.

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the eccentric youth, "now look here. If I ain't found you out at last. I've been a-searchin' for you every whar—I read your police reports, and says I, says I, that feller's got the genius, and no mistake. I did indeed. He's a regular team, he is, says I. And I hunted you every where. I used to stand at the corners o' the streets o' nights a-watching to see any body with a remarkably funny phiz—but I could'nt find any body that I could pitch upon for you, I couldn't. And now I've found you out. So you are the riglar, lively, spicey, racy, and beezar—you are in fact—"

"Hush," said a soft modest voice.

"You are," resumed Flib, "you are Toney Blink!"

There was a low chuckle, and the unknown person came forward to the light. We discovered to our utter astonishment that it was the original Toney. (Who he is, or what he looks like, is our business. He isn't a boy, nor is he an old man. His hair isn't red, brown, or gray. He is, in fact, an indescribable genius.) We stepped behind the stove unobserved, and watched the movements of this eccentric twain.

"Now look here, Toney," continued Flib—"I've got a high respect for you, I have. So let's have a blow out; will ye? Come, if you've got three cents vy I'll get three more, and we can get a mug of beer down in the cellar from Cox's—eh? Will you go in for it?"

"Well, I don't care if I do. (This was the answer of Toney.) You are an eccentric chap—and so am I—and that's a fact. Howsomever, don't you tear your trowsers when you say them witty things?—And then that ring—oh, my!—That was laying the humbug on too thick. Howsomever, you may hurrah with that beer—there's the three cents, and tell 'em to send us a cracker a-piece."

Flib vanished, and in a moment returned with the beer. It was curious to see the gravity with which the two drank each other's health; the politeness with which they both exclaimed,—"Not afore you-oh, certainly not afore you;"-and concluded by each sipping out of one side of the mug at once.

"Well, Toney, I do admire your police reports—I do indeed. But sometimes you do say such queer things—"

"Do I, though," asked Toney, inquiringly.

"Praps you do. That 'boot,' &c, for instance.—But look here. Do you see that?"

He handed Toney a card, about six inches by eight in size, and looking very much like a steamboat advertisement.

"Hello! What's that?" exclaimed Toney, reading—"Lecture on Phrenology, Philosophy, Physiology, Electro-Magnetism, Legal Jurisprudence, Dentistry, and the Belles Lettres. BY AN UNKNOWN LITERATI. To be delivered on Monday evening next. Place—— "

"Well, as for the place," interrupted Flib, "I think I kin git the little back garret up stairs; and with three taller candles, and a band o' music, I think I can get along. I've invited the editor of the Demosthenian Shield, as well as several other distinguished men. Will you come?"

"I shall do myself that honor," replied Toney Blink, bowing very politely.

"Now you're complimentary," replied Flib, with extreme gravity.

"Not at all," replied Toney with equal solemnity. "I consider you a very smart chance of a boy. I do indeed."

"Do you though?" said Flib, burying his hands in his pockets, and lolling his head on his right shoulder, while he leered out of his eyes at his friend Toney. "Do you though? Well, now look here, if I haint thought so a pretty considerable number of times myself. I know I've got the genius in me, and as the spelling book says of a man named Erskine on the floor of Congress, when he was put down, he says, says he, he wouldn't be put down, no how they could fix it. He had the critter in him, and by—"

"Don't swear!" whispered Toney.

"And by golly it must come out. Those are my opinions. I feel the genius a-buzzin' inside of my bosom, like a fly inside a winder, a-wanton to get out but it can't. For why? Cause the very thing which admits the light perwents it; the glass does and be darned to it. Toney Blink—or to speak perlitely, Antoninus Blinkibus—I feel that I am destined for a glorious immortality, as the preacher says—I feel—I feel-well darn me, if the feller ain't asleep. Toney, Toney, I say."

"What did you ob-ob-serve," inquired Toney, faintly unclosing his eyes. "Oh—a-h,—a-a-h,-I don't know what makes me gape so. Oh, a-h, about that lecture. Where did you say it was to be?"

"I told you up stairs, in the back garret. Or may be I can get the animal magnetism room, in the Masonic Hall. The question is, will you report my lecture?"

"Depend upon me, for a full, faithful and entire report."

"Give's us your hand. Here there's a drop left in the mug. Plenty of black mail to ye, old boy."

"Hand us the mug. The same to you, and a new pair of pants into the bargain. Good bye."

"Good bye, Toney."

"Good bye, Flib."

"Good-"

"Bye-" (Exit omnes.)

[B4] "Sad Catastrophe," Spirit of the Times, Jan. 26, 1842

Sad Catastrophe.—We have several times, in speaking of our "Flib," alluded to his red hair.  Flib is a mischievous fellow, fond of trying experiments, and prying into every thing that comes within his reach.  Last evening, in reading his favorite paper, the Spirit of the Times, he observed the statement that Dr. Comstock's East India Hair Dye, would color "grey or Red Hair, Brown or Black."  Flib disputed it.  Toney Blink affected to agree with him in opinion, and persuaded him to try a little on his hair, in order that he might confute the Doctor.  He did so, and lo and behold! This morning his hair is as black as the ace of spades!  Flib is in great distress at the metamorphosis, as he took a great pride in his red head, and fancied that was what made the girls love him so.  (Flib is a great favorite with the ladies.)  He wishes us to ask the Doctor if his hair wont come out red again, and promises faithfully not to interfere with chemicals again.

[B5] "Flib's Vision," Spirit of the Times, Feb. 8, 1842

FLIB'S VISION.—"Flib you are meditative today?"

"O! such a delicious dream as I had last night. I lay in bed, when a throng of lovely maidens came dancing and swimming in the golden air beside me. And oh, there was one with such lovely black eyes, such a sweet bosom, and such delicious lips—all dressed in white—she came dancing by my bedside, and while her face lit up with a beaming look, and as her dark eyes glanced love, while her pouting lips wreathed in a smile, she spoke—

"She spoke!—Well Flib what did she say?"

"She asked me how much pickled mackerel was a dozen."

[B6] "The Bore Sensitive," Spirit of the Times, Feb. 8, 1842

FLIB ON BORES.—The Bore Sensitive.—Now, Mr. Editor, the bore sensitive is a very small thing, but just as annoying as it is diminutive. It meddles with every body's business, and has a finger in every body's pie. It is the gad fly of society, the grasshopper of every cabbage leaf, the cricket of every hearth, and the beetle with great buzzing wings that pops into every body's face just as every body don't want it to pop into their face. This bore is the especial pest of the sanctum. Our friend BLATHER-SCRITE, ESQ., is the personification of this class. If you happen to publish an account in the City News how Mrs. Jones, the molasses candy woman up town, had her little boy killed by a wagon running over its dear little body, the Curnel comes to you next day, with a—"Good heavens! My dear D—, but you don't know how much injury your account of the matter is calculated to do to old Mrs. Jones—run over the body—pah! This is totally and entirely untrue. The child was killed by the wheel of a hand cart-a hand cart, mind ye-passing over its right foot—right foot, understand me-between-now mark what I say—the little joint of the fourth toe, and the principal joint of the big toe. Here let me—it's a matter of the utmost importance to Mrs. Jones that this thing should be understood-here let me illustrate it to you." The bore sensitive is very apt to make a judy of itself at every public gathering from a Methodist class meeting up to a "no capital punishment" gathering. He makes ridiculous speeches, and then comes and harangues you for reporting them. The bore sensitive makes blustering harangues and sometimes gets hissed—when he exclaims, "The person who uttered that hiss is no gentleman. I'd like some gentleman to point him out to me." He is answered by a—"Here I am, sir—what do you want with me?" "Why," replies the bore sensitive, "you oughtn't to have done that." The bore sensitive is a—

"Is that boy not gone? Turn him out—the libeller."

[B7] "A New Horoscope," Spirit of the Times, April 7, 1842

A NEW HOROSCOPE.—Our Flib has in type a new horoscope from which we make the following extract:—"The world is near its end! Most indubitably, or else the following signs are false, viz: A certain broker last week absolutely refused to discount a note at more than ten per cent. A minister preached a sermon at half an hour without mentioning the words 'virtue' and 'vital godliness' more than 201 times, and a lawyer got a fee out of seven different clients, without telling more than six lies, and appealing to his honor for the truth of these lies, more than eleven successive times." Flib argues from this that millenium is near, and no mistake.