It ran thus:

      “To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’”

      Having carefully looked out, however, all the legitimate rhymes
      to “Bob,” I found it impossible to proceed. In this dilemma I had
      recourse to paternal aid; and, after some hours of mature
      thought, my father and myself thus constructed the poem:

      _“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob’
      Is all sorts of a job._
                          “(Signed) Snob.”

      To be sure, this composition was of no very great length—but I
      “have yet to learn” as they say in the Edinburgh Review, that the
      mere extent of a literary work has any thing to do with its
      merit. As for the Quarterly cant about “sustained effort,” it is
      impossible to see the sense of it. Upon the whole, therefore, I
      was satisfied with the success of my maiden attempt, and now the
      only question regarded the disposal I should make of it. My
      father suggested that I should send it to the “Gad-Fly”—but there
      were two reasons which operated to prevent me from so doing. I
      dreaded the jealousy of the editor—and I had ascertained that he
      did not pay for original contributions. I therefore, after due
      deliberation, consigned the article to the more dignified pages
      of the “Lollipop,” and awaited the event in anxiety, but with
      resignation. In the very next published number I had the proud satisfaction of
      seeing my poem printed at length, as the leading article, with
      the following significant words, prefixed in italics and between
      brackets:

      _We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable
      stanza on “The Oil of Bob.” We need say nothing of their
      sublimity, or their pathos:—it is impossible to peruse them
      without tears. Those who have been nauseated with a sad dose on
      the same august topic from the goose quill of the editor of the
      “Gad Fly” will do well to compare the two compositions._

      P. S.—We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which
      envelops the evident pseudonym “Snob.” May we hope for a personal
      interview? All this was scarcely more than justice, but it was, I confess,
      rather more than I had expected:—I acknowledged this, be it
      observed, to the everlasting disgrace of my country and of
      mankind. I lost no time, however, in calling upon the editor of
      the “Lollipop,” and had the good fortune to find this gentleman
      at home. He saluted me with an air of profound respect, slightly
      blended with a fatherly and patronizing admiration, wrought in
      him, no doubt, by my appearance of extreme youth and
      inexperience. Begging me to be seated, he entered at once upon
      the subject of my poem;—but modesty will ever forbid me to repeat
      the thousand compliments which he lavished upon me. The eulogies
      of Mr. Crab, (such was the editor’s name,) were, however, by no
      means fulsomely indiscriminate. He analyzed my composition with
      much freedom and great ability—not hesitating to point out a few
      trivial defects—a circumstance which elevated him highly in my
      esteem. The “Gad-Fly” was, of course, brought upon the _tapis_,
      and I hope never to be subjected to a criticism so searching, or
      to rebukes so withering, as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon that
      unhappy effusion. I had been accustomed to regard the editor of
      the “Gad-Fly” as something superhuman; but Mr. Crab soon
      disabused me of that idea. He set the literary as well as the
      personal character of the Fly (so Mr. C. satirically designated
      the rival editor,) in its true light. He, the Fly, was very
      little better than he should be. He had written infamous things. He was a penny-a-liner, and a buffoon. He was a villain. He had
      composed a tragedy which set the whole country in a guffaw, and a
      farce which deluged the universe in tears. Besides all this, he
      had the impudence to pen what he meant for a lampoon upon
      himself, (Mr. Crab,) and the temerity to style him “an ass.”
      Should I at any time wish to express my opinion of Mr. Fry, the
      pages of the “Lollipop,” Mr. Crab assured me, were at my
      unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that
      I would be attacked in the Fly for my attempt at composing a
      rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he (Mr. Crab,) would take it upon
      himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal
      interests. If I were not made a man of at once, it should not be
      the fault of himself, (Mr. Crab.) Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse, (the latter portion
      of which I found it impossible to comprehend,) I ventured to
      suggest something about the remuneration which I had been taught
      to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of the
      “Lollipop,” declaring that it, (the “Lollipop,”) “insisted upon
      being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted
      contributions—frequently expending more money for a single brief
      poem than the whole annual cost of the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the
      ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle’ combined.”

      As I mentioned the word “remuneration,” Mr. Crab first opened his
      eyes, and then his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent; causing
      his personal appearance to resemble that of a highly-agitated
      elderly duck in the act of quacking; and in this condition he
      remained, (ever and anon pressing his hands tightly to his
      forehead, as if in a state of desperate bewilderment) until I had
      nearly made an end of what I had to say. Upon my conclusion, he sank back into his seat, as if much
      overcome, letting his arms fall lifelessly by his side, but
      keeping his mouth still rigorously open, after the fashion of the
      duck. While I remained in speechless astonishment at behavior so
      alarming, he suddenly leaped to his feet and made a rush at the
      bell-rope; but just as he reached this, he appeared to have
      altered his intention, whatever it was, for he dived under a
      table and immediately re-appeared with a cudgel. This he was in
      the act of uplifting, (for what purpose I am at a loss to
      imagine,) when, all at once, there came a benign smile over his
      features, and he sank placidly back in his chair. “Mr. Bob,” he said, (for I had sent up my card before ascending
      myself,) “Mr. Bob, you are a young man, I presume—_very?_”

      I assented; adding that I had not yet concluded my third lustrum. “Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see how it is—say no more! Touching this matter of compensation, what you observe is very
      just: in fact it is excessively so. But ah—ah—the _first_
      contribution—the _first_, I say,—it is never the Magazine custom
      to pay for—you comprehend, eh?