To be sure, it has a
      circulation of 300,000 and its subscription-list has increased
      one-half within the last week, but then the sum it disburses,
      monthly, for contributions, is astoundingly enormous. We have it
      upon good authority, that Mr. Fatquack received no less than
      sixty-two cents and a half for his late domestic nouvelette, the
      ‘Dish-Clout.’

      “The contributors to the number before us are Mr. Crab, (the
      eminent editor,) Snob, Mumblethumb, Fatquack, and others; but,
      after the inimitable compositions of the editor himself, we
      prefer a diamond-like effusion from the pen of a rising poet who
      writes over the signature ‘Snob’—a nom de guerre which we predict
      will one day extinguish the radiance of ‘Boz.’ ‘Snob,’ we learn,
      is a Mr. Thingum Bob, Esq., sole heir of a wealthy merchant of
      this city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near relative of the
      distinguished Mr. Thingum. The title of Mr. B.‘s admirable poem
      is the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—a somewhat unfortunate name, by-the-by, as
      some contemptible vagabond connected with the penny press has
      already disgusted the town with a great deal of drivel upon the
      same topic. There will be no danger, however, of confounding the
      compositions. Sep. 15—1 t.”

      The generous approbation of so clear-sighted a journal as the
      “Mole” penetrated my soul with delight. The only objection which
      occurred to me was, that the terms “contemptible vagabond” might
      have been better written “_odious and_ contemptible _wretch,
      villain and_ vagabond.” This would have sounded more gracefully,
      I think. “Diamond-like,” also, was scarcely, it will be admitted,
      of sufficient intensity to express what the “Mole” evidently
      _thought_ of the brilliancy of the “Oil-of-Bob.”

      On the same afternoon in which I saw these notices in the “Owl,”
      the “Toad,” and the “Mole” I happened to meet with a copy of the
      “Daddy-Long-Legs,” a periodical proverbial for the extreme extent
      of its understanding. And it was the “Daddy-Long-Legs” which
      spoke thus:

      “The ‘Lollipop! !’ This gorgeous magazine is already before the
      public for October. The question of preeminence is forever put to
      rest, and hereafter it will be excessively preposterous in the
      ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ to make
      any farther spasmodic attempts at competition. These journals may
      excel the ‘Lollipop’ in outcry, but, in all other points, give us
      the ‘Lollipop!’ How this celebrated Magazine can sustain its
      evidently tremendous expenses, is past comprehension. To be sure
      it has a circulation of precisely half a million, and its
      subscription-list has increased seventy-five per cent, within the
      last couple of days; but then the sums it disburses, monthly, for
      contributions, are scarcely credible; we are cognizant of the
      fact, that Mademoiselle Cribalittle received no less than
      eighty-seven cents and a half for her late valuable Revolutionary
      Tale, entitled ‘The York-Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill
      Katy-Didn’t.’

      “The most able papers in the present number, are, of course,
      those furnished by the editor, (the eminent Mr. Crab,) but there
      are numerous magnificent contributions from such names as Snob,
      Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb,
      Mrs. Squibalittle, and last, though not least, Fatquack. The
      world may well be challenged to produce so rich a galaxy of
      genius. “The poem over the signature ‘Snob’ is, we find, attracting
      universal commendation, and, we are constrained to say, deserves,
      if possible, even more applause than it has received. The
      ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is the title of this masterpiece of eloquence and
      art. One or two of our readers _may_ have a _very_ faint,
      although sufficiently disgusting recollection of a poem (?) similarly entitled, the perpetration of a miserable
      penny-a-liner, mendicant, and cut-throat, connected in the
      capacity of scullion, we believe, with one of the indecent prints
      about the purlieus of the city; we beg them, for God’s sake, not
      to confound the compositions. The author of the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is,
      we hear, Thingum Bob, Esq., a gentleman of high genius, and a
      scholar. ‘Snob’ is merely a _nom-de-guerre. Sept_. 15—1 _t.”_

      I could scarcely restrain my indignation while I perused the
      concluding portions of this diatribe. It was clear to me that the
      yea-nay manner—not to say the gentleness—the positive forbearance
      with which the “Daddy-Long-Legs” spoke of that pig, the editor of
      the “Gad-Fly”—it was evident to me, I say, that this gentleness
      of speech could proceed from nothing else than a partiality for
      the Fly—whom it was clearly the intention of the
      “Daddy-Long-Legs” to elevate into reputation at my expense. Any
      one, indeed, might perceive, with half an eye, that, had the real
      design of the “Daddy” been what it wished to appear, it, (the
      “Daddy”) might have expressed itself in terms more direct, more
      pungent, and altogether more to the purpose. The words
      “penny-a-liner,” “mendicant,” “scullion,” and “cut-throat,” were
      epithets so intentionally inexpressive and equivocal, as to be
      worse than nothing when applied to the author of the very worst
      stanzas ever penned by one of the human race. We all know what is
      meant by “damning with faint praise,” and, on the other hand, who
      could fail seeing through the covert purpose of the “Daddy”—that
      of glorifying with feeble abuse? What the “Daddy” chose to say of the Fly, however, was no
      business of mine. What it said of myself _was_. After the noble
      manner in which the “Owl,” the “Toad,” the “Mole,” had expressed
      themselves in respect to my ability, it was rather too much to be
      coolly spoken of by a thing like the “Daddy-Long-Legs,” as merely
      “a gentleman of high genius and a scholar.” Gentleman indeed! I
      made up my mind at once, either to get a written apology from the
      “Daddy-Long-Legs,” or to call it out. Full of this purpose, I looked about me to find a friend whom I
      could entrust with a message to his Daddyship, and as the editor
      of the “Lollipop” had given me marked tokens of regard, I at
      length concluded to seek assistance upon the present occasion. I have never yet been able to account, in a manner satisfactory
      to my own understanding, for the _very_ peculiar countenance and
      demeanor with which Mr. Crab listened to me, as I unfolded to him
      my design. He again went through the scene of the bell-rope and
      cudgel, and did not omit the duck. At one period I thought he
      really intended to quack.