The truth is, we are usually the
      _recipients_ in such case.” [Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he
      emphasized the word “recipients.”] “For the most part, we are
      _paid_ for the insertion of a maiden attempt—especially in verse. In the second place, Mr. Bob, the Magazine rule is never to
      disburse what we term in France the _argent comptant_—I have no
      doubt you understand. In a quarter or two after publication of
      the article—or in a year or two—we make no objection to giving
      our note at nine months; provided always that we can so arrange
      our affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst up’ in six. I
      really _do_ hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this
      explanation as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab concluded, and the
      tears stood in his eyes. Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause
      of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to
      apologize, and to reassure him, by expressing my perfect
      coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of
      the delicacy of his position. Having done all this in a neat
      speech, I took leave. One fine morning, very shortly afterwards, “I awoke and found
      myself famous.” The extent of my renown will be best estimated by
      reference to the editorial opinions of the day. These opinions,
      it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number
      of the “Lollipop” containing my poem, and are perfectly
      satisfactory, conclusive and clear with the exception, perhaps,
      of the hieroglyphical marks, “_Sep_. 15—1 t.” appended to each of
      the critiques. The “Owl,” a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the
      deliberate gravity of its literary decisions—the “Owl,” I say,
      spoke as follows:

      “‘The Lollipop!’ The October number of this delicious Magazine
      surpasses its predecessors, and sets competition at defiance. In
      the beauty of its typography and paper—in the number and
      excellence of its steel plates—as well as in the literary merit
      of its contributions—the ‘Lollipop’ compares with its slow-paced
      rivals as Hyperion with a Satyr. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’
      and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ excel, it is true, in braggadocio,
      but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this
      celebrated journal can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses,
      is more than we can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation
      of 100,000, and its subscription-list has increased one-fourth
      during the last month; but, on the other hand, the sums it
      disburses constantly for contributions are inconceivable. It is
      reported that Mr. Slyass received no less than thirty-seven and a
      half cents for his inimitable paper on ‘Pigs.’ With Mr. Crab, as
      editor, and with such names upon the list of contributors as Snob
      and Slyass, there can be no such word as ‘fail’ for the
      Lollipop.’ Go and subscribe. _Sep_. 15—1 _t.”_

      I must say that I was gratified with this high-toned notice from
      a paper so respectable as the “Owl.” The placing my name—that is
      to say, my _nom de guerre_—in priority of station to that of the
      great Slyass, was a compliment as happy as I felt it to be
      deserved. My attention was next arrested by these paragraphs in the
      “Toad”—a print highly distinguished for its uprightness, and
      independence—for its entire freedom from sycophancy and
      subservience to the givers of dinners:

      “The ‘Lollipop’ for October is out in advance of all its
      contemporaries, and infinitely surpasses them, of course, in the
      splendor of its embellishments, as well as in the richness of its
      literary contents. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the
      ‘Goosetherumfoodle’ excel, we admit, in braggadocio, but, in all
      other points, give us the ‘Lollipop. How this celebrated Magazine
      can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we
      can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation of 200,000, and
      its subscription list has increased one-third during the last
      fortnight, but on the other hand, the sums it disburses, monthly,
      for contributions, are fearfully great. We learn that Mr.
      Mumblethumb received no less than fifty cents for his late
      ‘Monody in a Mud-Puddle.’

      “Among the original contributors to the present number we notice,
      (besides the eminent editor, Mr. Crab,) such men as Snob, Slyass,
      and Mumblethumb. Apart from the editorial matter, the most
      valuable paper, nevertheless, is, we think, a poetical gem by
      Snob, on the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—but our readers must not suppose from
      the title of this 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, above-ground 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 laurels. These
      prints, no doubt, surpass every thing in loudness of pretension,
      but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this
      celebrated Magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous
      expenses, is more than we can comprehend.