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.”