Short Fiction by Edgar Allan Poe (good books for 7th graders .TXT) 📕

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, aboveground 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 everything 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. 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,