  Wife. Now here is my Graham for February, with 112 pages, as the editor promised, and you have never sent him that $3. Aint you ashamed of yourself! Husband. Don’t bother me—I am busy. Wife. Well—the money shall go, as I shall put it in a letter—put a three cent stamp upon it, and post it this very day. Cross Husband. Money is worth 2 per cent. a month—let the fellow wait! Reader—that is the very reason we can’t wait. We are poor, and we want every dollar. We have a fancy for short paper ourself, now. “Cash on the nail, or no books.” Having $10,000 at sea, that we should like to see, of last year’s bright prospects, we shall trust no more, and go in debt no deeper. Wisdom and Poverty are Fellows in our college. If Magazine publishers could only, like cotton brokers, draw against shipments, what a delightful business they would have. But who advances cash upon snowed-up mails? Who has an available credit in bank, or can go at the market rates upon over-due subscriptions? Not Graham! You can’t conceive how agreeable it is not to have a discount—to be able to look a Bank Director in the face without asking him if “they are doing any thing now”—to feel perfectly indifferent as to whether your friend has “any thing over”—to know that you have no interest in the gold that is going to England—to be able to say to a dun, “look you, fellow! I have no money, and you know it!” HMail the money at once, at our risk—Don’t wait for The Traveling Collector. For $10 we send Graham for five years. A Horrible Deafness.—Godey, in praising the plates of his own number for January, says, “We have never heard of any other Magazine giving an original plate.” Well! as we gave four “original engravings” in January, and three of them from original designs, we have hopes of working a miracle on Godey. “The eagle suffers little birds to sing.” Refreshing.—The editor of the International Magazine asserts that as his German articles are germaine to the American spirit—his is the most American of all the magazines. A nice Irish bull for a doctor of divinity. “Cousin! let there be less of this, I pray you.” The editor of the Boston Farmer, wearied with the toils of the field, turns poet, and comes down upon our December number in the following epigram. It is evident he is no judge of “picture books.” Mr. Graham, now don’t you be vexed, But own up to the insinuation; You’ve given us six pages of text, And fifty of mere illustration! You shall not run the teeth of your poetical harrow over us in that fashion, Mr. Farmer—so here’s at you! ’Tis plain you’re no judge of a baby, Or ladies that we put much cost on; Although we’ve no doubt that you may be A very good farmer—for Boston. Dost think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale? Why, look you, sir! We were a farmer’s boy ourself once—but we mowed, reaped, cradled, ploughed, ditched, and chopped wood—we didn’t write execrable poetry, upon pretty women and innocent children. How are crops in State Street? “Bizarre.”—This is the title of a neat periodical—issued in the style of Dickens’ Household Words, and it is filled with graceful and sparkling tributes from the pen of Mr. Church, its editor. We have a right to speak out in meeting about Church, for he was an associate of ours in Auld Lang Syne—in a daily paper—and we know him. His modest, gentlemanly demeanor conceals a world of honest good stuff, of which a dozen literary reputations could be made, if cut up and divided among the “distinguished contributors” of some periodicals. The readers of the Bizarre will soon have occasion to admit this. Arthur’s Home Gazette.—We call the attention of our readers to the prospectus of this valuable literary Journal; and we do it with the more heartiness as we have known its editor intimately for many years, and have known him as one of the most upright, consistent, laborious, talented, yet modest of our literary men. Mr. Arthur is an earnest, good man—practically the moral editor he pretends to be—there is no sham or flummery in his composition, but truthful and fearless, he conducts his Journal as much as a matter of conscience, as a matter of dollars. He is totally free, too, of all small jealousies of other people’s success—but with a keen eye to life and its surroundings, he attends rigidly to his own concerns, and labors to embody his observations and experiences, so as to make men wiser and better. To his well-known ability as an author, Mr. Arthur unites the rare gift of a capital writer for a journal, seizing with happy tact upon the passing occurrences of the hour, and so combining them with his own manly reflections as to give us just views of life and of its responsibilities, too, at the same glance. In the management of his journal Mr. A. has had the sagacity to enlist brains—the best writers are among his regular contributors, and without any parade or pretence, he quietly issues his sheet each week, teeming with thought, and overflowing with the generous sentiments of a thorough Christian gentleman. If any of our readers desire to see a copy of the Gazette, he will furnish it upon application—if they desire to subscribe they can have this Magazine and that paper for $4. We have spoken frankly of Mr. Arthur and his paper—we have spoken what we believe. Plain Talk.—It has become fashionable to tell all manner of fibs to the country by prospectus and editorial personal horn-blowing. We shall stop this business right off, as if ’twere a sort of gas burner. Why not tell the whole truth at once, without attempting to throw dust in people’s eyes about extra pages when there are none—or new fashions, which are but copies of old French designs—American literature contributed by English and Swedish writers, or by Mrs. Hall, an Irish lady. Jonathan is not as stupid as he looks, and we doubt whether there is much made in attempting to cheat him. So here’s into the confessional—Jontey, my boy, the plate called “Sweet Sixteen,” in this number, was not engraved for Graham—and you will observe he does not say it was—but it cost us $120 for all that, on account of its beauty. If you have never seen it, you will like it much—if you have, go one eye on it from an original point of view, and refresh your admiration—that’s a good boy! If that engraving don’t suit you, look at PÈre-la-Chaise, which we paid Rolph, of New York, $175 for engraving; or admire Devereux’s fine wood-engravings. Then take up the literary department and read that, and if you haven’t got your “quarter’s worth,” amuse yourself with reading the advertisements on the cover. The Froth of Small Beer.—One word as to the sly hits at us for engaging “Mr. James, an English writer.” Well! Mr. James is a writer of English, and notwithstanding the gnat-like buzzing of small critics who singe their wings in his light, we think him one of the most agreeable of all novel writers. He is a gentleman, of modest demeanor, who does not come to this country to raise a hurrah, or a row, by flattering our vanity or assailing our foibles. He has settled snugly down on his farm at Stockbridge, Massachusetts—claims the proper protection of his property as a resident citizen, by copyrighting his books; and attends quietly to his own affairs. We paid him $1200 for his novel, and think it a good one—he is satisfied—we are satisfied—and the readers of Graham are delighted. So that we hope to survive the small malice of small men. If Graham lives, he will, before he closes the year 1852, have the largest list of good paying subscribers that ever blessed a publisher’s eyes with the sight of dollars, and will show such energy in “Graham” as will astonish those who imitate, but can never excel, and whose highest achievement it is, to be looking through a piece of smoked glass, in the vain hope of seeing an eclipse of Graham’s Magazine. Always 112 Pages.—At the risk of being thought a little malicious, as well as prophetical, we ask of our readers, and of editors with whom we exchange, to compare the quantity of literary matter in Graham of this month, with those who endeavor to follow in our footsteps with the January number, but trip up, or get leg-weary as soon as the number is published, and the subscriptions are received. We also ask—and in this we do not think we are impertinent, that our editorial friends will, in so far as their leisure will permit, look over Graham before noticing it, even if the notice be delayed a week or more. We are in no expiring agony or apprehension that we are forgotten by our exchanges—so we can wait their pleasure about the notice always; and should prefer a candid expression of sentiment, favorable or adverse, to any solicited puffery. Indeed, it would be refreshing to be scored up a little or quizzed once in a while. Only if you have but a word or a line, to say of Graham, don’t bundle him into a bag with any body! He comes to your table by invitation—so give him his own plate and knife and fork; and if you treat him to but plain fare, he will be as jolly as if you champagned him, or killed the fattest chicken, in your desire to honor his visit with a barbecue. Our readers, of course, read “Graham”—they can tell their acquaintances what a happy rascal he is, and how much they miss it by not having him drop in upon them these long winter evenings. Will you do this?—each one of you—YOU! A New Feature.—In addition to, and separate from, the regular review of new books, we shall introduce a new feature in “Graham”—that of giving well-chosen chapters of new books—bound volumes which do not readily find their way into a large circulation—that our readers, far and near, may be kept booked up in all that appertains to the fresh literature of the day. In this number, we give a short chapter from Ik Marvel’s new work—“Dream-Land”—and in subsequent numbers of “Graham,” shall devote some eight or ten pages to interesting and sparkling chapters or passages of choice and rare volumes, the proof sheets of which we can often obtain in advance. The great addition to the size of the Magazine, readily affords us space for this improvement—and if our readers receive but half the gratification which we design to impart to them by this new feature, Graham will be amply rewarded. The Home Journal.—One of the most delightful of all the journals we have upon our exchange—and they number over twelve hundred—is the Home Journal of New York, Edited by N. Parker Willis and George P. Morris, two men whose names are household words, and whose fine genius seems to expand in its sparkling pages. There is no paper in the country upon which there is such manifest employment of brain-work or pains-taking labor—of tact or taste. The editorial page alone will furnish food, at any time, for a day of pleasant reflection—the whole sheet, indeed, is the siftings of golden sand. It is a sort of intellectual placer, where Beauty may grow radiant and wise. Liberal.—Duval, of The Phoenix, Camden, Ala., offers to exchange his Weekly with the Daily of the Boston Post, provided Green will publish his prospectus six times. If Green declines that offer he don’t deserve his name. Duval has a fair hit at the catch-penny affairs which offer to give an exchange and an “engraving,” (? wood-cut) as a premium to those who publish a two-column prospectus and get up a club. It is about time the country press took this matter in hand. We send “Graham” to whom we please, and if noticed—well, if not—weller. We shall not die out from exhaustion if an editor with whom we exchange fails to say that Graham is, or is not, “himself again”. Welcome Brother.—We welcome to the corps editorial of the Magazine fraternity, John Sartain, Esq., who, with all the blushing honors thick upon him as an artist of the first ability, comes like another Alexander to conquer in a new field. We have confidence in Mr. Sartain’s tact and taste, and look for a very fresh, sparkling and original periodical. Mr. S. is a disciple of the doctrine of progress—“onward!” is his motto—though all the fiends oppose. He is a revolutionizer, and has commenced cutting the heads off in style. We don’t want to take off any thing in Sartain, but if he can “keep it up” long, he must get a new bat-man for his Puck’s port-folio—not even a Puck could stand that. Wont Do It.—The State Guard of Wetumpka, Ala., “hopes George R. will forgive it, for lending “Graham” to six young ladies.” The sin is unpardonable. Look you—Messrs. Hardy and Stephens! what right have you to be making love to half a dozen pretty girls? Where are their beaux, that each of them has not a “Graham” of her own? Inquire into this business, and report at the next meeting. No young lady has a right to read “Graham” unless her beau pays the damage. Godey will find it impossible to get the Mote out of his own eye, when he contrasts “Sweet Sixteen” in this number with his Americanized Fashion plates, Our own have a beam of pleasure in them, as we gaze upon its surpassing loveliness. The original must be a beauty. We have never seen her—indeed, should never have had this copy, were it not for a heart in the business, loading us to brave all dangers to conquer. Robert Morris, of the Inquirer, is a friend that never wavers, but in sunshine or in storm, his benignant countenance and cheering words are never wanting Morris must have a rich treasury in the memory of good deeds done—of kindly words spoken in dark hours to the sad and desolate—a wealth of remembrance of generous hours, worth all the gold of misers. Acknowledged.—Godey had the most beautiful cover on his Magazine for January that we have ever seen. Having beaten him in our Paris Fashion, we submit and are penitent. We shall start a bank with Godey on the profits of our January numbers—notes to be kept at par for thirty days. There is no joke in this—it is as serious as Sartain’s fun. Curious, Isn’t?—They intend, in Kentucky, to blacken the noses of all convicts, so that if they escape, they may be detected. Pike, of the Flag, suggests that the operation be extended to all delinquent subscribers to periodicals and newspapers—he knows. Graham lays down and expounds the law as it ought to be applied to those who forget to pay up once a year. “Lives there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said,” This is the paper—and ’tis read— I’ll go and pay the printer. Then let his face be covered o’er, That he may face it out—no more, But, if he don’t pay up his score, Remain an aquatint—er. Graham wrote the above under the inspiration of the discovery that he has over $10,000 due on his books in little California lumps of $3—and is poorer than he was last year—which he resists, and don’t intend to stand. Graham had occasion last year to say, “take your country papers”—and good doctrine it is, too; he says, now “GO AND PAY FOR THEM!—TIME’S UP!” Reader—this is a mournful picture—a sad evidence of the depravity of man. This fellow has read, and has allowed his family to read, his cousins and his neighbors, too, to ponder over, the lessons of wisdom imparted by “Graham,” and yet for a year, or two years, or more, has not paid. We are giving him the Kentucky benediction! But he has a chance yet, you see—he must pay up before the next number is out, or we shall make him as black as Sambo, and tell you who he is! Harry Hazel, the editor, says, “The sailing qualities of ‘The Yankee Privateer’ come fully up to our expectations. The breezes of popular opinion are blowing freshly in her favor, and there in every prospect that she will walk ‘like a thing of life.’” We thought, from her rig and stowage, that she was a sort of clipper—for she has all the good things in her. We wish her a fresh breeze and flowing sale. Harry offers to “pay liberally for tough yarns.” Here is a chance for the writers of some of the Magazine Prospectuses—All hands ahoy! Improving.—Brother Harper promises “one or more original articles,” and “copious selections,” in the new volume. “One swallow does not make a summer,” nor will one swallow sustain “an author and his family.” QuÆre. Whether “Swallow Barn” contains any allusion to authorial capacity for gulping—Bird could tell. Delusion Extraordinary.—To suppose that because a man is poor, he has unlimited credit at bank, and can pay all manner of absurd bills and drafts at sight—and gold going out at the rate of a million per steamer, and the rocks in California not all crushed, either. Minute.—One of the Magazines, in numbering the illustrations for the month, treats us to the following: “No. IX. Pattern for Baby’s Cap, one engraving, with directions for working it in crotchet.” Who has a nice, small mitten For a very young kitten? Charley! I am afraid of your morals. The Game Won.—Our January number was a “sensation number”—and the press and the public are in ecstasies with it. “We turn up Jack” with this number—having but one point to make. Awful.—Snooks wants to know whether we have “still eighty thousand!” No! we have a very noisy one hundred and ten—a good many of them Temperance folk at that—clamorous for “more—still.” Sartin.—A cotemporary says, “With the present number we commence securing the copyright of our Magazine.” Where’s the International Americanized German Frenchman? A Proper Present.—The New York Tribune, in noticing appropriate gifts to those we love, at New Year, says, “A year’s subscription to some good Periodical is an appropriate and excellent gift.” If you want to pay a delicate attention to your sweet-heart, send her “Graham.” Cheap Literature.—A new edition of Cooper’s novels is now in course of publication in England, in penny numbers. Husband. “Economy, my dear, is the source of wealth.” Wife. “I wish, husband, you would go there.” A “SPLENDID EMBELLISHMENT.” A distressed black-man, who seeing the portrait of his ladie-love in a fashionable magazine, is driven to desperation, and blows the brains out of—his master’s best mirror!—exclaiming, “Dat’s Dinah! Sartin.” Curious.—John S. Hart, L. L. D., has retired from the editorship of Sartain’s Magazine, and the series of very funny religious illustrations is ended. Sartain who is a graver man, now gives us comic cuts which are sad enough to make a Momus weep. Mr. James.—Several witty dogs wish to know “whether Mr. James has the solitary horseman in the novel now running through the pages of Graham?” No. Any equestrian fond of solitary rides may put the novel in his pocket without danger of having “the other fellow” with him. By the way, the American gentleman mentioned in the opening chapters of Mr. James’ novel, in the January number, as having first stimulated his ambition to become a literary man, is our own distinguished countryman Mr. Washington Irving, as will be seen by the following letter from Mr. James, addressed to us, in answer to an inquiry upon the subject: “Stockbridge, Mass., 15 Dec., 1851. “My Dear Sir—In answer to your note, inquiring, who was the American gentleman to whom I alluded in the first part of the work publishing in your Magazine, called “A Life of Vicissitudes,” I have no reluctance at all to say that I spoke of Mr. Washington Irving. My personal regard for that gentleman, my esteem for him as a man, and my admiration of him as an author are well known, and it must always be a pleasure to me to acknowledge that a suggestion from him in early life, led me to enter upon a career which has been eminently prosperous to Yours, faithfully, G. P. R. James. “Geo. R. Graham, Esq., Philadelphia.” Scott’s Weekly Paper.—Scott, the great “Practical Printer” who was bred in “Alexander’s time,” has, by eating a good deal of it, become a hero in ours—and survived the decay which usually attaches itself to mortals who press “the rugged pathway up the steeps of Fame.” He lives on air—or at least on that fast press which came off with a feed at the Astor. Hoeing his own row most elegantly, he disdains in ’52 the mean competition of trade, which leads men to haggle for sixpence profit, but becomes a prophet himself, and carries out his own predictions. Scott, last year, having announced a sheet “as big as all out doors”—if we except one from a Dutch barn in Berks—was accused of endeavoring to pull down the whole literary temple, like another Sampson—of proceeding at a gait that would not pay, and of throwing dust in people’s eyes, who were expected to go it blind. The charge was a plain one—being delivered by people who use the plain language—the inclined plane—and Scott, who having lived “in Alexander’s time,” had opportunities to observe that people who play with “edged tools,” however expert, are apt to suffer from such familiarity with such hardware—determined, like a true Caledonian as he is, to make somebody smart for it, and to “Meet the devil an’ Dundee.” So, never minding the expense, but paying his price like a man, he rushed into the fray, shouting his war cry: “Cock up your beaver, And cock it fu’ sprush, We’ll over the border And gie them a brush; There’s something there We’ll teach better behavior— Hey, brave Johnnie lad, Cock up your beaver.” The foe, who in all his life was no “devil,” soon found his head in chancery, and “suffered some”—as “the Fancy” say—realizing, too, the proverb, “that listeners hear no good of themselves” in the freedom of debate of a legal set-to. Having witnessed the fight, and delivered a few hints in this game of cross-purposes, we are testimony. In fact, we are rather more driven to test other people’s money, now, than to handle our own. The battle was not drawn—but a check for $500 was—to put a check upon future proceedings out of the pale of equity—and Scott was conqueror! “So said—so done—he made no more remark, Nor waited for replies; But marched off with his prize— Leaving the vanquished merchants in the dark.” Most men would have reposed upon their laurels, and considered the glory sufficient, but the redoubted cotemporary of Alexander now “carries the war into Africa,” and in abounding greatness—“very like a whale”—“a Leviathan” great, he comes forth a terror to see. There is nothing like Scott in the museum—indeed, he is a museum in himself and a whole circulating-library in the bargain. He counts more feet of paper than any poet could measure in a month, and threatens to stop the supply of all small dealers. The rumor that Scott has purchased a paper-mill, is, we are assured, “an invention of the enemy”—having been successful in one mill, he turns his thoughts to the million, and feels a good deal like Park Benjamin, when he exclaims, “The whole boundless continent is ours!” Though nobody ever believed Park, for he was never with Alexander in his campaigns, when he took the world by arts—not arms. Not “The New World,” for that was rather heavy. We speak the truth—but speak it in sadness, Park! for the day of “first-rate notices is over”—unless Scott chooses to call this “one of ’em”—and this is over. The “Rival Captives.”—This story—the publication of which we were obliged to suspend in November, in consequence of the severe illness of the author—we shall conclude in our next issue; the last part having reached us too late for this number. Freas, of the Germantown Telegraph, has justified his name, like a good printer, as he is, and has locked up his notice of our January number, in the ice, somewhere. His paper of Dec. 24th has never reached us, breaking our file, and the heart, too, of a very lovely woman. A loss.—Some of the most beautiful engravings printed up and intended for forthcoming numbers of Graham’s Magazine, were ruined by the fire at Hart’s Building. Graham was in the same predicament himself once, but he rose like a phoenix from the ashes. He has already selected some of his most beautiful original drawings and engravings, and has artists and copper-plate printers at work night and day. Graham will be as handsome as ever when he appears, and will be called “sweet” by whole bevies of pretty girls. It is a fact worthy of mention, that there is not upon the whole list of Graham a single ugly woman. There is something in philosophy about attraction and repellents, (or ought to be,) which our friend Bird, of the North American, could tell all about, but which we realize in being surrounded by “a blaze of beauty,” which used to light Godey’s path when he was younger. It is astonishing how popular Magazine publishers are when they are young! But Godey has been “a publisher for twenty-two years!” Shocking! Yet there is consolation in this, too, for some of the Magazines will never be able to imitate Godey in that “feature”—we’ll bet a “dollar” on’t. If people will say handsome things of “Graham,” the public must know it. S. A. Godman, of South Carolina, has the following in his last week’s paper: “The Best of the Monthlies.”—We always have had a partiality for Graham. Years agone, before we ever dreamed of inditing a line for the printer, many and many are the pleasant hours we have spent, beguiled from all surrounding things, by the captivating articles with which Graham, by an art known only to himself, has for years past kept his Magazine—filled. In the days of our juvenility, too, not a few thoughts have we spent, wondering what manner of man he was, who could thus monthly gather together such an amount of valuable and interesting reading matter—to say nothing of the choice embellishments that accompanied it. And, in after times, when we had the pleasure of forming his acquaintance, we found that the pictures of the imagination had scarcely done justice, fairly drawn as they were, to the original—for, than George R. Graham, there is not a more whole-souled, liberal, generous, or enterprising man in the Union. With a kindness that has no ebb, he is ever ready to appreciate merit in the young, and by his means, and through his encouragement, have some of the best authors that America can now boast of been induced to launch their barks—which since have made such successful voyages—upon the sea of public opinion. His liberality, too, keeps pace with his kindness—and instead of endeavoring to underrate the value of brain-labor—he always stretches his figures to the utmost limits of prudence—and whilst he advises like a friend, he pays like a prince. Success, then, say we, to Graham, and his Magazine! They both deserve it! And with a people so prompt to perceive, and so ready to reward merit, as are the inhabitants of the Southern States, to be encouraged, it is only necessary to deserve encouragement. “Graham’s great rival now is Harper’s Magazine. But the palm by rights, and all odds, belongs to the former. For whilst his January number now lying before us, is equal to Harper’s in the amount and quality of its literary contents, it far exceeds it in beauty of illustration—and in the fact that its contributors are all honestly paid for their labors.”—Illustrated Family Friend, Columbia, S. C. Graham’s Magazine.—The January number of Graham is incomparably the most magnificent periodical ever issued from the American press. Gazette, Bellefontaine, Ohio. CUT OFF, AND SHUT OUT. A young gentleman, who had failed to pay up for Graham, finds on visiting the lady of his heart, that the bell-rope is cut, and the door shut in his face. She having been notified that he had received the Kentucky benediction. That is the word, and this the style, now. Godey’s “Americanized Paris Fashions” are no touch to this—not half as “truthful.” Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook. page 134, Father Bonneville. Sautane ==> Father Bonneville. Soutane page 135, man or a paltroon, ==> man or a poltroon, page 136, was gone we eat and ==> was gone we ate and page 147, horses were unharnassed ==> horses were unharnessed page 153, fearful denouement of the ==> fearful dÉnouement of the page 153, whose nÄive and delicious ==> whose naÏve and delicious page 158, they had have little rest ==> they have had little rest page 171, each others arms—and ==> each other’s arms—and page 178, deep red dies of even ==> deep red dyes of even page 189, of earlier day’s seemed ==> of earlier days seemed page 216, joy of the angel’s ==> joy of the angels page 219, Mobby-Dick; or The Whale. ==> Moby-Dick; or The Whale. [End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852] |
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