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.