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.