We are happy to say that we are a Benedict, and as Kossuth has prudently introduced no Turkish notions into his addresses to the ladies, we have great doubts about indulging in any dreams as to “pluralities.” But still, we may safely say, as we do “by permission,” that the young lady who sends “Graham” the largest club for 1852, shall receive the favor of our most distinguished consideration.
“Graham” may now be considered in the market for “proposals,” and if all the handsome things the press say of him are read and pondered over—as they ought to be—he will receive a perfect shower of adoration in the agreeable form of attached and worshiping subscribers. “Graham” holds the King of clubs and Knave of hearts, now—so every young lady knows the lead.
Advertising.—Business is business and must be pressed home. Now we have a business secret for your ear, reader! one which we charge you nothing for; but which comes charged with weighty and important meaning. Do you ever advertise? No! Why there is nothing like advertising to make a fortune! Nearly all the men about here, who never advertised, have taken in their signs, shut up shop, been taken in themselves and have gone to California—the dupes of the very advertising in the newspapers, which they scorned while fortune was all around them. You must take hold of this lever that moves the business world. Advertise in your local papers—if your business is local—let your neighbors know that you have something to sell—that you wish to buy something—or, that you are ready to trade. Wake up! and wake up your neighbors! We should never be able to publish Graham with 112 pages per month, if we did not let the world know that we are wide awake, and ready to supply any quantity of numbers for 1852, having stereotyped the book purposely. Now, drowsy head! do you suppose that if you are a storekeeper you would not sell more goods by advertising? Or if a mechanic, that it will do you any harm to be known far and near as an active, enterprising business man ready for customers? Or, if a farmer, with a lot of extra corn or potatoes to sell, that you could not make a market? Do you suppose, that you can put your hands into your pockets and whistle a fortune into them, too? If you do, advertise that, and be immortal.
Our Stories.—We have adopted the plan of giving our readers one long story complete, in each number—say from twelve to twenty pages. In the January number we gave “The Rich Man’s Whims,” which was universally praised by the press and by the readers of this Magazine. “Anna Temple,” which appeared in the February number, we think, was a better story, and so say many critics competent to judge. “The Democrat,” at Ballston, N. Y., says, in noticing the last number—“Graham now contains, and will continue to contain, during this year, more reading matter monthly than any similar work published in the country. The story, “Anna Temple,” in the February number, is one of the finest tales we have ever read, and is alone worth more than the year’s subscription to the Magazine.” And this is but one, of scores of such notices.
In the present number our readers will find a gem called “The Miser and His Daughter,” written by a gentleman of New Orleans—the author of the story of “The Little Family,” which appeared in the November number of “Graham”—a tale which was more widely read and praised than any article in the last volume. We have received the first part of an article by this writer, which we shall give in future numbers, and we do not hesitate to say, for the benefit of those who worship British ability only, that no article equal to it has appeared in Blackwood or Frazer for years. It is called “The First Age.”
Caution.—“My goodness,” says a cautious and gouty old gentleman, who is one of Graham’s friends, “aint you afraid to talk at your subscribers and exchanges the way you do?” No! not a bit of it—Graham will tell “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” to every body who reads his editorial chit-chat. If people don’t like it, they need not read it. In 112 pages there is room and verge enough to dodge around sharp corners and escape the dilemma of reading the few pages in which Graham, kicking off his boots, goes at people with his slippers on. Every body, in 1852, will get more than a full return for what is paid for the book, without counting “The Small-Talk”—and if any editor don’t like it, let him let it alone. “The whole boundless continent is not ours,” but the small-talk is—and being monarch sole and absolute in these dominions, we shall submit to no impertinence, but will have our own will and way—and the way is straight and plain. We do not expect to get a decent notice from the Saturday Evening Post, for all this—and we don’t care if we don’t—nor if we do.