| [27] | Published respectively by Charles Scribner and Appleton Bros. New York: 1852. |
GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.
Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.
Our New Suit.—It is not our purpose to show off—to take airs, to be proud, to refuse to speak to anybody, simply because our new suit has come home, and we are giving it its first holyday airing—but our new type, our new coat which covers it, and the very superior quality of our whole rig is rather stared at, we know—or we should not mention the fact. Excessive modesty has been our weakness—it is the besetting frailty of most Magazine publishers, as is fully evinced in their prospectuses. Humility is tenderly nursed and taken out riding, until it has a consumptive look, and is pronounced “too good for this world.” Yet it is the fashion. Nobody—least of all Godey—or Sartain or Harper—presumes to say a word in self-praise—then why should Graham set himself up and play Captain Grand, even if he is a little stouter and haler, and has a greater extent of territory over which he can gaze like Selkirk,
“Monarch of all he surveys;”
and like Alexander, sigh for “more worlds to conquer.” Why should he be proud? That question rather startles us; but the answer is at hand—because he has the greatest Magazine in the world—and the prettiest girls, and the most of ’em—to read it! It is estimated that 60,000 beautiful women are in love with Graham—the Magazine, of course—and Graham is as proud as Lucifer about it; and Graham prides himself, too, that his subscribers read his book, and are not satisfied with the picture books, which in younger days had so many charms for innocent eyes; when the whale in the spelling-book spouted hugely, even to the top of the page, and the camel had a hump that was a wonder—when stale love-stories and most sickly verse, with fragments disjointed of the veriest cold meats of literature were a marvel—when homilies upon graces, made up of whalebones—the last agony of fashion which it is agony to look at—were food for dreams.
We hold you by the button, reader, merely to mention the various excellencies which crown the feast; that our new type and finer paper, are worthy of special mention. Whether anybody ever had such type—or paper—or ever will have, is not the question; for in these days of special self-sacrifice, it will not do to be too modest, but—Our book is Grand for June.