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!” [Illustration: hand with finger pointing] Mail 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. * * * * *