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. * * * * * 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. * * * * *