We cannot refrain from adding the following delicious little bit of character-painting, from the same pen, though not _germaine_ to the theme: “If there is one thing that distinguishes the Southern negro above all others, it is _deliberation_. We had a fair example of this the morning of our arrival. There was not a soul on the wharf to take the rope of the steamer which some thoughtful person had thrown on shore without looking to see what was to be done with it. There were the passengers with eager, expectant faces, grouped upon the deck, baggage already looked over, and piled up for the carriages—every thing ready to land, and we just so far from the shore that a plank could not be thrown across. Presently a negro appeared on the next wharf, walking toward us with the utmost calmness. In vain were the calls of the Northern gentlemen in tartan shawls, or the impatient gestures of one of the officers of the boat. A New York wharf lounger would have had the rope secured in the time this venerable Ned took to put one foot before the other. And when he finally arrived amid the cheers of the passengers, who by this time thought it as well to laugh as fret, one of them called out as he bent over to the rope thrown once more—‘Uncle—I say—hadn’t you better _wipe_ it first?’—a finale which could not have been more deliberate than his previous movements.” * * * * * Small.—There _is_ something smaller in the world than Graham’s small-talk, and that is, a soul in a pill-box. We know several that are just in that way imprisoned—and they belong to fellows who are afraid to notice a rival publication, for _fear_ people will believe them. * * * * * Cable, the editor of the Ohio Picayune, is a man to hold on. Here is what he says— “We would not do without this Magazine for treble its price; and as we consider ourself as having some taste in this matter, we warmly recommend Graham to the lovers of chaste and classical literature.” Our friend of the Picayune will be glad to know that there are 30,000 people of his mind, who cling to Graham always. Then, there is a “floating population” of 20,000 more, who don’t know their own minds, but shift about to all points of the compass and come back again to Graham, grumbling at others, when the fault is their own for having left Graham at all. These wanderers are coming in, in flocks, for ’52, but we don’t _count_ on them, any more than upon a roost of wild pigeons—they will go to Godey—to Harper, to somebody in a year or two, and then come back again mad at every body. These folks are _nobodies_. * * * * *