Fitzgerald’s City Item.—This is the name of a weekly paper, now in its fifth year, published in this city by Fitzgerald & Co., at Two Dollars per annum. This journal enjoys the reputation of being undoubted authority upon all Literary, Musical, Fine Art, and Dramatic Matters. It has been conducted from the beginning by Mr. Fitzgerald, and we have often admired his good-nature, his frankness, and his ability. Untiring industry has established The City Item upon a firm basis. Fitzgerald & Co. offer as a premium to new subscribers, an admirable life-size portrait of the Hungarian patriot, Kossuth. Graham’s Magazine and The City Item may be secured for Four Dollars. * * * * * GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK. Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges. Our Small-Talk has afforded food for infinite jest to a few unfledged wits and cubs of critics, clever word-snappers, who keep reiterating the joke that the Small-Talk _is_ small—_very_. Of course it is, goslings! it was so called and set down originally in the bills. So do not imagine that you are discoverers, and set yourselves off to the Polar regions in search of Sir John Franklin. The Small-Talk is more than _small_—it is pert, impudent, audacious, outrageous, insolent, and, cool. More than that, it is—“to be continued.” * * * * * Ah! now, isn’t this delightful? We were wondering whether we should _ever_ get another love-letter, when lo! in comes the mail, from which we extract the following delicious epistle from a young lady, who, we know, would love us, if we _were_ only a bachelor: “To Graham. “A ‘bachelor,’ thou sayest?—ha-ha—have a care— A target too tempting—I bid thee beware! Now stand and deliver, thou ‘knave of the heart!’ Thy ‘clubs’ shall not parry the aim of my dart. “Thy armor—thy pleading, and dodging is vain, Wry faces uncalled for! ’tis hymenial chain We wish to throw round thee—surrender! I bid— All woven of roses, the thorns are quite hid. “A net-work of love shall enshroud thee forever— (‘Enshroud’ is too icy, it makes Cupid shiver— _Imprison_ is better—I like the word best—) When the heart’s taken captive the spirit’s at rest. “Two short little weeks, out of fifty or more, Is all we can claim—and one year out of four— We must make up in speed, what we lack for in time, And make a bold push or have no Valentine. “An abrupt, ringing laugh, from a friend standing near, And—‘I read you it wrong!’ he says, ‘_Benedict_!’ do ye hear? How _horrid provoking_ to play me this game! I don’t care, I will send it subscribed with my name.” H. H.