A “SPLENDID EMBELLISHMENT.” [Illustration: A silouette of a hatless man, standing with his back toward a mirror, holding a long barreled shotgun over his shoulder pointing at the mirror which has been shattered.] _A distressed black-man_, who seeing the portrait of his ladie-love in a fashionable magazine, is driven to desperation, and blows the brains out of—_his master’s best mirror!_—exclaiming, “Dat’s Dinah! _Sartin._” * * * * * Curious.—John S. Hart, L. L. D., has retired from the editorship of Sartain’s Magazine, and the series of very funny religious illustrations is ended. Sartain who is a graver man, now gives us comic cuts which are sad enough to make a Momus weep. * * * * * Mr. James.—Several witty dogs wish to know “whether Mr. James has _the solitary horseman_ in the novel now running through the pages of Graham?” No. Any equestrian fond of solitary rides may put the novel in his pocket without danger of having “the other fellow” with him. By the way, the American gentleman mentioned in the opening chapters of Mr. James’ novel, in the January number, as having first stimulated his ambition to become a literary man, is our own distinguished countryman Mr. Washington Irving, as will be seen by the following letter from Mr. James, addressed to us, in answer to an inquiry upon the subject: “_Stockbridge, Mass., 15 Dec., 1851._ “My Dear Sir—In answer to your note, inquiring, who was the American gentleman to whom I alluded in the first part of the work publishing in your Magazine, called “A Life of Vicissitudes,” I have no reluctance at all to say that I spoke of Mr. Washington Irving. My personal regard for that gentleman, my esteem for him as a man, and my admiration of him as an author are well known, and it must always be a pleasure to me to acknowledge that a suggestion from him in early life, led me to enter upon a career which has been eminently prosperous to Yours, faithfully, G. P. R. James. “_Geo. R. Graham, Esq., Philadelphia._” * * * * * Scott’s Weekly Paper.—Scott, the great “Practical Printer” who was bred in “Alexander’s time,” has, by eating a good deal of it, become a hero in ours—and survived the decay which usually attaches itself to mortals who press “the rugged pathway up the steeps of Fame.” He lives on air—or at least on that _fast_ press which came off with a feed at the Astor. Hoeing his own row most elegantly, he disdains in ’52 the mean competition of trade, which leads men to haggle for sixpence profit, but becomes a prophet himself, and carries out his own predictions.