Part I.

One who dothe hymself professe to be the teller of a hystorye, must often be contente to doe that whych in annye other character he would be ashamed to owne to. He must unryddle thoughts, telle tales, spake of factes done pryrilye and not for worldlye showe.

_A Legende of the Monasterye of Lylis._

When life ceases to afford us gratification, we not unfrequently take a strange delight in reviewing and pondering over the misdeeds of the past, and in anticipating the weird and desolate future. This revelling in the consequences of our own depravity; this spirit of darkness and recklessness; this tendency to a defiance of all moral and religious consolation—when morality and religion no longer dwell within us—may be termed the wreck of hope, and life, and salvation; for as the mariner, engulphed by the tempest, faces death in boisterous revelry, so we seek to riot in our own wickedness, and plunge into perdition, rejoicing in the sin, and reckless of its consequences.

Even while I write, the recollection of deeds which might well cause the blood to curdle and the flesh to crawl, thrills me with an awful and savage delight. The open gates of hell are ready to receive me, but I rejoice in anticipating the hour of eternal ruin!

I am a native of Italy—a Venitian by birth; a wanderer by choice. During the political disturbances under the doge, Paolo Reniers, I obtained an office of considerable value; by which I was enabled to enjoy a handsome annuity. For some time the French forces, commanded by Bonaparte, had been endeavoring to take possession of Verona; and had already made some attempts on Venice; but these eruptions were if any thing the means of my promotion. Before the downfall of my patron, I acquired a fortune which placed me on a footing with the patricians of the day. Had heaven so ordained it, I might then have retired to my villa, and in peace and seclusion enjoyed the fruits of my industry; but the seeds of avarice were sown—I was destined to reap their harvest. The intrigues of political life were not sufficiently disgusting to deter me from applying for employment under the government, to the successor of Reniers. That wary craft which had rendered me so indispensable to this corrupt and imbecile monarch, was not overlooked by Lugi Manini; for in a country where duplicity is the chief point, in the education of individuals, to whom the official authority is entrusted; and where art and cunning are so universal as to render every man a match for his fellow, superiority of this kind is regarded with peculiar veneration.

The satellites who swarmed about the court of Manini, were not slow in betraying their jealousy at the preference with which he regarded me; but where jealousy exists there is dissention; and even among my enemies I had my partisans. The rancor of political strife rendered me fierce and haughty; and few dared to avow their hostility in my presence. Hardened in dissimulation, I could at once assume the gentlest tones of friendship, or the most cutting sarcasm, and the coldest frown of dignity. Increase of influence gradually compelled those who at first resorted to the basest methods for my overthrow, to relinquish their attempts, and acquiesce in my measures.

Power, however, was not my chimera. I had contracted an undying thirst for riches. I longed to regard myself as the master of millions. The very clink of gold was sweeter to me than the applause of an enraptured populace. Daily—hourly—my thoughts were concentrated on the darling object of my ambition. That cold and stern temperament, which, in my political schemes, had been fostered by every act of diplomacy, and every duty of my office, rendered me callous to all worldly allurements, save the desire of personal emolument.

Constantly moving in the gaudy circles of the court, I was at once disgusted with the prodigal splendor of every thing around me, and incited to aspire for the most exalted degree of opulence. Those whose power was greater than mine, I merely looked upon as instruments by which the great object of my life was to be effected. Even Manini himself I did not consider in any other light than as one ultimately to be the means of my success. Deceit in the service of others had made me too wary a courtier not to cloak my designs in professions of the most disinterested friendship toward him who was already the tool of my machinations.

The schemes were too well concerted to fail. A few years of untiring zeal found the doge still nominally my patron, but in reality my minion. Wealth had poured in upon me. No longer was the desire of riches a chimera; no longer had I to live in feverish and dreamy suspense; no longer was I fortune’s votary.

Though in the prime of life, I too, passionately loved the possession of my gold, to violate in my enjoyment the strictest rules of economy. I gambled—but that was my business. I drank—but the excitement was necessary to sustain my vital principle.

Having adhered to my victim till he was weak and worthless, I abandoned him for more lucrative game. I sought out the haunts of the young and inexperienced. I became a kind of polite sharper; for though I generally gambled for the riches of my victims, I so managed as to secure the spoils in defiance of ill-fortune.

We all know that the peculiar vices of a man’s character increase in extent as his evil course of life is persisted in; even when that course is not more intrinsically depraved by continuance. It was the case with me. I did not actually rob; I did not murder; I committed no more heinous crime than that of swindling or gambling; and yet every day I became a worse and worse black-hearted man.

Before this epoch in my career had drawn to a close, I became acquainted with the daughter of a Venitian banker. She was not beautiful; she was not accomplished; she was not amiable—but she was rich. At this time, I too, was rich. Both fortunes united would make a brilliant coalescence. I pressed my suit, and succeeded. The foolish girl did not discover till too late, that I despised herself, though I adored her fortune. My wealth was now immense; and it might be supposed that I was satisfied; but my thirst for accumulation was only excited by what I had already acquired. Had I been possessed of the world’s wealth, I am pursuaded I would have wept, like Alexander, because there was nothing left to satisfy my desires.

That fortunate tissue of events which had hitherto marked my career, was destined to be speedily reversed. In Venice there lived at this time an individual, who, if he had not my boldness of purpose and capacity for scheming, was at least my equal in shrewdness and avarice. This person was called Carlo Dolci—a nomenclature which he boasted as certain evidence that he was descended from the great painter of that name. Dolci met me at my accustomed resort—one of those hells with which Venice then abounded. His appearance was peculiarly forbidding; but I fancied I had seen too much of the world to be prejudiced by mere outward show. We were introduced by a mutual friend. I found that my new acquaintance was a man of some knowledge, and of polished and persuasive manners. His characteristic trait was extreme cunning; nor did his grey, twinkling eye and piercing glance contradict what his manners and language bespoke.

One topic led to another. We spoke of games. Dolci with his infernal art, flattered me out of all prudence, by declaring he had heard so much of my skill at play that he was determined to avoid strife in such an accomplished quarter. Fired with a desire to verify his words, I immediately challenged him. We began with moderate stakes, and I won. We doubled, and I still won. We continued to increase the stakes till they amounted to an immense sum. Both were equally excited; but my good fortune did not yet leave me. Dolci, I knew, was rich; and I was determined to fleece him. I doubled the largest stakes we had yet contended for. Dolci was the winner. Maddened at such an unusual reverse, I dared him to contend—fortune against fortune! Each now staked his entire wealth. It was to be riches or poverty to me. The swollen veins stood out on my forehead. A cold perspiration teemed from the brow of Carlo Dolci. His teeth were clenched; his hair wild and matted—his eye unusually haggard. The dice were thrown. I gasped for breath. A dimness came over my eyes. With a dreadful effort I strained them to catch a glimpse of my fate. Merciful God! I had lost—I was a beggar!

With a grim smile, Dolci grasped the stakes. I rushed from the hell, a frenzied wretch. A mocking laugh was borne after me; and I knew no more. For several days I was a raving maniac. When I recovered my reason, I found myself stretched on a pallet in my own house. My wife stood by, with disgust and hatred pictured in her countenance. Her first words were those of contumely and reproach. She did not make any allowance for my situation; she reflected not that it was the province of the female to forgive error, and to administer consolation. I married her for her money; that was gone, and I now was to feel all the miseries of my choice.

The only solace to my afflictions, was a little daughter about eight years old, but uncommonly mature both mentally and physically. She attended me with untiring assiduity; she lifted the cup to my lips; she soothed with her silvery tones the agony of my mind; she sang for me her plaintive airs; she bathed my burning temples; she prayed for me—she wept for me—she was every way the beau ideal of innocence and affection.

“Father,” she would say, “why do you clench your hands—why do you rave of ruin and beggary? We shall all go to work when you recover; and we shall earn more money and be very happy.”

Alas poor Valeria! she little knew the loss I had sustained. It was not the loss of luxury for that I never enjoyed; it was not the loss of domestic peace—for I was a stranger to it; it was not the loss of reputation, for I cared nothing about it; but it was the loss of MONEY—of that which gave the only zest and pleasure to my life.

One mortification was spared us in our beggary. No splendid edifice was to be abandoned—no luxurious equipage to be sold—no servants to be dismissed—no fine costumes to be sacrificed—no sensitive feelings to be wounded by a change from affluence to penury and want; our condition remained unaltered. While blessed with riches I was too careful of them to be guilty of extravagance. My avarice, not my prodigality, was my ruin. I did not gamble for the pleasure of the game, but from sheer desire to accumulate immense sums of money. I then conducted my affairs on a grand scale. Wealth poured in on me not by degrees, but in floods. Now, however, the time arrived when I was doomed to begin a new career under new auspices. I had no Reniero or Manini to plunder by a few acts of political sagacity. I had no immense states to retrieve my want of luck with Carlo Dolci. To toil up the rugged path—to exert my humble acquirement—to trade—to barter—to beg—were now the only means in my power to make amends for want of prudence.

Having settled my wife and daughter in a small house, I procured, partly on credit and partly with what little was left, a meagre stock of jewelry, with which I sallied out as a travelling pedlar. By adopting this course of life I sacrificed no fine feelings; I never was proud of any thing except of my riches. I considered not that because I had wielded an intriguing pen in the great contest between Bonaparte and Lugi Manini, my dignity would in any degree be lessened by honest exertions for the retrieval of my fortune.

The succeeding epoch in my career may be passed over. To detail the vicissitudes of my wandering life—to dwell upon the manifold reverses of fortune—to trace succinctly the gradual and disheartening manner in which I acquired money—and to portray the eagerness—the infantile delight with which I grasped it and hoarded it to my bosom—would be alike futile and uninteresting.

In struggling between penury and avarice, the autumn of my life passed away. The misery of connubial contention, I am persuaded, whitened the hair of my head, even before my winter had blasted it with its frosts; but heaven ordained it that my declining age should not be harassed by the persecutions of her with whom I had never known an hour of true happiness. She died in a fit of madness—a malady to which her passionate and ungovernable temper had frequently subjected her. It would be adding hypocrisy to my manifold sins to say that I regretted this instance of divine dispensation. I still had a companion—differently, but no less intimately dependent on me for her support and protection. This was my daughter, who had attained her eighteenth year.

Valeria was beautiful—extremely beautiful. I had roamed in the Florentine and Venitian Vatican; I had studied, if not with the eye of an artist, at least with the eye of an ardent admirer, the most exquisite productions of Georgione, Titian, Correggio, and Veronese; I had dwelt in ecstacy on the master-works of every school from the Appellean and Protogenean, to the Lombard, the Bolognese, the Carraci, and the Rasain; but I had never seen any thing either ideal or substantial, so exquisitely symmetrical—so etherially chiselled in every feature—so thoroughly the impersonation of angelic beauty and sweetness, as Valeria. I speak it with a father’s pride; I may be partial, but I believe I am sincere. The dark, luxuriant hair—the languishing eye—the finely rounded arm—the faultless figure bespoke Italian blood; and that too of a gentle quality; for though I claim no distinction, I am myself of noble descent.

In Valeria, then, I saw my future fortune. I had sufficient to support life; but I desired wealth. To sell my daughter to the best advantage was now the sole and engrossing subject of my thoughts. I cared not whether I gained her an honorable alliance or not; money, not titular distinction, was the object for which I determined she should be sacrificed.

There lived in Venice, at this time, a Neapolitan nobleman, of agreeable and accomplished manners, and fine fortune, named Don Ferdinand Razzina, upon whom I had long looked as the instrument by which my schemes were to be consummated. Razzina was young and volatile. His imprudence rendered him easily subservient to my machinations. By the most consummate art I managed that he should get a glimpse at Valeria. This proved sufficient stimulus to an ardent imagination, to fire him with the most extravagant notions of her beauty. He had barely seen her as a flitting shadow: that shadow surpassed to him in loveliness the beau ideal of his airiest dreams. I knew too much of the human heart not to concert my measures on the fact that mystery is the food of love; and in a very short time Don Ferdinand was supplicating at my feet for information concerning the fairy vision he had seen.

“Nothing,” said he, “shall be spared in remuneration for your services. I love her. I shall never love another. My peace and happiness for ever more depend on her. If you respect the passions common to humanity; if you are not devoid of every feeling of sympathy; if you value your own welfare, and my peace of mind—procure me an interview!”

Schooled in cunning, I treated the matter with indifference; I dwelt on other themes—but finding Don Ferdinand deaf to aught, save the engrossing object of his thoughts, I consented to introduce him, on an enormous advance, to my daughter. He seemed much surprised at this declaration; for he had fancied—from what cause I know not—that Valeria was my protege, and the unfortunate pledge of some noble amour. In a moment the truth of my schemes burst upon him. He was young—ardent—impetuous—but he neither wanted penetration nor humanity.

“Wretch!” he cried, with all the indignant fervor of one unaccustomed to such unnatural cupidity—“you would sell your daughter’s honor!—you would ruin her for your own emolument!” He paused in agitation for some moments, during which I maintained a grim and stony smile—then continued, “but your villainy is nothing to me. I shall not upbraid you for what turns to my own advantage. Here is the sum. Recollect, however, _we perfectly understand each other as to the terms_.” I answered merely by a leering nod of the head. Razzina departed—promising to call on the ensuing evening.

That short but active interview had laid bare the character of the noble prodigal. He was evidently gifted with no common intellect. He had seen little of the world; so that whatever sagacity he had was inherent. Much good was mixed with the evil which formed his prominent traits. He was young and passionate; but he had no small share of the milk and honey of human kindness. His opinions respecting my course I regarded with contempt. I had studied too deeply the mysteries of human nature to be baulked in my designs by a beardless and soft-hearted youth. I knew that the bait was too well administered to be rejected.

Returning to a miserable garret in which I always slept to avoid the expense of furnishing the lower part of the house, and also to enjoy the solitude, I flung myself on a pallet, and spread the gold on the floor.

A filthy lamp threw a sickly and flickering light on every thing around. The wretched place was strewn with rubbish and dirt; here and there lay a broken stool, or the remains of a chair; in the centre stood a greasy and ricketty table, and hung up in confusion, on the walls, were battered tin-cups—a few platters—a spoutless coffee-pot—and sundry tattered habiliments.

I glanced around me with a smile of sinister meaning. I piled up the gold—threw it down again—and scattered it about, and grasped it once more with childish eagerness. Then, as if fearful of detection, I hid it, fervently praying that the Almighty would watch over, and preserve it.

It was now necessary that my daughter should become acquainted with part of my designs; and I summoned her. In a moment she was at my feet.

“Valeria—” and as I addressed her, I endeavored to modulate my voice into tones as affectionate and as soothing as possible—“Valeria, we are very poor—God knows we are.”

“Yes; but father why speak of it now? We are as well off as most people, and I am sure we need no luxuries.”

“My child, you know not our poverty. You see me now a decrepid and palsied old man. I am unable to make a living; and henceforth on you I must depend.”

“I shall cheerfully do what I am able, father.”

“I know it my child—I know it; but your utmost exertions cannot save us from starvation, unless properly directed. Valeria, listen to me. I ask you as a father will you obey my commands?”

“As long as they are bounded by reason and virtue, I shall. I have always obeyed you—I am not disobedient, I sincerely believe.”

“Valeria, can you love?”

“I can. I _do_ love.”

“Ha! whom do you love?”

“I love you, my father—and—”

“Speak!”

“I love Marco da Vinci—I never intended to deny it.”

In a frenzy of rage and astonishment, I started to my feet, and stood for some moments like one transfixed. My lips were white; my mouth foamed; my cheek was blanched; my eye fiery and distorted; and my whole frame convulsed with passion.

“God’s curse be on you!” I shrieked, shaking my clenched hand in the face of the terrified girl—“God’s curse be on you, for the declaration. _You_ _love Marco da Vinci?_ May a father’s ban fall like the flames of perdition on you! May the heart that you so foolishly bestowed, be blighted and withered in its bloom! May the avenging hosts gather round you at your death-bed; and taunt you, and riot in your agony!”

“Father! Father! O, cease those horrible words! you will drive me mad!”

“No,” I replied, in a stern but more softened tone, “I shall not drive you mad, Valeria; but I have news that will make you feel as if madness would be a blessing. _You are sold._ Here is the money”—and I drew forth the gold I had received from Don Ferdinand. “Yes, to-morrow you will be the mistress of Don Ferdinand Razzina.”

“Never!—so help me God!” cried Valeria, in a voice so calm and determined, that I feared for the success of my schemes; “death—aye, a thousand deaths before dishonor!”

“We shall see,” I replied, with a grim smile.

“_We shall!_” said Valeria, retiring; and in tones so deep and ominous that I shuddered. She repeated, “_we shall!_”

Hitherto I have devoted my pen almost exclusively to the narrative of my own confessions. I must now diverge a little to introduce the reader to a character, of whom nothing has yet been mentioned except his name.

Marco da Vinci was a young painter, of extraordinary talents, and great mental accomplishments. He was descended from a noble house; and might have enjoyed the height of affluence had not misfortune set her seal upon him at an early age. Favored in an unusual degree as to his mental and physical capacities, he received all the care and cultivation that a fond father could bestow; and on attaining his eighteenth year few could boast a more vigorous mind—a more profound education, or a more chaste and amiable character. Thus far was Marco successful.

Smitten with an undying thirst for distinction, he resolved henceforth to abandon the quiet enjoyments of leisure and affluence, and dedicated himself altogether to the nobler calls of ambition. Alas! he knew not that he had yielded the substantial enjoyments of life for a misnomer—a chimera!

It was the ardent hope of Da Vinci’s father, that the youth should, at no remote period, occupy an exalted station in the affairs of the government; but the rancor and bitterness of political life had no charms for the young enthusiast. Enraged and disappointed at the unexpected determination of his son, Don Ignatius da Vinci, abjured him in the zenith of his passion—disowned him, and left him an outcast and a beggar.

The ambitious Marco wended his way to Venice, where his talents soon attracted the attention of a distinguished painter. Under this individual, Da Vinci studied with all the devotion of an enthusiast, and an unfeigned lover of the art. A very short time was requisite to make him a finished painter. That pruning to rule—that softening and chastening, which can only be attained by painful and almost hopeless perseverance in most cases, were soon mastered by the ardent disciple.

In the course of time, Marco da Vinci accumulated, by his industry, sufficient capital to begin business on a small scale. At first he succeeded beyond his expectations; but soon he found that novelty is the spice of patronage, and that before him he had every probability of sinking into oblivion, and of eking out his days in starvation. Too proud to apply for assistance to those by whom he had been so basely injured, he determined to submit to his fate with manliness and fortitude, and to merit, if possible, sufficient patronage to support him, while he should by an extraordinary effort of his pencil retrieve his past misfortunes.

A premium had been offered by the Academy of Arts, for the best portrait of a female that could be placed in the gallery in time for the annual exhibition. Da Vinci resolved to take his model from nature. The fame of Valeria’s beauty was proverbial throughout the city; and the candidate for the palm of excellence, sought out our miserable tenement, and implored permission to have a sitting. Too proud of the opportunity to extend her reputation, I consented to the proposition. Fool! fool! that I was! Why could I not see the danger of placing this young and ardent soul in such a temptation? Da Vinci was young—handsome—and intellectual: Valeria was innocent—amiable—and beautiful—could they but love? Fool, I say, fool that I was!

Louisville, Kentucky, January, 1841.

* * * * *

THE FAIRY’S HOME.

Our home is far ’mid the greenwood trees, Where the rose-bloom floats on the burden’d breeze, Where the moon’s beams glance on the sleeping tide, And the lily grows in its stainless pride.

There, deep in our flowery homes we dwell, In the cavern’d shades of the fairy’s cell, Where the sound of the wavelet’s ceaseless song, Shall glad the ear of the fairy throng.

There calm as the blue of the “bending skies,” Whose beauty may bless e’en fairy’s eyes; We will pass those hours of careless glee, Whilst the woods shall ring with our melody.

Our lamp shall be of the fire-fly’s light That shines ’mid the gloom of the darksome night, And led by its star-like rays we’ll roam ’Mid the scenes that grace our woodland home.

The notes of the song-bird echo there, And are warbled again by our sisters fair; And the tones of each pure and gentle thing, Are voiced in the strains the fairies sing.

Away from the cares and toils of life, No part have we in its scenes of strife, But calm as the sleep of the tideless sea, Our rest in our Fairy Home shall be. S. H.

Philadelphia, January, 1841.

* * * * *

NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.

BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.

The dead but sleep—they do not die, They live in mem’ry’s holy cell— The woodland green, the summer sky Of them in gentle language tell.

Each scene that knew them daily speaks Of all their love so fond and true, And tears that tremble on our cheeks, But nerve our sadness to renew.

The grief that rent our hearts when first Death broke our early bond in twain, Within our souls, by memory nurst, Will oft times freshly burst again.

Yet why indulge unfading grief, For those we loved and now deplore? Theirs is a slumber calm and brief— They are “not lost, but gone before.”

January, 1841.

* * * * *

NOT FOR ME! NOT FOR ME!

A popular Air in the Opera of

CATHERINE GRAY,

_AS SUNG BY MRS. WOOD_.

THE MUSIC COMPOSED BY M. W. BALFE.

Geo. W. Hewitt & Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.

Not for me, not for me, Regal halls and courtly life, Oh! more

blest, my lot would be, Far from ev’ry scene of strife, From the world from all retiring, Gladly would this heart remove, One dear boon alone desiring Still to be with thee I love: Still to be with thee I love.

2

Let me seek that tranquil home, Once I knew in happier hours, Free to wander, free to roam, Thro’ my own lov’d peaceful bow’rs. Not for me the world’s false pleasures, Not for me where splendour moves, More than these my bosom treasures, More than these my heart now loves, More than these my heart now loves.

* * * * *

SPORTS AND PASTIMES. SHOOTING.

We open this month with the first of a series of excellent papers on Shooting, from the pen of the author of the paper on Angling, given in our last. It contains some valuable hints to young sportsmen, on the art of Taking Aim.

The pursuit and destruction of wild animals for security, food, clothing, or pastime, have been among the occupations of men in all ages, since the primeval _bruere_ overspread the earth,

And wild in woods the noble savage ran!

Before the more refined arts are introduced into any country, the chase is a necessity, and the chief business of life. The stronger and more noxious animals are destroyed for individual safety; the weaker for food. It is not until civilisation and her handmaid luxury have seated themselves, that the chase becomes a pastime. Nor does it appear when the sportsman first sprang into existence. There is no corresponding word in any ancient language, since that could not be called a sport which was a necessity. It is probable that in the earliest ages of society, the dog was the sole agent employed by the hunter. Afterward various weapons, manual, missile, and projectile—as the club, the dart, the arrow, were used by the hunter and fowler. Then would follow springs, traps, nets, and all that class of devices for the capture of beasts and birds _feræ naturæ_, comprehended in the term toils. As dogs were employed to hunt quadrupeds, so, in process of time, hawks were trained to bring down birds for the service of their master. The arbalest or cross-brow, preceded the matchlock, which, however, could scarcely be called an implement of the chase, but which, in the order of succession, brings us down to the rifle, and original fowling-piece with its long, heavy barrel, and flint and steel lock; and lastly, we arrive at the double barrels and detant locks of the modern shooter.

TAKING AIM.

When the dog points, or when birds rise near to the shooter, he should immediately draw back one hammer with the right thumb; experienced sportsmen disapprove of the practice of cocking both barrels at the same time. They think that it ought to be a rule never to cock either barrel, until the game be upon the wing, then that the left barrel should be cocked and fired, and thereafter taken from the shoulder. The right barrel should then be cocked and fired if necessary; if not discharged, it should be put back to the half-cock, and the left re-loaded. He should never be in haste. It is more prudent to let the bird escape than to fire hastily. If on open ground, he should not fire until the bird is more than twenty yards distant. He should be deliberate in bringing up the piece to his shoulder, and in making it to bear on the object, but the moment he has brought it to bear, the finger should act in co-operation with the eye, the eye being kept open the while, so that the shooter may see whether the bird falls, or feathers fall from it, for if he does not see it distinctly at the moment of firing, there is something defective in his system of taking aim.

The shooter, when learning, should never aim directly at the body of a rabbit on foot, or of a bird on the wing. This precaution is scarcely necessary when the motion of the object is slow, but by habituating himself to it on all occasions, he will the sooner become an adept. His mark should be the head, the legs, or a wing, if within twenty yards. When farther off, he should make some allowance, according to the distance and speed of the object moving. His aim should be at the head of a bird rising or crossing—the legs of a bird flushed on an eminence and moving downward from him—the wing of a bird flying from him in an oblique direction. His aim should be at the head of a rabbit, in whatever way it may be moving. The same rules apply when the object is more than twenty paces distant from the shooter, making allowance for the speed. Thus, for a partridge crossing, the allowance of aim before it with a detonator, at twenty paces, will be one inch—at thirty paces two inches—at fifty paces five inches—at fifty-five paces seven inches. Half this allowance will be proper when the bird moves in an oblique direction. When an object moves directly from the shooter, at more than twenty paces distance, he should fire a little above it. When a bird or rabbit approaches the shooter directly, he should not aim at it until it has passed him, or has turned aside. The moment it has altered its course the gun should be brought up, and no time should be lost in firing.

It is not easy at all times to form a correct idea of the distance of a bird from the gun. The nature of the situation, and the state of the weather often deceive the eye. Thus, on a bright day birds appear to be near, and on a dull day distant. It is much easier to estimate the distance of a bird in small enclosures, where hedges or trees serve as guides, than on open ground. The hedges, indeed, tend to deceive the unpractised eye; the object is supposed to be much farther off, while on open ground it is supposed to be nearer, than it really is. It is often very difficult to determine whether a grouse is within range; and sometimes the mist increases the difficulty, for then the bird is either scarcely seen, or else magnified, by the sun’s rays gleaming through the mist, to an unnatural size. In general, grouse are farther off than they are supposed to be. The shooter, however, has a peculiar sight: every bird he brings down, in good style, is at sixty yards distance. It is amusing sometimes to hear persons talk, after they have been _watched_, of the distances at which they have effected their shots; they ever think the game so much farther off than it really was. The sportsman who has not convinced himself by actual measurement, often seems to be laboring under a species of hallucination when speaking of his distances, and, if he bets on them, to a certainty loses. Birds killed at fifteen paces are thought to be at twenty-five, and those at twenty-five are estimated at thirty-five or forty, and so on to the end of the story!

When a covey or brood rises, the shooter should fix his eye on one bird, and shoot at that bird only. He should not be diverted from it by other birds rising nearer to him while he is bringing up his gun, unless the bird he first set his eye upon be decidedly out of all reasonable distance, so as to render the chance of killing exceedingly remote. By observing this rule, he is not only more certain of bringing down his game, but he will more frequently kill the old birds—a desideratum, for two reasons; first, because he will, in all probability, disperse the covey, which being done, any sportsman may generally, without difficulty, bag a few brace; and secondly, because the old birds make a better show in the game-bag.

We think that all shooters, except the veriest bunglers, use a gun properly as regards throwing the end of it upon the object aimed at, and drawing the trigger, and that any inaccuracy of aim must be attributed to the eye not being in the proper place when the aim is taken.

The habit of missing arises not from inability to throw the end of the gun upon the bird, but from the eye not being directly behind the breech, which it necessarily must be for good shooting.

If there were a sight at each end of the barrel, it would be requisite, when taking aim, to keep shifting the gun until both sights were in a line between the eye and the mark; that, however, with a gun not well mounted to the eye and shoulder, would be too complex an operation, for before it could be performed, a swift bird would be out of reach; it follows, then, that the shooter’s attention should be directed only to the sight at the top of the barrel; and the breech end should come up mechanically to the proper level.

When a person is nervous, or afraid of the recoil, he naturally raises his head, and consequently shoots above the mark; on firing, he unconsciously throws his head back, and then seeing the bird above the end of the gun, he fancies he shot under it, when the reverse is the fact. We may also observe that if the shooter does not keep his head down to the stock, he will probably draw it aside, so that his aim will be as if taken from one of the hammers, which would, of course, throw the charge as much on one side of the mark, as raising the head would above it.

The main point, then, in taking aim, is _to keep the head down to the stock, and the eye low behind the breach_. The sportsman who, from habit or practice, can invariably bring his eye down to the same place, and keep it steadily there, so that he may always take aim from the same starting point, will distance all competitors.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_“The Antediluvians, or the World Destroyed.” A narrative poem, in ten books. By James McHenry, M. D. Author of the “Pleasures of Friendship,” &c. 1 vol. J. B. Lippincott & Co.: Philada._

There are two species of poetry known to mankind; that which the gods love, and that which men abhor. The poetry of the Dr. belongs to the latter class, though he seems lamentably ignorant of this, from the long essay on taste which he has given to the world in the shape of a preface to the work before us, and in which his own peculiar merits and demerits are discussed at sufficient length. He tells us that he has long been tormented with an itching after immortality, and that, being convinced not only that the writing of a poem was the surest passport to it, but that the choice of a subject was the greatest difficulty in the way of such a work, he has spent some years of his life in selecting the present theme. He has also the modesty to acquaint the public that his subject is inferior to Milton’s alone, leaving us, by a parity of reasoning, to conclude that Dr. McHenry is next in glory to the heavenly bard. We congratulate the Dr. on his finesse. There is nothing like connecting one’s name with that of a genius, for if the world is not deceived by it, you persuade yourself, like Major Longbow, by a constant repetition of your story, of its truth. You become a great man in your own conceit, fancy that the world does injustice to your talents, and go down to posterity, if not as the falcon’s mate, at least as

“A tom-tit twittering on an eagle’s back.”

Having thus associated himself with Milton, the Dr. proceeds to inform us that, in the Deluge, he at length found a theme “exalted and extensive enough for the exercise of poetic talents of the highest order,” leaving us, a second time, to infer, what he is too modest except to insinuate, that his own genius is unequalled. He then calls our attention to the plot, asserting that the general “plan and scope” of a poem are second only to its theme—that is, that diction, style, and imagination, in short every requisite of a true poet, are but “flimsy stuff.” The Dr. seems to know his own weak points, and when the “galled jade winces;” but even his elaborated plot is worse than nine men out of ten would construct. We have gleaned little from it except a few facts, which would be strange, were they not ridiculous. There is a description of a harem in the second book, from which we learn that velvets, and embroidery were as much in vogue among the antediluvians as now; an account of a siege in the eighth book, which settles the disputed question, whether Greek fire, melted lead, and catapults, were used then or not; and a detail of a battle in the same book, which gives the divisions and manœuvres of the contending armies, and puts at rest the assertions of military men, who trace our present tactics back no farther than the invention of gunpowder. Besides this, there are two marriages—a rescued maiden—one or more heroes, and as many heroines, with an innumerable catalogue of minor incidents, in short, the materials of a half a dozen bad novels, woven into a worse poem.

We are told in the outset that the “versification is not particularly modelled after that of any preceding author,” and that our classic poets afford no style “exactly suitable for this work,” and, consequently, we are but little astonished when we meet with such passages as the following:

“Subservient to the foul, malignant fiends, The abandoned race of Cain their God forsook, And to the infernal agents gave their hearts. Oh! preference worse than foolish, choice insane! Which drove celestial spirits from their charge Of guardianship o’er human feebleness, And left the hapless Cainites in the power Of hellish tyrants, whom they blindly served, Lured by the sensual pleasures amply given In transient, poisonous recompense for guilt.” _Page 14._

Or this:

“Here reigned the fierce Shalmazar, giant king, _Sprung from a mixture of infernal strain_, His sire, the power of lewdness, Belial named, Who, amorous of an earth-born beauty, won Astoreth, princess of Gal-Cainah’s realm, To his unhallowed love.” _Page 16._

What the meaning of the author is in the line above italicised, we challenge all Christendom to discover. But even no sense at all, is better than mere verbiage, or coarse or improbable metaphor, as thus:

“Repose at last, where it is ever found By weary mortals, in the peaceful grave, _In which his heir, that moralising youth,_ _The melancholy Lameth, had before_ _Laid down the o’erpowering burden of his woes._” _Page 12._

And again:

“The _harnessed-spirits_ spreading forth their wings.” _Page 11._

And thus:

“Then was the hour of vengeance; then the stern _Hell-generated_ tyrant felt dismay, And in his chariot fled—” _Page 262._

But we must bring a still heavier charge against the Dr., that of a total want of originality. The whole plan and conception of the Antediluvians is copied, but “longo intervallo,” after Paradise Lost. Had Milton never written poetry, Dr. McHenry would never have published bombast. Yet the one is only the shadow of the other’s shade. This imitation is perceptible, not only in various attempts to copy the versification, but oftentimes in more glaring and less defensible plagiarisms. Would it, for instance, be believed that the second book of the Antediluvians begins with a passage so nearly resembling the opening of the second book in Paradise Lost, as to make, as Dogberry has it, “flat burglary?” Thus:

“High on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous east, with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric, pearls and gold, Satan exalted sat.” _Paradise Lost, Book II._

“In royal robes, magnificently bright, On his imperial throne of burnished gold, And polished ivory, which sparkling shone, With gems innumerable, of various hues, That shed a blaze of streaming radiance round The gorgeous hall, the haughty monarch sat.” _Antediluvians, page 29._

And so on diluting the idea of Milton into a dozen more lines, and shewing, at once, the grandeur of the model, and the feebleness of the imitation. Yet Dr. McHenry calls himself a poet, and pretends to the divine afflatus. But again:

“Such scenes of cruelty and blood, Exhibited before appalled Heaven, _To make the angels weep_, to look on earth!” _Antediluvians, page 202._

“But man, frail man, Drest in a little brief authority, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep.” _Shakspeare._

We might multiply such instances;—but enough. Has the Dr. forgotten the celebrated verse of Virgil?

“Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.”

The Dr. appears fond of the use of epithets, especially such ones as “infernal, fiendish, hellish,” and other coarse adjectives. We do not object to the use of the two former, provided they appear sparingly and in place, but really the work before us is seasoned rather highly with such epithets for our taste. The Dr. however, appears to be of the Tompsonian school in literature, and not only spices strongly, but swashes away right and left at the accredited school. We advise him, once for all, to give up poetry, which he disgraces, for physic, which he may adorn. God never intended him for an immortal fame. We are satisfied that, if he should be arraigned for writing poetry, no sane jury would ever convict him; and if, as most likely, he should plead guilty at once, it would be as quickly disallowed, on that rule of law, which forbids the judges to decide against the plain evidence of their senses.

* * * * *

_“The Dream, and other Poems.” By the Hon. Mrs. Norton. Carey and Hart, Philadelphia: 1841._

Hemans, Baillie, Landon, and loveliest of all, Norton!—what a glorious constellation for one language. France with her gaiety: Italy with her splendid genius: even Greece with her passionate enthusiasm, cannot rival such a galaxy. And this glory too, belongs wholly to the present century, for though the harp of England has often been struck by female hands, it has heretofore only given forth a rare and fitful cadence, instead of the rich, deep, prolonged harmony which now rolls from its chords.

Mrs. Norton is unquestionably,—since the death of Mrs. Hemans, the queen of English song. In many respects she resembles that gifted poetess: in some she is strikingly dissimilar. The same pathos, the same sweetness, the same fancy characterize both; but in all that distinguishes the practised author, rather than the poetess, Mrs. Hemans has the advantage of her successor. Thus, the one is sometimes faulty in the rhythm: the other never. Mrs. Norton will now and then be betrayed into a carelessness of diction; Mrs. Hemans was rarely, if ever, guilty of such solecisms. Such expressions, for instance, as the “harboring” land, the “guiding” hand, the “pausing” heart, the “haunting” shade, and others of like character, taken at random from the volume before us, though not strictly improper, yet, as they are plainly expletive, and weaken, instead of strengthening a sentence, are never to be found in the poems of Mrs. Hemans, or of any one “learned in the craft.”

But, if Mrs. Norton is less correct than Mrs. Hemans, she is, on the other hand, more nervous, more passionate, and at times more lofty. No one can read “The Dream” without being struck by the truth of the remark, that Mrs. Norton is the Byron of our female poets. There are passages in some of her poems of greater power than any passages of like length in Mrs. Hemans’ writings, though at the same time, there are a far greater number of inferior lines in the poetry of Mrs. Norton, than in that of her gifted sister. In short, the one is the more equal, the other is the more daring. One is the more skilful writer: the other shows glimpses of a bolder genius. There is less prettiness, and not so much sameness in Mrs. Norton as in Mrs. Hemans. The former is not yet, perhaps, the equal of the latter, but she possesses the power to be so, if her rich fancy and deep feeling, now scarcely known to herself, should ever be brought so completely under her control as were the talents of Mrs. Hemans.

If Mrs. Norton had written nothing before, this volume would have established her claim to be the first of living poetesses; but who that is familiar with the world of song can forget the many gems—rich, and beautiful, and rare—with which she has spangled beforetime her starry crown? The world has taken more care of her glory than she has herself, and the random pieces she has poured forth so divinely at intervals, and which hitherto she has made no effort to preserve, have found their way into the hearts of all who can be touched by the mournful or the beautiful, until her name is cherished alike in the humble cottage and the princely hall. And now she has come forth in more stately guise, not as a new author among strangers, but as one long tried and known, one endeared to us by old association, one whose melancholy music is, as it were, a part of our very being.

“The Dream” is the longest poem in the volume before us, but, as it makes no pretension to be considered a story, and has really no plot, we shall not judge it by the ordinary rule of criticism. We shall consider it only as a string of pearls, loosely joined together by the simplest contrivance, the idea of a dream, narrated by a daughter to her mother,—and, judging it in this way, we give it unqualified praise. That its merit is unequal, is, in our eyes, no objection to its beauty,—for have not all poets skimmed the ground as well as soared to heaven? Yes! “The Dream” is unequal, but so is Lallah Rookh, so is Marmion, so are all the tales of Byron, and so—to ascend a step higher—is Comus, or Hamlet, or even the Iliad.

But Mrs. Norton, like her gifted sister, possesses one quality which distinguishes her above all other writers, in this or in any tongue—we mean in giving utterance to, what is emphatically, _the poetry of woman_. In this they resemble no cotemporary, unless it is Miss Landon. Women have written poetry before, but if it had been shewn to a stranger, he could not have told from which sex it sprung. It is not so with the poetry of these two gifted females. Every line betrays the woman—each verse breathes the tender, the melting, the peculiar eloquence of the sex.

Scarcely a page, moreover, occurs in the writings of either, which does not bear testimony to woman’s suffering and worth. Yes! while it is the fashion to sneer at the purity of woman’s heart, and while a pack of literary debauchees are libelling our mothers and our sisters unopposed, from the ranks of that insulted sex have risen up defenders of its innocence, to shame the heartless slanderers to silence. Hear in what eloquent numbers Mrs. Norton vindicates her sex:

“Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise, And what they do or suffer men record; But the long sacrifice of woman’s days Passes without a thought—without a word; And many a holy struggle for the sake Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill’d— _For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,_ _And the strong feelings of the heart be still’d_,— Goes by unheeded as the summer wind, And leaves no memory and no trace behind! Yet it may be more lofty courage dwells In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate, Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells, Warmed by the fight, or cheer’d through high debate: The soldier dies surrounded;—_could he live_ _Alone to suffer, and alone to strive?_

Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom Shows deeper honor than a common tomb! _Who sleep within?_

Aye! who? Not woman, we can answer for it. God bless her who has written thus. The wretches who would rob the sex of their purity of heart, and their uncomplaining endurance of suffering, deserve to die, uncheered by woman’s nurture, unwept by woman’s tenderness. Such beings are not men: they are scarcely even brutes: they are _aliquid monstri_, monsters in part. But again:

“In many a village churchyard’s simple grave, Where all unmarked the cypress branches wave; In many a vault, where Death could only claim The brief inscription of a woman’s name; Of different ranks, and different degrees, From daily labor to a life of ease, (_From the rich wife, who through the weary day_ _Wept in her jewels_, grief’s unceasing prey, To the poor soul who trudg’d o’er marsh and moor, And with her baby begg’d from door to door,—) Lie hearts which, ere they found that last release, Had lost all memory of the blessing, “Peace;” Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years, None saw but Him who marks the mourner’s tears; _The obscurely noble!_ who evaded not The woe which he had will’d should be their lot, But nerved themselves to bear!”

“The Dream,” as a whole, is the finest piece in the volume before us. It abounds with glorious passages, of which we can only give two more examples—the one, impassioned, nervous, and stirring as a trumpet—the other sweet, and low, and musical as the rustle of an angel’s wing. Few authors can boast such a varied power.

“Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death, Each varied ill that waits on human breath, Rather than bid thee linger out thy life, In the long toil of such unnatural strife. To wander through the world unreconciled, Heart-weary as a spirit-broken child, _And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven,_ _If thou couldst_ DIE—_forgiving and forgiven_,— Or with a feverish hope of anguish born, (Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn Of all the cruel foes that twixt ye stand, Holding thy heart-strings with a reckless hand,) Steal to his presence, now unseen so long, And claim _his_ mercy who hath dealt the wrong! Into the aching depths of thy poor heart, Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain, And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart, And burn like fire through thy bewildered brain. Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal, To teach thy fellow creatures how to feel,— Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears,— Recall the hopes, the influences of years,— Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground, Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound,— Invoke the Heaven that knows thy sorrow’s truth, By all the softening memories of youth— By every hope that cheered thine early day— By every tear that washes wrath away— By every old remembrance long gone by— By every pang that makes thee yearn to die; And learn at length how deep and stern a blow Man’s hand can strike, and yet no pity show!”

What force! what passion! Never has Mrs. Hemans written thus,—few indeed have done so except Byron.

We must pass “The Dream” with a single other quotation. It is on the evening hour, and is sweet as a moonlit landscape, or a child’s dream of heaven.

“_That_ hour, once sacred to God’s presence, still Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill, The holiest hour of earth. _Then_ toil doth cease, Then from the yoke, the oxen find release— Then man rests, pausing from his many cares, _And the world teems with children’s sunset prayers!_ Then innocent things seek out their natural rest, The babe sinks slumbering on its mother’s breast, The birds beneath their leafy covering creep, Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep; And angels, floating by on radiant wings, Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings, Catch the sweet incense as it floats along, The infant’s prayer, the mother’s cradle-song, And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar, As things too sacred for this fallen star.”

There is, in reading these poems, an abiding sense of the desolation that has fallen on the heart of the writer, a desolation which only adds to the mournful music of her lyre, like the approach of death, is fabled, to give music to the swan. We have studiously avoided, heretofore, touching upon this subject, as we would not, by awakening pity, blind the judgment of the public, but we cannot avoid the remark, that every page of this volume bears evidence that the heart of the authoress, like that of Rachel, will not be comforted. The arrow has entered deep into her soul. Like Mrs. Hemans, unfortunate in her domestic life—for the miscreant who would still believe her guilty is an insult to humanity—she “seeks, as the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness.” Hers is a hard lot; deserted by the one who has sworn to love her, and maligned by the unfeeling world, she has not even the consolation of weeping with her children, and finding some relief in their caresses for her broken heart. Hear her once more—we have almost wept as we read—hear her, when gazing in the twilight at the pictures of her absent children.

“Where are ye? Are ye playing By the stranger’s blazing hearth; Forgetting, in your gladness, Your old home’s former mirth? _Are ye dancing? Are ye singing?_ _Are ye full of childish glee?_ _Or do your light hearts sadden_ _With the memory of me?_ Round whom, oh! gentle darlings, Do your young arms fondly twine, Does she press you to _her_ bosom Who hath taken you from mine? _Oh! boys, the twilight hour_ _Such a heavy time hath grown_,— It recalls with such deep anguish All I used to call my own,— That the harshest word that ever Was spoken to me there, Would be trivial—would be _welcome_— In this depth of my despair! Yet no! Despair shall sink not. While life and love remain,— Tho’ the weary struggle haunt me, And my prayer be made in vain: Tho’ at times my spirit fail me And the bitter tear-drops fall, _Tho’ my lot be hard and lonely,_ _Yet I hope—I hope thro’ all._”

And then, with what a burst of eloquence, she carries out the idea!

“By the living smile which greeted The lonely one of Nain, When her long last watch was over, And her hope seemed wild and vain; By all the tender mercy God hath shown to human grief, When fate or man’s perverseness Denied and barr’d relief,— By the hopeless woe which taught me To look to him alone, From the vain appeals for justice, And wild efforts of my own,— By thy light—thou unseen future, And thy tears—thou bitter past, _I will hope—tho’ all forsake me_, _In His mercy to the last!_” Twilight.

But we must close this article. There are many exquisite shorter pieces in the volume, besides The Dream and Twilight. The Creole Girl; The Child of Earth; I cannot Love Thee; The Visionary Portrait; The Banner of the Covenanters; Weep not for him that Dieth; and several of the Sonnets may be instanced as among the finest. Let us, in conclusion, commend the poems of Mrs. Norton to our fair countrywomen as those of a mind of a high order. Less egotism, a more extended scope of feeling, and greater attention to the rules of her art, will place her foremost among the female poets of England.

* * * * *

_“Bancroft’s History of the United Slates.” Vol. 3._

The first two volumes of this history have now been some years before the public, and criticism has long since given them its _fiat_. The characteristics of Mr. Bancroft are a rigid scrutiny of facts, a general impartiality, and a style, usually nervous, but sometimes savoring of transcendental obscurity. The style of the second volume, however, is an improvement on that of the first, and the volume before us surpasses, in our opinion, either of the former two. There is a philosophy in Bancroft which other historians might well emulate. No man has traced so clearly the causes of the American Revolution. It was the stern, hard, independence of the Pilgrims, handed down to their posterity, and united with the gallant and chivalric freedom of the South, which brought about the greatest revolution of modern times.

The pictures which Mr. Bancroft draws in pursuing the thread of his narrative, are often highly graphic. The early adventures of Soto and others; the colony of Raleigh at Roanoke; the landing of the Pilgrims; the Indian wars of New England, are all described with force if not with beauty. The gradual dissemination of the Democratic principle is also faithfully depicted; and it is clearly shown that the Puritans, the Swedes, and the Quakers, alike formed pure democracies in their settlements. In short, the history is something more than a mere chronicle: it is a continuous essay on the philosophy of the American Revolution.

The third volume brings the subject down to the period of the old French war, an epoch which may be considered at the threshold of the struggle for independence. Here, for the present, he drops the curtain. A fitter point, for such a pause could not have been chosen. Behind, is the long succession of trials, and dangers, through which the infant colonies had just passed: before is the wild, shadowy future, soon to become vivid with its startling panorama. Such a reflection might well fill the mind of the historian with a kind of solemn awe; and it is while such feelings overpower his readers, that he introduces Washington, the future hero of the scene.

The work is beautifully printed, in a style highly creditable to the American press.

We leave Mr. Bancroft with the hope that his historic labors will be pursued with redoubled zeal, satisfied that in him America possesses a philosophic annalist of the highest order.

* * * * *

_“Bryant’s American Poets.” 1 vol. Harper & Brothers._

This work does credit to the editor, although he has admitted some, and left out others, of our poetical writers, whom we think he ought not so to have treated. However, a compilation like this can never be made to suit all. The true question is, who can do better?

* * * * *

_“Travels to the City of the Caliphs.” By Lieutenant Wellsted. 2 vols. Lea & Blanchard._

This is a light, entertaining work. The adventures of the hero (Lieut. Ormsby) are highly pleasing; and he evinces a laudable desire to fall in love, as well for his own as for the convenience of the reader. On the whole, the book is well written, and quite amusing.

* * * * *

FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY, 1841.

CARRIAGE DRESS.

Fig. 1.—Robe of one of the new figured silks; the skirt trimmed with two _bias_ flounces; half-high _corsage_, and bishop’s sleeve. Cambric _collerette-fichû_, trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Violet satin _mantelet_, lined with _gros de Naples_, and bordered with a broad band of violet velvet; it is of the scarf form, but made long and ample, and with a small pointed hood. Green satin _chapeau_, a round brim, something deeper than they are in general; the interior is trimmed on each side with a half wreath of blush-roses; the exterior with bands and knots of green ribbon, and a white and green shaded _marabout_ plume.

EVENING DRESS.

Fig. 2.—Lemon-colored satin robe, trimmed with a deep flounce of antique point lace, surmounted by roses placed singly at regular distances above the flounce; low tight _corsage_ and sleeve, both trimmed with point. Head-dress of hair, disposed in thick masses of ringlets at the sides, and a low open bow behind; it is decorated with flowers, and a gold cross, _Châle bournouss_ of white cashmere, lined with white satin, and bordered with a band of black and plaid velvet.

Fig. 3.—India muslin robe; the skirt is trimmed with a closely plaited _volan_, which encircles the bottom of the border, mounts in the drapery style on one side, and is terminated by a _nœud_ of muslin, similarly finished at the ends; a _chef d’or_ head the _volan_. _Corsage en gerbe_ and short full sleeve, both ornamented with _chefs d’or_. The head dress gives a front view of the one just described. Opera cloak of brown _rep_ velvet, lined with blue satin: it is made shorter than the dress, of moderate width, and trimmed with three blue satin _rouleaus_, each placed at some distance from the other, and a light embroidery surmounting the upper one. A small hood, and a very deep lappel complete the ornaments.

OPERA DRESS.

Fig. 4.—_Douilette_ of white cashmere, wadded, and lined with pink _gros de Naples_; the lining quilted in a lozenge pattern; the _corsage_ is made tight to the shape, and half-high. Demi-large sleeve; the front of the skirt is finished on each side by fancy silk trimming. _Mantelet_ of a large size, and of the same materials, bordered with a rich white and pink _chenille_ fringe. Black velvet _chapeau à la Louis XIII_, trimmed with white and pink feathers.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 2, February 1841_, George R. Graham, Editor]