FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY, 1841.

“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 chargeOf guardianship o’er human feebleness,And left the hapless Cainites in the powerOf hellish tyrants, whom they blindly served,Lured by the sensual pleasures amply givenIn transient, poisonous recompense for guilt.”Page 14.

“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, wonAstoreth, princess of Gal-Cainah’s realm,To his unhallowed love.”Page 16.

“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 foundBy weary mortals, in the peaceful grave,In which his heir, that moralising youth,The melancholy Lameth, had beforeLaid down the o’erpowering burden of his woes.”Page 12.

“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:

“Theharnessed-spiritsspreading forth their wings.”Page 11.

“Theharnessed-spiritsspreading forth their wings.”

Page 11.

And thus:

“Then was the hour of vengeance; then the sternHell-generatedtyrant felt dismay,And in his chariot fled—”Page 262.

“Then was the hour of vengeance; then the stern

Hell-generatedtyrant 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 farOutshone 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.

“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 roundThe gorgeous hall, the haughty monarch sat.”Antediluvians, page 29.

“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.

“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.

“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 daysPasses without a thought—without a word;And many a holy struggle for the sakeOf 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 dwellsIn 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 liveAlone to suffer, and alone to strive?Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloomShows deeper honor than a common tomb!Who sleep within?

“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 gloomShows deeper honor than a common tomb!Who sleep within?

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 arealiquid 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 claimThe 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 dayWept 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 notThe woe which he had will’d should be their lot,But nerved themselves to bear!”

“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 couldstDIE—forgiving and forgiven,—Or with a feverish hope of anguish born,(Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scornOf 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 claimhismercy 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 blowMan’s hand can strike, and yet no pity show!”

“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 couldstDIE—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 claimhismercy 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.

“Thathour, once sacred to God’s presence, stillKeeps itself calmer from the touch of ill,The holiest hour of earth.Thentoil 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.”

“Thathour, once sacred to God’s presence, still

Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill,

The holiest hour of earth.Thentoil 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 playingBy 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 saddenWith the memory of me?Round whom, oh! gentle darlings,Do your young arms fondly twine,Does she press you toherbosomWho hath taken you from mine?Oh! boys, the twilight hourSuch a heavy time hath grown,—It recalls with such deep anguishAll I used to call my own,—That the harshest word that everWas spoken to me there,Would be trivial—would bewelcome—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 meAnd the bitter tear-drops fall,Tho’ my lot be hard and lonely,Yet I hope—I hope thro’ all.”

“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 toherbosom

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 bewelcome—

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 greetedThe lonely one of Nain,When her long last watch was over,And her hope seemed wild and vain;By all the tender mercyGod hath shown to human grief,When fate or man’s perversenessDenied and barr’d relief,—By the hopeless woe which taught meTo 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.

“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 itsfiat. 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.

Fig. 1.—Robe of one of the new figured silks; the skirt trimmed with twobiasflounces; half-highcorsage, and bishop’s sleeve. Cambriccollerette-fichû, trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Violet satinmantelet, lined withgros 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 satinchapeau, 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 shadedmaraboutplume.

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 tightcorsageand 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 bournoussof 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 plaitedvolan, which encircles the bottom of the border, mounts in the drapery style on one side, and is terminated by anœudof muslin, similarly finished at the ends; achef d’orhead thevolan.Corsage en gerbeand short full sleeve, both ornamented withchefs d’or. The head dress gives a front view of the one just described. Opera cloak of brownrepvelvet, lined with blue satin: it is made shorter than the dress, of moderate width, and trimmed with three blue satinrouleaus, 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.

Fig. 4.—Douiletteof white cashmere, wadded, and lined with pinkgros de Naples; the lining quilted in a lozenge pattern; thecorsageis 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.Manteletof a large size, and of the same materials, bordered with a rich white and pinkchenillefringe. Black velvetchapeau à la Louis XIII, trimmed with white and pink feathers.

FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY 1841 FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

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 ofGraham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 2, February 1841, George R. Graham, Editor]

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