THE INVITATION.

Jackson, Tenn.

THE INVITATION.

———

BY E. G. MALLERY.

———

Come, altho’ fair is thy southern clime,Where the sea-breeze fanneth thy cheek,And the stars come forth at the vesper chime,With a beauty no tongue may speak;Tho’ the moon-beam slumbers upon thy browAs it slumbered in hours of yore;And the night bird’s song has the same tone nowIn thy life’s bright spring that it bore;Come, tho’ from streamlet, from hill, and from plain,Rush a thousand fond memories forth,And cluster around thy light step to detain—Oh! come to our home in the North!They tell you how bleak is our northern skyWhen the storm-spirit spreadeth his wings;How his shout is heard from the mountain high,How in glee thro’ the valley it rings:How his strong hand bows the proud old oak,And in sport uprooteth the pine;How he folds the hills in his spotless cloak,And the groves with his brilliants shine:How his breath enchaineth the rolling tide,And bids the chaf’d torrent be still,Then dashes away in his might and his pride,And laughs that they heeded his will!They tell you our birds at the Autumn’s breath,When the flow’rs droop over their tomb,Are off to the land where they meet no death,And the orange-trees ever more bloom.Tell them we ask not affection so slightThat at fortune’s first frown it is o’er,And we’re certain again when our skies become brightThey’ll flutter around us once more,And tell them there grows on our mountain crestA plant which no winter can fade—And, as changeless, the love of a northern breast,Blooms ever in sunshine and shade!Come, and we’ll teach you when Summer is fled,And the rich robe of Autumn withdrawn,To welcome old Winter, whose hoary headIs bow’d ’neath his sparkling crown;For soon as his whistle is heard from afarCommanding the winds round his throne,And echoes in distance the roll of his car,We encircle the joyous hearth-stone;And eyes brighter flash, and cheeks deeper glow,—The voice of the song gushes forth,And ceaseless and light is each heart’s happy flow—Oh! come to our home in the North!

Come, altho’ fair is thy southern clime,

Where the sea-breeze fanneth thy cheek,

And the stars come forth at the vesper chime,

With a beauty no tongue may speak;

Tho’ the moon-beam slumbers upon thy brow

As it slumbered in hours of yore;

And the night bird’s song has the same tone now

In thy life’s bright spring that it bore;

Come, tho’ from streamlet, from hill, and from plain,

Rush a thousand fond memories forth,

And cluster around thy light step to detain—

Oh! come to our home in the North!

They tell you how bleak is our northern skyWhen the storm-spirit spreadeth his wings;How his shout is heard from the mountain high,How in glee thro’ the valley it rings:How his strong hand bows the proud old oak,And in sport uprooteth the pine;How he folds the hills in his spotless cloak,And the groves with his brilliants shine:How his breath enchaineth the rolling tide,And bids the chaf’d torrent be still,Then dashes away in his might and his pride,And laughs that they heeded his will!

They tell you how bleak is our northern sky

When the storm-spirit spreadeth his wings;

How his shout is heard from the mountain high,

How in glee thro’ the valley it rings:

How his strong hand bows the proud old oak,

And in sport uprooteth the pine;

How he folds the hills in his spotless cloak,

And the groves with his brilliants shine:

How his breath enchaineth the rolling tide,

And bids the chaf’d torrent be still,

Then dashes away in his might and his pride,

And laughs that they heeded his will!

They tell you our birds at the Autumn’s breath,When the flow’rs droop over their tomb,Are off to the land where they meet no death,And the orange-trees ever more bloom.Tell them we ask not affection so slightThat at fortune’s first frown it is o’er,And we’re certain again when our skies become brightThey’ll flutter around us once more,And tell them there grows on our mountain crestA plant which no winter can fade—And, as changeless, the love of a northern breast,Blooms ever in sunshine and shade!

They tell you our birds at the Autumn’s breath,

When the flow’rs droop over their tomb,

Are off to the land where they meet no death,

And the orange-trees ever more bloom.

Tell them we ask not affection so slight

That at fortune’s first frown it is o’er,

And we’re certain again when our skies become bright

They’ll flutter around us once more,

And tell them there grows on our mountain crest

A plant which no winter can fade—

And, as changeless, the love of a northern breast,

Blooms ever in sunshine and shade!

Come, and we’ll teach you when Summer is fled,And the rich robe of Autumn withdrawn,To welcome old Winter, whose hoary headIs bow’d ’neath his sparkling crown;For soon as his whistle is heard from afarCommanding the winds round his throne,And echoes in distance the roll of his car,We encircle the joyous hearth-stone;And eyes brighter flash, and cheeks deeper glow,—The voice of the song gushes forth,And ceaseless and light is each heart’s happy flow—Oh! come to our home in the North!

Come, and we’ll teach you when Summer is fled,

And the rich robe of Autumn withdrawn,

To welcome old Winter, whose hoary head

Is bow’d ’neath his sparkling crown;

For soon as his whistle is heard from afar

Commanding the winds round his throne,

And echoes in distance the roll of his car,

We encircle the joyous hearth-stone;

And eyes brighter flash, and cheeks deeper glow,—

The voice of the song gushes forth,

And ceaseless and light is each heart’s happy flow—

Oh! come to our home in the North!

Wyoming, 1841.

YOU NEVER KNEW ANNETTE.—BALLAD.

Written byT. Haynes Bayly, Esq.—The Music composed byC. M. Sola.

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

You praise each youthful form you see,And love is still your theme;And when you win no praise from me,You say how cold I seem:You know not what it is to pineWith

You praise each youthful form you see,

And love is still your theme;

And when you win no praise from me,

You say how cold I seem:

You know not what it is to pine

With

ceaseless vain regret;You never felt a love like mine,You never knew Annette,You never felt a love like mine,You never, never knew Annette.For ever changing, still you rove,As I in boyhood roved;But when you tell me this is love,It proves you never loved!To many idols you have knelt,And therefore soon forget;But what I feel you never felt,You never knew Annette.

ceaseless vain regret;You never felt a love like mine,You never knew Annette,You never felt a love like mine,You never, never knew Annette.

ceaseless vain regret;

You never felt a love like mine,

You never knew Annette,

You never felt a love like mine,

You never, never knew Annette.

For ever changing, still you rove,As I in boyhood roved;But when you tell me this is love,It proves you never loved!To many idols you have knelt,And therefore soon forget;But what I feel you never felt,You never knew Annette.

For ever changing, still you rove,

As I in boyhood roved;

But when you tell me this is love,

It proves you never loved!

To many idols you have knelt,

And therefore soon forget;

But what I feel you never felt,

You never knew Annette.

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

Whenthe shooter has been long accustomed to a dog, he can tell by the dog’s proceeding, whether game is near or not when pointed, or whether the birds are running before the dog. If he suspect them to be running, he must walk up quickly before his dog, for if he stop or appear to look about him, the birds instantly rise. Whenever it is practicable, unless the birds be very tame and his dogs young ones, the shooter should place himself so that the birds may be between him and the dogs. They will then lie well. The moment a dog points, the first thing to be done is to cast a glance round to ascertain in which direction the covers and corn-fields lie; the next is to learn the point of the wind; the shooter will then use his endeavor to gain the wind of the birds, and to place himself between them and the covers, or otherwise avail himself of other local circumstances.

PARTRIDGE SHOOTING.

Wecommence our notice of feathered game with the partridge, as shooting that bird is generally the young sportsman’s first lesson, although in the order of the season grouse shooting takes precedence.

The partridge may be termed a home bird, for the shooter who resides in the country, finds it almost at his door, while it is requisite to undertake a journey, perchance a very long one, before he arrives at the grounds frequented by grouse. As it requires neither woods, nor marshes, nor heaths to afford them shelter, they are found more widely scattered than the pheasant, the woodcock, or the grouse, and hence the pursuit of them is one of the chief sources of recreation to the shooter. Though not so highly prized by the sportsman as the birds last mentioned, the abundance in which partridges are found, wherever they are preserved, renders the sport sufficiently attractive. At the commencement of the season, when they have not been much disturbed by persons breaking dogs, they are as tame as could be wished by the most inexpert sportsman, and at that time afford capital diversion to the young shooter, and to those rheumatic and gouty old gentlemen who—too fond of their ease to brush the covers or range the mountains—in the lowland valleys, “shoulder their crutch, and show how fields were won.” Partridges are most plentiful in those countries where much grain, buckwheat, and white crops are grown. While the corn is standing, it is very rare that many shots can be obtained, for the coveys, on being disturbed, wing their way to the nearest cornfield, where it is forbidden the shooter to follow them, or to send his dogs in after them.

The habits of the partridge should be studied by the shooter. In the early part of the season, partridges will be found, just before sunrise, running to a brook, a spring, or marsh, to drink; from which place they almost immediately fly to some field where they can find abundance of insects, or else to the nearest corn-field or stubble field, where they will remain, according to the state of the weather, or other circumstances, until nine or ten o’clock, when they go to bask. The basking-place is commonly on a sandy bank-side facing the sun, where the whole covey sits huddled together for several hours. About four or five o’clock they return to the stubbles to feed, and about six or seven they go to their jucking-place, a place of rest for the night, which is mostly an aftermath, or in a rough pasture field, where they remain huddled together until morning. Such are their habits during the early part of the season; but their time of feeding and basking varies much with the length of the days. While the corn is standing, unless the weather be very fine or very wet, partridges will often remain in it all day; when fine, they bask on the out-skirts; when wet, they run to some bare place in a sheltered situation, where they will be found crowded together as if basking, for they seldom remain long in corn or grass when it is wet. Birds lie best on a hot day. They are wildest on a damp or boisterous day.

The usual way of proceeding in search of partridges in September is to try the stubbles first. It not unfrequently happens that potatoes or turnips are grown on a headland in a corn-field; in that case the headland will be a favorite resort of birds.

After the middle of October, it is ever uncertain where birds will be found; the stubbles having been pretty well gleaned, birds do not remain in them so long as in the early part of the season. When disturbed at this time, they will sometimes take shelter in woods, where they are flushed one by one. The best shots that can be obtained at partridges, in winter, are when the birds are driven into woods.

When a covey separates, the shooter will generally be able to kill many birds, but late in the season it is seldom that the covey can be broken. In November and December the shooter must not expect to have his birds pointed, but must remain content with firing at long distances. In the early part of the season, when the shooterbreaksa covey, he should proceed without loss of time in search of the dispersed birds, for the parent birds begin to call almost immediately on their alighting, the young ones answer, and in less than half an hour, if not prevented by the presence of the shooter and his dogs, the whole covey will be re-assembled, probably in security in some snug corner, where the shooter least thinks of looking for them. As the season advances, birds are longer in re-assembling after being dispersed. It is necessary to beat very closely for dispersed birds, as they do not stir for some time after alighting, on which account dogs cannot wind them until nearly upon them, especially as they resort to the roughest places when dispersed. Birds dispersed afford the primest sport. The pointing is often beautiful, the bird being generally in a patch of rushes, or tuft of grass or fern, and close to the dog. When a bird has been running about some time, dogs easily come upon the scent of it; but when it has not stirred since alighting, and has perhaps crept into a drain, or run into a hedge-bottom, or the sedgy side of a ditch, no dog can wind it until close upon it, and the very best dogs will sometimes flush a single bird. In the month of October, and afterward, the shooter will find it difficult to approach within gun-shot of a covey, nor can he disperse them, except by firing at them when he chances to come close upon them. Should he then be so fortunate as to disperse a covey, he may follow them leisurely, for they will then lie several hours in their lurking-place, which is chosen with much tact, as a patch of rushes, a gorse bush, a holly bush, the bottom of a double bank fence, or a coppice of wood. The length of time that will transpire before a dispersed covey will re-assemble, depends too on the time of the day, and state of the weather. In hot weather, they will lie still for several hours. A covey dispersed early in the morning, or late at night, will soon re-assemble. A covey dispersed between the hours of ten and two, will be some time in re-assembling. A covey found in the morning in a stubble-field, and dispersed, will next assemble near the basking-place. A covey dispersed after two o’clock, will next assemble in the stubble-field at feeding time. A covey disturbed and dispersed late in the afternoon, or evening, will next re-assemble near the jucking-place. A covey being disturbed on or near to their jucking-place, will seek a fresh one, perhaps about two fields distant; and if often disturbed at night on their jucking-place, they will seek another stubble-field to feed in, and change their quarters altogether. The most certain method of driving partridges from a farm, is to disturb them night after night at their jucking-place, which is usually in a meadow, where the aftermath is suffered to grow, or in a field rough with rushes, fern, thistles, or heather, adjoining to a corn-field. When a covey is dispersed on a dry hot day, it is necessary to search much longer, and beat closer, for the dispersed birds, than when the day is cool and the ground moist. A dog should be only slightly rated for running up a bird on a hot day.

The shooter, on entering a field, should make it a general rule, provided the wind or nature of the ground do not lead him to decide on a contrary course, to beat that side which is nearest the covers; or, if there be no neighboring covers, he should beat round the field, leaving the centre of the field to the last. In hot weather birds frequent bare places, sunny hill-sides, or sandy banks, at the root of a tree, or hedge-bottom, where there is plenty of loose loam or sand which they can scratch up. In cold weather they will be found in sheltered places. In cold windy weather those fields only which lie under the wind should be beaten. The warm valleys, the briary cloughs, and glens not over-wooded, but abounding in fern, underwood, and holly trees, and also those steep hill-sides which lie under the wind, are then places of resort. Heights and flats must be avoided, except where there are small enclosures well protected by double hedges, under the shelter of which birds will remain. The shooter who beats the south or west side of a hedge, will generally obtain more shots than he who beats the north or east side.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

“The Tower of London.” A Historical Romance. By W. H. Ainsworth. Author of Jack Sheppard. 1 vol. Lea & Blanchard: Philada. 1841.

The authorship of this work does a little, and but a little more credit to Mr. Ainsworth than that of Jack Sheppard. It is in no spirit of cavilling that we say, that it is rarely our lot to review a work more utterly destitute of every ingredient requisite to a good romance.

We would premise, however, in the outset of our remarks, that the popularity of this work in London is no proof of its merits. Its success, in fact, reminds us how nearly akin its author, in his treatment of the public, is to Dr. Sangrado. Blood-letting, and warm water was the making of the latter—and bombast and clap-trap is the Alpha and Omega of the former. In the present volume we have it plentifully administered in descriptions of the Tower of London, and the plots of the bloody Mary’s reign. It is this local interest which has given Mr. Ainsworth’s romance such a run in London, just as a family picture, in which a dozen ugly urchins, and sundry as ugly angels in the clouds, is the delight of the parents, and the envy of all aunts.

The Tower of London is, at once, forced and uninteresting. It is such a novel as sets one involuntarily to nodding. With plenty of incident, considerable historical truth, and a series of characters, such as an author can rarely command, it is yet, excepting a chapter here and there, “flat, stale, and unprofitable.” The incidents want piquancy; the characters too often are destitute of truth. The misfortunes of Lady Jane are comparatively dull to any one who remembers Mr. Millar’s late romance; and Simon Reynard is under another name, the same dark, remorseless villain as Jonathan Wild. The introduction of the giants would grate harshly on the reader’s feelings, if the author had not failed to touch them by his mock-heroics. Were it not for the tragic interest attached to Lady Jane Grey, and the pride that every Englishman feels in the oldest surviving palace of his kings, this novel would have fallen stillborn from the press in London, as completely it has ruined the author’s reputation in America.

We once, in reviewing Jack Sheppard, expressed our admiration of the author’s talents, although we condemned their perversion in the novel then before us. This duplicate of that worthless romance, and scandalously demoralising novel, proves either that the author is incorrigible, or that the public taste is vitiated. We rather think the former. We almost recant our eulogy on Mr. Ainsworth’s talents. If he means to earn a name, one whit loftier than that of a mere book-maker, let him at once betake himself to a better school of romance. Such libels on humanity; such provocatives to crime; such worthless, inane, disgraceful romances as Jack Sheppard and its successors, are a blot on our literature, and a curse to our land.

“Visits to Remarkable Places, Battle-Fields, Cathedrals, Castles, &c.” By W. Howitt. 2 vols. Carey & Hart, Philada.

“The Rural Life of England.” By W. Howitt. 1 vol. Carey & Hart, Philada.

Next after Professor Wilson comes Howitt. The same genial spirit, the same soul-breathing poetry, the same intense love for what is beautiful in nature, and often the same involution of style, and the same excursive ideas, characterise the editor of Blackwood, and the brother of the Quaker poet.

The latter of the productions above, is, as its name imports, a description of the rural life of England, whether found under the gipsey’s hedge, in the peasant’s cottage, or amid the wide parks and lordly castles of the aristocracy. It is a picture of which England may be proud. The author has omitted nothing which could make his subject interesting, and in presenting it suitably to his reader he has surpassed himself, and almost equalled North. The old, but now decaying customs of “merrie England;” the winter and summer life of peasant and noble in the country; the sports of every kind, and every class, from milling to horse-racing; and the forest and landscape scenery of every portion of Great Britain are described with a graphic pen, and a fervor of language, which cannot fail to make “The Rural Life of England” popular every where.

Among the most interesting chapters of this work are those on the Gipsies, and that respecting Mayday, and Christmas. The description of Grouse-Shooting, both in the north of England, and the Highlands is highly graphic; while the visits to Newstead and Annesley Hall are narrated with much vivacity.

It was the popularity of these two last chapters which suggested the preceding volumes above, entitled “Visits to Remarkable Places.” Nothing can be simpler than the design of this latter work. With a taste for antiquarian research, and a soul all-glowing with poetry, the author has gone forth into the quiet dells, and amid the time-worn cities of England, and visiting every old castle, or battle-field, known in history, and peopling them with the heroic actors of the past, he has produced a work of unrivalled interest. We wish we had room for a chapter from the second of these two volumes, entitled “A Day-Dream at Tintangel.” It is one of the most poetical pieces of prose we have ever met with. The old castle of King Arthur seems once more to lift its massy battlements, above the thundering surf below, and from its portals go forth the heroes of the Round Table, with hound and hawk, and many a fair demoiselle.

Next, certainly, to a visit to any remarkable place, is a graphic description of its appearance. This, in every instance, where the author has attempted it, is presented in the “Visits to Remarkable Places.” Stratford on the Avon; Anne Hathaway’s cottage; the ancestral home of the Sidneys; Culloden battlefield; the old regal town of Winchester, formerly the abode of the Saxon kings, and where their monuments still remain; Flodden-field; Hampton Court; and in short, most of the remarkable places in England, are brought vividly before the reader’s mind. Indeed, many a traveller, who has seen these celebrated places, might be put to the blush by one who had attentively perused this work, and who yet had never crossed the Atlantic.

“The Kinsmen, or the Black Riders of the Congaree.” A Romance. By the author of Guy Rivers, &c. 2 vols.—Lea & Blanchard, Philada. 1841.

A good novel is always welcome; and a good one from an American pen is doubly so. Since the publication of the Pathfinder, we have seen nothing equal to the Kinsmen.

The story is laid at the period of the Revolution, and Clarence Conway, the hero, is a prominent actor in the partizan war, which then raged in the Carolinas. Many of the characters are well drawn, and the interest is kept up throughout. Flora Middleton is an exquisite creation of the novelist’s pen. She deserves to be placed alongside of James’s finest female characters.

We have room for only a short extract. In it, however, the interest is worked up to a pitch of the most intense excitement. The hero, be it remembered, having fallen into the hands of the Black Riders, has irritated their ruffian leader. To the outlaw’s threats he replies:

“I am Colonel Conway, and, dog of a tory, I defy you. Do your worst. I know you dare do nothing of the sort you threaten. I defy and spit upon you.”The face of the outlaw blackened:—Clarence rose to his feet.“Ha! think you so? We shall see. Shumway, Frink, Gasson!—you three are enough to saddle this fiery rebel to his last horse. Noose him, you slow moving scoundrels, to the nearest sapling, and let him grow wiser in the wind. To your work, villains—away!”The hands of more than one of the ruffians were already on the shoulders of the partizan. Though shocked at the seeming certainty of a deed which he had not been willing to believe they would venture to execute, he yet preserved the fearless aspect which he had heretofore shown. His lips still uttered the language of defiance. He made no concessions, he asked for no delay—he simply denounced against them the vengeance of his command, and that of his reckless commander, whose fiery energy of soul and rapidity of execution they well knew. His language tended still farther to exasperate the person who acted in the capacity of the outlaw chief. Furiously, as if to second the subordinates in the awful duty in which they seemed to him to linger, he grasped the throat of Clarence Conway with his own hands, and proceeded to drag him forward. There was evidently no faltering in his fearful purpose. Every thing was serious. He was too familiar with such deeds to make him at all heedful of consequences; and the proud bearing of the youth; the unmitigated scorn in his look and language; the hateful words which he had used, and the threats which he had denounced; while they exasperated all around, almost maddened the ruffian in command, to whom such defiance was new, and with whom the taking of life was a circumstance equally familiar and unimportant.“Threeminutes for prayer is all the grace I give him!” he cried, hoarsely, as he helped the subordinates to drag the destined victim toward the door. He himself was not sufferedone. The speech was scarcely spoken, when he fell prostrate on his face, stricken in the mouth by a rifle-bullet, which entered through an aperture in the wall opposite. His blood and brains bespattered the breast of Clarence Conway, whom his falling body also bore to the floor of the apartment. A wild shout from without followed the shot, and rose, strong and piercing, above all the clamor within. In that shout Clarence could not doubt that he heard the manly voice of the faithful Jack Bannister, and the deed spoke for itself. It could have been the deed of a friend only.

“I am Colonel Conway, and, dog of a tory, I defy you. Do your worst. I know you dare do nothing of the sort you threaten. I defy and spit upon you.”

The face of the outlaw blackened:—Clarence rose to his feet.

“Ha! think you so? We shall see. Shumway, Frink, Gasson!—you three are enough to saddle this fiery rebel to his last horse. Noose him, you slow moving scoundrels, to the nearest sapling, and let him grow wiser in the wind. To your work, villains—away!”

The hands of more than one of the ruffians were already on the shoulders of the partizan. Though shocked at the seeming certainty of a deed which he had not been willing to believe they would venture to execute, he yet preserved the fearless aspect which he had heretofore shown. His lips still uttered the language of defiance. He made no concessions, he asked for no delay—he simply denounced against them the vengeance of his command, and that of his reckless commander, whose fiery energy of soul and rapidity of execution they well knew. His language tended still farther to exasperate the person who acted in the capacity of the outlaw chief. Furiously, as if to second the subordinates in the awful duty in which they seemed to him to linger, he grasped the throat of Clarence Conway with his own hands, and proceeded to drag him forward. There was evidently no faltering in his fearful purpose. Every thing was serious. He was too familiar with such deeds to make him at all heedful of consequences; and the proud bearing of the youth; the unmitigated scorn in his look and language; the hateful words which he had used, and the threats which he had denounced; while they exasperated all around, almost maddened the ruffian in command, to whom such defiance was new, and with whom the taking of life was a circumstance equally familiar and unimportant.

“Threeminutes for prayer is all the grace I give him!” he cried, hoarsely, as he helped the subordinates to drag the destined victim toward the door. He himself was not sufferedone. The speech was scarcely spoken, when he fell prostrate on his face, stricken in the mouth by a rifle-bullet, which entered through an aperture in the wall opposite. His blood and brains bespattered the breast of Clarence Conway, whom his falling body also bore to the floor of the apartment. A wild shout from without followed the shot, and rose, strong and piercing, above all the clamor within. In that shout Clarence could not doubt that he heard the manly voice of the faithful Jack Bannister, and the deed spoke for itself. It could have been the deed of a friend only.

“The Hour and the Man.” A novel. By Harriet Martineau. 2 vols. Harper & Brothers, New York, 1841.

We do not belong to the admirers of Miss Martineau, though barring her ear-trumpet, and a few foolish notions, she is a very respectable and inoffensive old lady. Her present work is founded on the career of the celebrated negro chieftain, whom Napoleon had conveyed to France, and who there died. The good old spinster has taken up the Orthodox English account of this transaction, and as Napoleon was always a monster in the eyes of the Cockneys, Touissant, according to their story and Miss Martineau’s, was murdered. Nothing can be more ridiculous. Bonaparte never committed a crime where it could be avoided, and having once secured Touissant in a state prison in France, what farther had the first consul to fear from the negro chieftain?

The story is, in some parts, well told. It has been apparently prepared with much care. But it fails, totally fails, in its main object; and though as men, we sympathise with a persecuted man, we cannot, as critics, overlook the glaring faults of the novel, or, as partizans of truth, forgive the historical inaccuracies of the narrative.

“The History of England from the Earliest Period to 1839.” By Thomas Keightley. 5 vols. Harper & Brothers, New York.

This is an edition, containing the same matter, with the two large octavo volumes lately published under the same title. We have it now presented in this cheap and portable form, as a portion of the celebrated Family Library. A copious index has been added, which is not found in the larger edition. The history is a work of merit; but to both the American editions we object, in the name of all justice. The alterations made from the London edition are scandalous. It is not, in its present shape, the author’s production. Good or bad, give ushiswork, and not that of an American editor, however talented, or an American publisher, however discerning.

“Applications of the Science of Mechanics to Practical Purposes.” By J. Renwick, L.L.D. 1 vol. 18 mo. Harper & Brothers, New York.

The present is a practical age. Literature, science, learning, even the fine arts are popular, only as they can be rendered useful. Every department of knowledge is ransacked to advance the interests, and elevate the character of the age.

Enfield’s Natural Philosophy, and the present work illustrate this remark. The former belongs to the past age; to the days of theory; to the men of profound philosophy: the latter is adapted more to the present time; to a practical generation; to men of excursive rather than deep, and available rather than profound science. Not a principle is stated which is not applied to some mechanical contrivance of the day. The action of the screw, the wedge, the lever, the spring, are described as they are adapted to mining, navigation, rail-roads, and the various species of manufactures. But, on the other hand, the knowledge imparted is not profound. Sufficient, as it is, however, for all practical purposes, the student leaves the work with a more thorough understanding of the principles of his study, than more elaborate, but less skilful treatises could afford.

“Hope on, Hope Ever.” 1 vol. 16 mo. “Strive and Thrive.” 1 vol. 16 mo. “Sowing and Reaping.” 1 vol. 16 mo. By Mary Howitt. J. Munro & Co. Boston.

These are three excellent tales from the pen of one of the most delightful of female writers. A chaste style; a love for the oppressed; a practical moral in her writings render them at once beautiful, popular, and useful.

“History of the United States.” By Selma Hale. 2 vols. Harper & Brothers, New York.

A compendious manual. It brings our history down to the end of Madison’s administration.

“Life of John Wickliffe, D.D.” By Margaret Coxe. Columbus. Isaac N. Whiting.

This is an interesting, though scanty biography of the first of the Reformers. It does not pretend to give a philosophic account of his times, but simply to present a chronicle of the principal events of his life.

FASHIONS FOR MARCH, 1841.

Fig. 1.—Of plaidMous de Laine. The head dress of buff crape, trimmed with roses.

Fig. 2.—Crimson velvet robe, a lowcorsage, it is trimmed with a row ofdentille d’orin the heart style. Short sleeves, composed of twobouffants, withmanchettesofdentille d’or, looped by gold and jewelled ornaments, corresponding with that in the centre of thecorsage. Thetablierand flounce that encircles the skirt are also ofdentille d’orof the most superb kind. The head-dress is atoquetof white satin, embroidered in gold, and trimmed with a profusion of white ostrich feathers.

Fig. 3.—Of plain white; the apron slightly ornamented. This is the prevailing style for the month.

FASHIONS FOR MARCH 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. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook. A cover was created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.

page 100, Calm, Heré-eyed Callirhöe?, ==> Calm,Hebé-eyed Callirhöe?,page 121, reminded us of Shelly’s ==> reminded us ofShelley’spage 144, Thetabiierand flounce ==> Thetablierand flounce

page 100, Calm, Heré-eyed Callirhöe?, ==> Calm,Hebé-eyed Callirhöe?,

page 121, reminded us of Shelly’s ==> reminded us ofShelley’s

page 144, Thetabiierand flounce ==> Thetablierand flounce

[End ofGraham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 3, March 1841, George R. Graham, Editor]

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