  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 manoeuvres 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.
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