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have looked like a vision in a picture, an angel from the sun. Everybody who sees it cries out and pronounces it the real thing. I must confess, after all, I prefer the auburn as we construe it. It forms, I think, a finer shade for the skin; a richer warmth; a darker lustre. But Lucretia's hair must have been still divine. Wat Sylvan, a man of genius whom I have become acquainted with over it, as other acquaintance commences over a bottle, was inspired on the occasion with the following verses:

"Borgia, thou wert once almost too august,
And high for adoration; now thou art dust!
All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,
Bright hair, meand'ring with pellucid gold!"

The sentiment implied in the last line will be echoed by every bosom that has worn a lock of hair next it, or longed to do so. Hair is at once the most delicate and lasting of our memorials; and survives us like love. It is so light, so gentle, so escaping from the idea of death, that, with a lock of hair belonging to a child or a friend, we may almost look np to heaven, and compare notes with the angelic nature; may almost say, "I have a piece of thee here, not unworthy of thy being now."


There is something very puzzling in the annexed communication, which came to us written in the most lady-like and delicate little hand imaginable. The reward proposed in the concluding line of the second stanza, is altogether too tempting to be overlooked, and we could not think of refusing, on our part, to fulfil the condition by which we shall be entitled to claim it from Clorinda— "when we have found her out."


Permit a giddy, trifling girl,

For once to fill your poet's corner,
Who cares not, how the critics snarl,

Nor beaux and macaronies scorn her.

She longs, in print, her lines to see;

Grant her request—(you can't refuse it ;)
And, if you find her out, your fee

Shall be—to kiss her—if you choose it.

The above is a selection, but should it be deemed worthy of an insertion in your " poet's corner,'' I shall be happy to see it there; and would not even object—"if you choose it," to its being placed among the originals. Yours, "till you find her out," Clorinda.


It was in the year 1822 that I visited the priionsof Rome. Among the unfortunate creatures brought hither by distress or guilt, I observed in the corner of a dungeon a young female seated on a handful of straw, nursing her infant. Her complexion was swarthy, and in her large black eyes glowed the fire of the sun of Italy. The relicts of her apparel indicated that previous to her imprisonment she had worn the garb of a Roman peasant. Her expressive physiognomy and her bold look seemed calculated to excite curiosity. I approached, and begged her to relate to me through what misfortune she found herself in this place of horror.

"St. FrancisI (she exclaimed); what interest can the narrative of my extraordinary misfortune have for free and happy people? My name is Maria Grazia. My mother lost her life in giving birth to me. My father, devoted to his own pleasures and caring but little about my education, placed me, while yet very young, in a convent. The older I grew, the more irksome this kind of life hecame to me; for my inclinations, my disposition, and the vivacity of my character, all seemed to urge me on to a futurity full of trouble. A circumstance, which I never could account for, had a powerful influence upon my fate. On some particular occasion, a gipsy woman was admitted into the convent for our amusement. All the sisters were allowed to hold their ear to the tin-speaking trumpet of the old sibyl, who moreover gave to each of us a slip of paper, on which was written what the hag termed a decree of heaven. Thrice did I go up to her for the purpose of enjoying the like favour, and thrice the oracle became mute. This refusal of the old woman excited partly my anger and partly my curiosity. I begged—intreated—wept; at length the gipsy was moved with my tears.

"You insist upon it, unhappy girl, (said she); well then, know that you will be the wife of a robber, who will murder your father, and that your hair will turn gray in a dungeon."

At the age of fifteen such predictions make no very deep impression. I laughed heartily on the subject with my companions, and loaded the old prophetess with ridicule. At night, however, when I was alone, my mind became, against my will, a prey to apprehensions. I passed the hours in anxiety and painful revery; the prediction of the fortune-teller incessantly haunted my waking dreams.

My father took me out of the convent, but only to shut me up again with an old housekeeper at his country-seat, about five miles from Rome. One night the weather was very tempestuous. I could not sleep. I fancied that I heard a confused sound of voices under my window, which looked into the garden. I awoke my Aja, who never went to bed without her weapon, which was a large carving-knife. Presently we heard the outer window-shutter broken open. We concealed ourselves behind the curtain; I had armed myself with the knife. A pane of the window was cut, and a hand was protruded through the aperture to unfasten the catch which secured it. I seized the opportunity and struck so effective a blow that the hand dropped at my feet. A sigh of agony and the sound of footsteps succeeded, and then all was quiet again.

At daybreak I repaired to Rome, where I related my adventure to my father; he admired my courage, and permitted me to leave the lonely villa. He was by this time thinking of marrying me, and even hoped that my adventure, which was soon rumoured abroad, would forward his design.

Among my suitors there was a young cavalier, the beauty of whose handsome features was heightened by a delicate paleness. He gave himself out for a Florentine, and carried his arm in a sling, in consequence, as it was said, of a slight wound which he had received in an affair of honour. His kind attentions and amiable manners soon made a deep impression upon me. He solicited my hand. My father, with his usual levity, gave his consent, and we were united.

The day after our marriage my husband was no longer the tender lover; his looks were wild, his voice was harsh, and his smile sarcastic. Distressed at this melancholy change, I asked with tears, the cause of it.

"Would you know who I am? (cried he.) Do you recollect the night you cut off the hand of an unknown person who would have penetrated into your chamber? Well, that hand was mine! Look here! (his mutilated arm but too strongly confirmed his story.) I had seen you, and was captivated by your beauty. I determined to carry you off. With two of my comrades I ventured to climb up to your chamber window. From the reception which you gave me, we inferred that you had men to protect you. I retired, but learned the next day tnat to you alone I owed the loss of my hand. Shame and rage at being thus baffled by a girl of sixteen awakened within me thoughts of revenge. I came under an assumed name to Rome; my friends, my artifices, my gold, accomplished the rest. You are now the wife of a robber!"

At this word a feeling of horror seized my soul; nevertheless, whether it was owing to the flexibility of my disposition, to the prediction of the gipsy, to the secret fondness of romantic adventure to which the heart but too often resigns itself, or finally to the hope of bringing back, by the power of love, a stray soul dwelling in B yet youthful body, to the track of virtue; in short, I threw myself at the feet of my husband, and implored him with tears not to cast me from him, for I would never cease to love him. Moved by my tears and my resignation, he clasped me to his bosom, and for three years I was, or imagined that I was, happy.

One evening, however, he returned home pale and perturbed, his garments torn and spotted with blood. In broken sentences he told me that he had been obliged to defend his life against assassins, and charged me to observe the profoundest silence respecting this mysterious occurrence. I could not help trembling, but not for him; my soul was shaken by melancholy forebodings of a different kind. A horrid dream terrified me—I awoke. At the same moment my husband also was startled out of his sleep; his convulsed lips several times pronounced the name of my father. The recollection of that gloomy prophecy enveloped my senses in darkness. Oh my unhappy father! Oh my still more wretched husband! The former had actually attacked the latter, having probably been apprised of the real state of the case, and desirous of withdrawing me from so disgraceful a connection. The agents of justice were soon in search of us, and we escaped with difficulty to the mountains.

There my husband bethought himself of his former comrades. He sought them out, discovered them, and a cavern of banditti was now my dwelling. His companions welcomed him with joy; but he had violated one of their laws, which forbids any of the members of the band to marry, and enacts, that if a woman should fall into their hands, she shall belong exclusively to the captain. No sooner had the latter set eyes on me than he rudely insisted on his right. His daring hand had already grasped me, when a ball from my husband's pistol extended the wretch on the ground. Disliked as he was by the band, his fall was a signal for a shout of joy from his comrades, who unanimously elected my husband their leader.

So completely was I possessed by that wild spirit which must have betrayed itself in my looks to the gipsy at the grate of the nunnery, that I was quite proud of my husband's elevation. I now wrapped myself in the coarse habiliments of a peasant, of which these rags still cover me, and with equal courage and pleasure accompanied my husband in his expeditions. Towns and villages rang with his exploits; fate at length overtook him. He fell in a conflict with the horsemen who were sent against us and had discovered our retreat. At the moment when I saw my husband drop, I sought shelter in a cavern for my infant; there I was seized and dragged to this dungeon, where I anticipate with horror the fulfilment of the latter part of that fearful prediction.

Such was the narrative of Maria Grazia, the widow of the bandit chief. In pity for her situation I offered her some pieces of gold, but she refused them, at the same time caressing her child, which had fallen asleep at her bosom.


Yes,—I can bear to see thee now,
With quiet lip, and placid brow;
Thine eyes may watch me as they wtll,
They cannot make one heat-string thrill:
I've known thee fickle, known my peace
The sport of thy most cold caprice;
Now sue,—now woo,—I've snapped the chain,-
I cannot be thy slave again.

There was a time when I for thee
Looked with all love's anxiety:
When sitting breathless,—feverish,—mute,
I've listened, trembling for thy foot:
Thy presence was as if I quaffed
From life's rich fount a daily draught;
Thy parting dimmed, yet fed the flame,—
Now, come or go,—'tis all the same!

'Tis over,—I have flung thee off,
With careless heart, and bitter scoff,—
Thou ! who didst dare,—fool that thou wert,
To trifle with a trusting heart!
Though thou didst know how deep and true
My feelings were in root and hue.
Oh, search this world,—a firmer mind,
Or fonder heart, thou wilt not find!


All the light and tasteful attire of summer has now given place to the rich materials with which in the last days of autumn we see the winter fashions ushered in. But before we speak of materials, let us see what we have to say of form. We refer for those of bonnets to our plates, but we must observe it is generally understood that the changes which may be made during the season, will be gradual and slight. In fact, we have with respect to forms during several years past been diverging more and more from the custom formerly so prevalent of sudden and violent changes; and we must say that as regards bonnets, the shapes are at present so exceedingly becoming, that we think it hardly possible to change for the better.

The new materials, or rather we should say the winter materials, and new trimmings, give to these head-dresses an appearance equally novel and striking. We may cite, among the most remarkable, several satin

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