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it lay not many yards from her, gave her a species of consolation.

Twelve months are allowed by law for the redemption of pledges, and after that time they may be exposed for public sale.

Eleven months, then, had elapsed. Oh! how long did it appear since Margaret had parted with her sacred treasure-her silent friend! What would she give to behold it again, if only for a minute! One day, after having been gazing wistfully through the window for a long time, she summoned all her courage and walked into the pawnbroker's shop.

"So, you mean that locket, do you, young woman?" said the master of the shop, carelessly eyeing her duplicate as he passed one hand through the bushy hair of his large head; he then blow off a feather which happened to alight on his showy check waistcoat, garnished with a real gold watch-guard. Come, I suppose, to redeem it?" he continued; "well, better late than never, my dear, as the phrase goes."

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"Yes-sir-no;" faltered Margaret, in great agitation, scarcely conscious of what she uttered. "May I see it, sir, please?"

"Now, where's the money?" said the gentleman with the bushy head; for, leaning over his ledger, he had not heard Margaret's timid request. "I see I advanced you seventeen shillings upon it-interest, at this date, three shillings-hand over a sovereign, and the locket's yours."

"Alas; I wish-but I have only-oh! do, sir, permit me to see it!"

"What's the young woman a-mumbling about? I want a sovereign, I say. This is the thing you mean, an't it?" added the worthy gentleman, extending his hand towards Margaret, the locket being held between his forefinger and thumb.

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Yes, sir, yes!" she cried eagerly, with glistening eyes; and before the pawnbroker was aware of the action, she had snatched it out of his hand, and carried it to her lips.

"Ha! is this your game?" cried the gentleman, jumping over the counter. "John! shut the outer door-quick!—we've a thief here!"

you've enough money to redeem the article, come again, and you shall have it."

And Margaret went her way. One month more was allowed her. She wrote to her father for the small sum of a pound; but the cruel step-mother intercepted the letter, and it never reached him. She begged in the street, but could not scrape together enough pence to discharge even the interest on the money advanced her; consequently the pawnbroker refused to renew her duplicate, and the locket was exposed for sale.

It was just about this time that we saw the trinket in the window, as stated at the opening of our sketch.

Not a day passed, but Margaret came to that shop-window, to ascertain whether her treasure was still there; for all she dreaded was, lest some one should become the purchaser, and so carry it off.

One evening, as the young widow was gazing as usual through the plate-glass, where, in company with silver spoons, old watches, and rings, her locket appeared ticketed for thirty shillings, she perceived a hand within stretch towards it; the hand was that of the pawnbroker, and he was evidently about to show the bit of jewellery to a customer at the counter.

Oh! who may conceive the suspense and trepidation of Margaret? The fatal moment, she thought, was come-now, now the locket might be lost to her for ever! Her heart palpitated wildly, and she trembled to such a degree that she was obliged for a minute to lean for support on the window-sill.

Would it be restored to its place in the window? or would the customer take it away? She could dimly see him through the pane. Ile was an elderly gentleman, dressed in black, and his face was half concealed by a large woollen comforter. He was turning the locket around in his hands, and examining the sparkling stones by the gas-jet over the counter. Suddenly, as if satisfied with the article, he drew out his purse. Had an arrow been shot that moment to the heart of Margaret, she could scarcely have felt more. The thirty shillings were tenThe pawnbroker rudely grasped her arm. dered to the pawnbroker, and the old gentle"So, I was too wide awake for you this time-man, depositing the gold locket in his pocket, going to run off with my property-eh? I buttoned up his coat, and walked straightway shall give you in charge, young woman. A out of the shop. month at the treadmill will do you some good." The piteous look which Margaret gave the man might have touched a heart of stone. "No, Well, young woman, and what do you want sir, you mistake; I had no intention of stealing of me?" said the elderly gentleman, as he felt the locket-I only wished to look at it-to-his arm gently touched. to kiss it; for it was given me by my late dear husband."

She uttered the last words with difficulty, and overcome by anguish as well as affright, sank into a chair in a corner of the shop. Margaret had fainted.

"Well, well," said the pawnbroker, as she slowly revived, his anger being disarmed by the sad looks and wretched condition of the supposed culprit, "I won't give you in charge. Go home, there's a good woman, and when

Margaret followed him, for agony imparted to her energy-the energy of desperation.

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"Forgive me, sir-the-the liberty-I would say one word."

"What is it then?" exclaimed the gentleman, without stopping or turning around. "You have just purchased a locket-it was once mine!"

"Ah! very likely; the shop was a pawnbroker's, I believe. You pledged it then, I suppose-can't help it, my good girl—I've paid for it now, and 'tis mine.'

"Yours? Oh! pity me-pity me! Is every

hope, then, at an end? Must I lose it for

ever?"

"Now, turn back, and don't follow me, there's a good girl. I don't want to be annoyed."

66 But you are carrying away with you all that, with my child, I prize on earth. Are you, sir, Oh! are you a husband?"

The concluding words were spoken in so pitiful, so startling a tone, that the old gentleman mechanically stopped. "A husband? I was one once," he said hoarsely behind his wrapper; but my wife is dead. Why," he continued, almost forgetting himself, "I bought this very locket-for it struck me as being pretty-to keep a bit of her hair in."

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"But you can purchase another; that locket was the gift of my husband-my dead husband. Have compassion on me!-restore it to me, and God in heaven will bless you!"

She clung to his arm, weeping and sobbing convulsively; she knelt on the pavement, and it was well no one was passing at the moment to witness that extraordinary scene.

The old gentleman was moved by her strange conduct, and began to pull down his comforter, to speak, it would seem, more plainly; the pale and altered face of Margaret, as she knelt, looked up, and the rays of the lamp near them now streamed full upon her features.

"Bless my soul!" cried the old gentleman, starting back in amazement, "what do I see?who are you?"

"An unhappy forsaken being-a widow, and a mother; but," cried Margaret, clinging to his knees, "it is your own voice--your own self! I know you now! Surely God sent you here in the hour of my deep affliction. Pardon me, pity me, love me again-father! dear father!"

Yes, that old man was the country squire, the once inexorable father of Margaret; but she who had possessed such influence over him--the bitter-hearted step-mother-was dead. Mr. Glindon had come to London partly on business, and partly with a hope of discovering his lost child, towards whom his heart relented at last. We shall not be surprised, then, that he now raised her from the ground, kissed her again and again, assuring her that he forgave her all, and loved her as tenderly as ever; nor will it be unexpected when we say that, a week from that time, the squalid room in the neighbourhood of St. Chad's Well, Gray's-inn-road, had been abandoned, and that Margaret was sitting in the drawing-room at Longwood Hall, her child there sporting around her, and on her lap that restored treasure, never to be parted with again— the Gold Locket!

DILATORY COURTSHIP.

BY MRS. ABDY.

You urge my return--your petition
Little notice is likely to gain;
While your letters display one omission,
Your pleadings must all be in vain.

You speak of your heart's anxious beating,
Of absence, its doubts and its woes;
If you really thus long for our meeting,
Just say why you do not propose!
Though caution rules all that you're doing,
I own that I'm puzzled to see
Why caution need hinder your wooing;
What can prudence allege against me?
What need thus from season to season
To balance the con's and the pro's?
Do state if you please, one good reason
Why you feel disinclined to propose.

You tell all my friends what a treasure

I should prove through the trials of life;
That the man would be blest beyond measure,
Who could win so enchanting a wife;
That my talents turn hours into moments,
And tint them with couleur de rose:
May not others then prize my endowments,
And not only admire, but propose?

My income can bear to be tested,

My tenants are safe in their rents, And the rest of my fortune is vested

In the Three and a Quarter per Cents. ; I care not for dress or flirtation,

Or waltzing with red-coated beaux, I have not one needy relation,

Then why do you fear to propose ?

We have read, sung, and rambled together;
We have sat at the banquet of mirth;
Joined pic-nics in bright summer weather,
And told winter tales round the hearth;
We have held silent converse by letter,
(In letters the mind freely flows,)
You could scarcely, I think, know me better,
If you longer delayed to propose.

I am charmed with this place-Seaview Crescent
Looks full on the bright bounding wave;
And my constant attendant at present

Is Vernon, the studious, the grave:
To share my long strolls by the ocean,
His favourite books he foregoes;
All note his respectful devotion,

Yet none seem to think he'll propose.

He is handsome, well-bred, well-connected,
Good natured, and affluent too,
Yet Love's arrows are never directed

At his heart-all perceive it won't do ; The path of calm leisure he chooses,

On study that leisure bestows; He is wedded for life to the Muses,

And to woman he'll never propose.

Good bye-if you really feel sorrow

At the probable length of my stay; Read a capital tale called To-Morrow, Which treats on the ills of delay; Let it rouse you from weak indecision, For my patience is just at a close, And I almost admit a suspicion

That you never intend to propose !

POSTSCRIPT.

My postscript deserves your attention-
This morning with Vernon I walked;
And many a theme I could mention,
On which we successively talked;

The ocean, the clouds, the Art-Union,

Trees, cottages, poetry, prose;
Till we touched on the soul's fond communion,
And, just then, he thought fit to propose !

My heart seemed to leap and to flutter,
And I felt like a bird newly caged;
But I could not, you know, truly utter
A plea that my hand was engaged!
I paused-did I think of rejection ?
No-to smile on his wooing I chose ;
I was pleased with the manly affection
Which made him so prompt to propose.

I hope you won't yield to vexation;
All is best, you will find, in the end;
Cake and cards on the joyful occasion
I shall send to my intimate friend:
Be a little less selfish in future,

Turn Time to account ere it goes,
And don't act the part of a suitor,

Till you feel you've got nerve to propose !

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TO THE STARS.

Ye ancient fires of ebon night,
Thought kindles 'neath your quenchless light;
And vacant wonder startling hence,
Grapples on high with ignorance.
Ye meet us from the purple skies,
Like the broad gaze of seraph's eyes,
Or troops of bright celestial grace,
Battalion'd in the fields of space.
Well might devotion pure, divine,
Bow down in worship at your shrine;
Leaving an edifice of walls

To worship in Creation's halls!
Oh Truth where'er thy home is found,
Whether in light, or shade profound,
From thy obscurity now fly,

To tell me of those fires on high!
Say, are they characters that blaze
Perpetual truths to angels' gaze,
The alphabet of Paradise,

The language of the upper skies?
Or are they choristers that hymn,
With cherub and with seraphim,
Eternal as eternity,

Before the throne of Deity?

Or are they spirits made to keep

The watch of earth when mortals sleep;

Or rich gems strown in upper air,

To make the path of Godhead fair?

What are they? Truth, my thoughts control;
Thou hast the worship of my soul;

To thee I lift the inquiring eye-
Tell me, what are those fires on high?
Perchance they're studs of silver, driven
Over the ether gates of heaven,
To make them beautiful and bright,
When angels close them for the night.
Or do their lights a heaven reveal,
As through eternal space they steal,
Imparting their benignant power,
Upon our dark defenceless hour?
Or are they substances sublime,
Of every virtue told by Time;
Shedding sweet influence by their beams,
Until we know what goodness seems;

Thus to the moral world revealing,

Truths, from Truth's bright fountain stealing.

What are they? Earthly sages say
They're worlds, and flaming suns of day,
Rolling in everlasting space,

Where distance hath no resting-place!
They say, round each fix'd orb of fire
Roll planets in one ceaseless choir;
That the eternal heaven is rife
With teeming beauty, throbbing life;
That 'bove the stars that look on earth,
Systems of other worlds have birth.
Thus skies on skies in glory gaze,
Triumphant through the wide amaze!

Here Fancy comes, her useless wing
Comes back with feeble fluttering;
Thought ponders o'er the wide abyss,
And weeps to own how frail she is ;
And the soul, like a prison'd bird,
Alas! for flight has vainly stirr'd.
When shall she range unfetter'd, free,
The starry halls of Deity?

CHARLOTTE CAYME.

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"I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes
Where the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

"From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain-
They are sweeping on to the silvery main;
They are flashing down from the mountain brows;
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs;
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves."

FELICIA HEMANS.

March is noted in song and proverb for the boisterous winds which usually visit us during its continuance: dry, cold, piercing blasts differing both from those of the Autumnal equinox, and of the Winter quarter. Sexagenarians and invalids shrink from them, bewailing such severity; yet to us there is something delightfully inspiriting in that very wildness. They are not less attendants of Spring than are the lengthened days and increased sunshine; and as they rush onwards with irresistible might, we fancifully may regard them as the actual steeds of his impetuous chariot.

Find reader, if you can, some lee spot, greencarpeted and prankt with early daisies and buttercups, where, notwithstanding the partial shelter, your mantle is almost torn away every minute thence watch the trees tossing their grey arms about like a host of enraged giants, shrieking meanwhile, apparently in useless anger; or gaze upwards into the infinite depths of heaven, which never seem so profound as when

low masses of heavy clouds go racing with inconceivable swiftness over them--whilst far above other white vapours rest almost unmoved-and farther, farther still, beyond the reach of storms and the comprehension of man, the clear azure lies-the visible face of heaven: gaze, we say, upon these things, and surrender yourself to the meditations they must induce, and you will never chide the March winds because they are rude.

According to the calendar, Spring commences on the twenty-first; but in our northern latitudes, although his first steps have fallen on the mountains, he can hardly be said as yet to abide with us. Still a mighty change is visible on the face of Nature. Except on loftiest summits, the snows have chiefly vanished, and a return, if it chances, will only be momentary until Winter next arrives. The Winter birds have bade us farewell, and our Summer visitors begin to appear; whilst many songsters, long silent, become vocal, adding their voices to the first glad

notes of Spring's jubilant hymn, that goes on from this hour increasing, till it bursts into the full chorus of joy and praise.

The forest trees are putting forth leaf-buds rapidly; those glorious green buds which all, possessed of any taste, so greatly admire. Many likewise flower, showing blossoms not gaudy but exquisite. We fear few, even of the professed admirers of Nature, carefully examine these most beautiful productions. Grass begin to grow fast, particularly on lowland meadows, where woods, forming a defensive screen from northern winds, enable the sunbeams to exercise a greatly increased power; and in such places it is very sweet to walk, listening to the bird-songs, and admiring-not pulling the first flowers as they lie cradled amid sheltering leaves, like an infant smiling in its mother's lap. To them come honey-bees, whose ceaseless toil seems pleasure, with a soft incessant hum; and butterflies rest perpetually on them-voyagers through the sea of air, folding their wings at golden islands. In hill streams and deep rivers fishes are seen sporting, as blissful in a dense, heavy element, as we in our more subtle one. So the angler goes forth to prove that there is subjection throughout creation, and that MAN is lord of all.

An ecstatic spirit is diffused abroad; a general perception and participation of gladness. Well might the laurelled poet sing :—

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Our gardens now display a number of graceful and showy flowers; amongst which the hyacinths are peculiarly conspicuous, from their great beauty and various colours. Doubtless they have been much improved by culture since the days of Ovid; but for our own part we like to think them just the same, and never look upon them without recalling to mind the luckless youth Apollo unwittingly slew, and from whose blood, by his decree (so says the fable), the first hyacinth sprung:

"A lily's form it took; its purple hue

Was all that made a diff'rence to the view.
The god upon its leaves

The sad expression of his sorrow weaves;
And to this hour the mournful purple wears
Ai, Ai, inscribed in funeral characters."
Metamorphoses, book x.

We used to look for those characters, when a boy, fresh from the wonders of the Metamorphoses, not only on account of poor Hyacinthus, but because the poet had also written how, after Ajax stabbed himself when denied the armour of

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Thy silken curls, thine eyes of violet hue, Thy careless mirth and open fearless brow, In this sad lonely blighted heart renew,

Blest days when I was innocent as thou.

Fain would I bend to meet thy proffer'd kiss, Fain would I clasp thee to this aching breast; But prudence bids me shun the fatal bliss,

Such love as mine is better far repress'd.

Scarce dare I breathe a blessing on thy head,

At morn's bright dawn and purple eve's decline; A soul whose holiest sympathies are dead Should hold aloof from spotless ones like thine.

Gaily thou smil'st, unheedful of my sorrow;
No torturing cares thy happy heart molest!
Ah! I would gladly meet my doom to-morrow,
Could'st thou through life remain thus calmly blest.

But well I know dark rumours of my shame

Will early cloud thy brow and dim thy joy; Thou'lt blush to hear thy hapless mother's name, And learn to hate th' unwelcome sound, my boy.

Many will speak of my degrading death,

Will bid thee shun my path of infamy; But none will add, till I resign'd my breath My life was one long anxious thought of thee.

Yet now, ere childhood's glow hath pass'd away,

Ere duty's chains from thy young heart be riven; Oh! kneel mine own with clasped hands, and pray Thou may'st be sav'd from guilt, and I forgiven.

Ramsgate, January 8, 1848.

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