proudly. "No, Sir knight," she said, "I dare not claim a reward for performing so slight an act of courtesy."

Sir Grey looked surprised; this was scarcely the language or the sentiments of a poor servant girl. "Who and what are you?" he asked.

certain that he saw her steal her hand to her eyes, and wipe them with the corner of her apron. The recollection of this incident softened his heart towards her as he rode on. Psha," he said occasionally, "she has neither birth nor beauty-she is a poor servant girl, too much honoured by a look of mine-unwor

"Well, my poor girl," said the knight, descending from his horse, "I cannot go without making you some slight acknowledgment of my obligation;" and, suddenly approaching her, before she could resist or prevent him, he kissed her cheek. By most girls in her station at that time, this, from a person like Sir Grey, would have been considered as a mark of honour, and as such it was intended; but it was not so received. Extricating herself from his arms, she started back, and raising her eyes reproachfully for one moment, dashed from them the tears of anger and mortification, and with the speed and lightness of a chamois, darted to the miller's cottage, which without one backward look she entered hastily, closing the door behind her. Half mortified, half laughing at the repulse and the flight, Sir Grey remounted his steed, and proceeded on his way, occasionally gazing behind at the cottage, but no human being was to be seen either in or near it. The sun had now set; the evening was rapidly closing in, and when, at a turning of the road, he lost sight both of the mill and the house, he urged on his horse, intending, by taking a slight circuit, to pass the abbey grounds on his way home. The knight glanced carefully around him as he went, half expecting the female to appear who was to restore to him his ring, and as he passed one sturdy looking woman, he almost checked his horse, in the belief that it must be her, but she moved on, scarcely noticing him, and he arrived at Bromley Pleasance without any further adventure, and almost convinced that the stars, or their interpreter, had deceived him.

Naturally the subject frequently occurred to his mind, and as naturally brought with it the image of the maid of the mill, and somehow, notwithstanding her want of beauty, there was something very pleasing to Sir Grey in the recollection; her quick blushes, gentle demeanour, and her hurried flight from his gallant acknowledgment, interested him more and more in her favour; and, in short, in a few days after, he again passed the ford of the abbey mill, and halted to recruit his horse on the bank just in view of the cottage door. It was morning; the mill was at work, and he had satisfied himself that the damsel was nowhere to be seen, when a voice behind him arrested his attention by the repetition of his name he turned quickly round, and recognised in the speaker the maid of the mill. Uttering an involuntary exclamation of surprise, he inquired what she had to say. "Sir Grey Mervyn," she replied, with a firm voice but varying cheek, "I pray your pardon for the freedom of disturbing your knightly thoughts, but I have a commission to restore to you a ring which was found in Stepney church last Christmas day; it bears your crest. Sir knight, I take you to witness I have fulfilled my trust." Sir Grey received the ring in mute astonishment, and the girl was hurrying away, when he suddenly called on her to stop-she obeyed. "One word," he craved; "where did you find this ring?"

“That, Sir knight, signifies not; you have it; is not that enough ?" "Not quite. Tell me, fair maid, do you know the fortune due to the finder ?" The girl drew back with a raised colour, as if fearing a repetition of his former mode of acknowledgment. "No, no," he cried, with some vexation, detecting the suspicion, "no more of that." Blushing still more deeply, she was again departing, when the knight added, "though I may be inclined to punish you with a kiss if you refuse me an answer."

Once more the girl cast on him a bright glance, in which pride and reproach were mingled. "Is it worthy, Sir Grey de Mervyn," she demanded, "to repay service by insult ?"

"Insult, call you it, damsel? Sir Grey de Mervyn reserves such treatment for his foes and his equals. I thank you for my ring, and bid you farewell." And without waiting for her answer, the knight urged his horse, and rode off. When he had reached the turn of the road, he looked back-he could not refrain-there stood the maid, still fondly gazing after him, and he perceived that when he was recognised she turned quickly away, and walked towards the cottage, and the knight was nearly

destiny which the events that transpired had applied to her. And day after day did his mind continue to dwell upon her, and his heart to be occupied by her image. Sometimes it was with abhorrence and contempt that he recalled the past, sometimes with a softer feeling, that he would fain even to himself have denied. But all, at least most, impressions wear away, and at the end of a few weeks little was left of Sir Grey's besides curiosity; and the mill ford he determined never to pass again. To the abbey ground, however, there appeared no objection; the mill servant was scarcely likely to be found wandering there; yet that spot was included in the sage's warning, and, therefore, partook of its attractions, and there he determined to seek his fate further.

There was a part of the abbey grounds, beyond the inclosure, sacred to its inhabitants, which was intersected by foot-paths in several directions, and along one of these Sir Grey was wandering one glowing summer's noon, having left his horse to the care of a servant, in the high road. The luxuriant grass was here and there shadowed by large aged trees, and Sir Grey was passing one of these with a slow, measured step, when he suddenly stood rivetted on hearing a female voice singing a plaintive melody. The words were simple and expressive of the sorrows of ambitious love, and they were uttered with a feeling that seemed to appropriate them. The knight stood to listen; when the song was finished there was a gentle sigh, and he was almost certain that it was his own name that was breathed in a whisper. For honour or curiosity he could listen no longer; he therefore advanced to the other side of the tree, and at once discovered the damsel of the mill ford. On recognising him, a shrill scream escaped her, and starting up with a pale face and trembling limbs, she turned quickly round and bore away with her utmost speed, spite of the knight's repeated calls and entreaties for her return, till, reaching a gap in the edge, her foot stumbled against the root of a tree, and she fell into the ditch. Sir Grey flew towards her, deeply alarmed as he perceived that she made no effort to rise, and on reaching the place he found her lying apparently stunned in the ditch, which was fortunately dry. Raising her gently up, he hesitated for a moment what course to adopt; there was no creature within call, no house within sight, and still she lay insensible. He lifted her in his arms, and hastened by the nearest path to the mill ford, but just as he arrived within view of the cottage, she faintly sighed, and, opening her eyes, fixed them upon the knight with an unquiet glance that gradually became conscious; the blood burned in her cheek, and she struggled to release herself. "Can you stand?" he earnestly inquired; she sighed a hasty affirmative, and, regaining her feet, offered hurried thanks and apologies, and was proceeding towards the cottage, when the knight called upon her to stay. The air and tone with which he spoke were those of cool command, and though still trembling, she turned towards him with an answering calmness. Pointing to the trunk of a tree that lay near Sir Grey, he bade her be seated; she hesitated, and he repeated the injunction, adding, “you are still faint, damsel, and I have somewhat to say." She sank on the seat pointed out, and, with her head bowed down and her hands folded on her knees, listened with fear and agitation to the address of the knight. "I asked you when you restored the ring if you knew the fortune due to the finder-most solemnly do I again demand a reply. Look down to the dust you must return to; look up to the blue sky, the type of the heaven you hope for, and so answer as you would rise from the one and gain the other-Speak."

The maid did look up, but it was into the face of the speaker, with an expression of awe and astonishment. "I know nothing of your ring, Sir knight," she said, "beyond my commission to restore it. Why should you ask so trifling a question thus solemnly?"

The earnest, unconscious look, and the quick, unembarrassed voice, could not be doubted. Sir Grey smiled faintly, and again the maiden drooped her eyes. "I will tell you; it is because the stars have decreed that the hand that restored that ring should be

joined with mine at the altar. No! remain yet awhile-I am not jesting with you; so have the stars decreed. I have believed it impossible-I have resisted, but fate is too strong for me, and desperately, perhaps not quite unwillingly, I submit; what is

your name ?

She had buried her face in her hands, and in the rush of contending emotions that throbbed in her heart and brain, sat speechless. The knight repeated the question, and at length she answered faintly and tremblingly, "Geva Balrane."

"Geva!" said the knight, "hold forth thy hand. Dost thou hear me, damsel ?" he repeated, as, hurt at his cool tone and ashamed to obey, she only bowed lower her head. "I command thee as thy superior and as thy destined husband, hold forth thy hand."

Geva arose from her seat, and, averting her face, replied with a firm low voice, "Your words so spoken, Sir knight, are insult. I pray you let me go."

"And how, damsel, should I speak them, if not thus ?" said Sir Grey with a bitter laugh. "Is it not sufficient that my hand and honour must be linked with those of a poor servant girl, but I must crouch, and cringe, and speak smoothly, as if wooing mine equal? Damsel, know thyself-remember what thou art and

what I am."

Geva turned her face towards him, now pale as death. "Sir Grey de Mervyn," she said, haughtily, "I do remember that I am a woman, one of that sex your knightly vow compels you to protect, and your feelings as a man to respect. I have not forfeited my claim to either, and if you believe me destined to another title, surely it is one that should consecrate both."

As she spoke the blood rushed to her cheek and brow, and she rose to leave. Her appeal aroused the better and more tender feelings of the knight.

"You are right, Geva," he said, advancing towards her with extended hand; "pardon me-you cannot comprehend the struggle between love and pride, yet hast thou, humble as thou art, a noble nature. Pardon me!" He took her hand gently as he spoke, but she suddenly gazed in his face, her flushed cheek wet with tears, and, bowing her head, lifted his hand to her brow for one moment, then dropping it hastily, she bounded away, and reaching the cottage, entered, and was lost to sight.

(To be concluded in our next)

THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF TIME-Time and change are great only with reference to the faculties of the beings which note them. The insect of an hour, which flutters during its transient existence in an atmosphere of perfume, would attribute unchanging duration to the beautiful flowers of the cistus, whose petals cover the dewy grass but a few hours after it has received the lifeless body of the gnat. These flowers, could they reflect, might contrast their transitory lives with the prolonged existence of their greener neighbours. The leaves themselves, counting their brief span by the lapse of a few moons, might regard as almost indefinitely extended the duration of the common parent of both leaf and flower. The lives of individual trees are lost in the continued destruction and renovation which take place in forest masses. Forests themselves, starved by the exhaustion of the soil, or consumed by fire, succeed each other in slow gradation. A forest of oaks waves its luxuriant branches over a spot which has been fertilised by the ashes of a forest of pines. These periods again merge into other and still longer cycles, during which the latest of a thousand forests sinks beneath the waves, from the gradual subsidence of its parent earth; or in which extensive inundations, by accumulating the silt of centuries, gradually convert the living trunks into their stony resemblances. Stratum upon stratum subsides in comminuted particles, and is accumulated in the depths of the ocean, whence they again rise, consolidated by pressure or by fire, to form the continents and mountains of a new creation. These periods are vast; but, when the birth, the progress, and the history of sidereal systems are considered, we require some other unit of time than even that comprehensive one which astronomy has unfolded to our view. Minute and almost infinitesimal as is the time which comprises the history of our race, compared with that which records the history of our system, the space even of this latter period forms too limited a standard wherewith to measure the footmarks of eternity.

THE ABSURDITIES OF THE LAW.

AN able correspondent, whose name we do not feel warranted in giving, has so candidly commented on the disgraceful and absurd law which makes it penal for a person to practise astrology, that we have been induced to give a portion of his letter for the benefit and probable co-operation of our readers. He says:

"Believing you, sir, to be a strong advocate for astral doctrines, I have been induced to suggest the propriety of your offering a few remarks in the pages of "THE ASTROLOGER" respecting the British Association for Astral Science, &c. I have no doubt but that you will concur with me in this opinion, that, before astrology can be placed upon a respectable footing, and in a flourishing condition, its professors must be freed from the iron hand of the law. It is a disgrace to any civilised nation that laws should be in existence prohibiting a man from pursuing a study founded on mathematical and philosophical principles, and which some of the most learned of all ages have honoured with their attention. One would hardly imagine that in a country like England, professing so much liberty of conscience and freedom of intellect and opinion, there could be a law in existence to punish a person for studying astral doctrines: this law places the intelligent mathematical calculator of a nativity upon the same footing as the strolling gipsy impostor. It is to provide means of defence in legal cases that the British Association has been formed; and it is now the intention of the committee to have the subject formally argued before Lord Chief Justice Denman and three other judges, as to whether the existing law is intended to include in it the professors of astrology. Therefore, I do hope that all the publicity will be given that possibly can to the subject, that those who are friends to freedom of intellect may give a donation or become subscribers to the association, and thereby assist so just a cause. The promotion of truth has ever been a great principle with me, and for this reason I have ever been a ready advocate for astrology. Notwithstanding the frequent calumny and ridicule that I have been assailed with, these have not debarred me from publicly discussing the question of planetary influence at debating societies, and lecturing on astrology at literary institutions. I created to myself, I have no doubt, many enemies; but, at the same time, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I struggled for the cause of truth, and that many converts were gained, and that I can now see around me several persons actively pursuing the study of astrology who would never have given the subject a thought had it not been for these means.

"Trusting you will pardon the liberty of my suggestion, and feeling assured, from your style of writing, that you have a desire to place the science of astrology on its proper footing, I beg that you will take notice of these remarks in any way your judgment may suggest.

P.S.-I think, Sir, that some of the professors of astrology, in writing on Sir Robert Peel's nativity for April, 1845, have laid too much stress on the transit of Saturn, omitting to take into account the sextile of Jupiter, which will, I have no doubt, greatly mitigate the evil influence of Saturn."

This benific aspect, and the supposition drawn therefrom, are perfectly correct, and we fully coincide in the opinion advanced by our intelligent and friendly contributor.

LEAVES OF LEGENDARY LORE.

No. III. THE ASTROLOGER'S BRIDE. By ANTIQUARIUS.

CHAP. II.

Angry as was the knight with his very perception of the truth of her representation, the irritation with which he received it increased, and the more he dwelt on the subject the more irritated he became, till at length, determined to break through the trammels of fate and fancy, he dismissed his servant, and proceeded rapidly along the banks of the river Lea, on his way to the mill. He had arrived within sight of it, and was beginning to recollect the difficulties of meeting with her he sought without making the matter a subject for general gossip, when, in a female engaged in lading water from the river, he recognised the damsel of the mill. He watched her as she filled her pail, and carried it, with some exertion, to the top of the bank; she then set it down to rest, and at this juncture he advanced, and addressed her by name. She turned, half frightened, as she recognised the voice, and still more so as she caught his stern and angry look; she grew ghastly pale, and tears trembled in her eyes, which were immediately cast down; but Sir Grey was in no mood to be moved by tears, and hers only increased his ire. "Geva," he cried, "I have told you that a blind fate has doomed me to the degradation of wedding you, a poor servant girl-so let fate declare; but let it match my will if it can; and for this ring," he continued, taking it from his finger, "whose restoration had given thee such a claim, bring it to me again, and then, and not till then, will I wed thee." And as he spoke he threw it into one of the deepest parts of the river.

no less than thirteen stars in different constellations have totally perished, and that ten new ones have been created. The positions which these stars occupied in the heavens have become blanks, and thus that fate which has befallen other systems may ultimately attend our own. The fall of those heavy fragments of earth, which we have learned to call wrolites, may be cited as another striking proof of the existence of these shattered memorials of a ruined world, which, circulating round the sun, encounter the earth in its orbit, and, being drawn towards it by attraction, become ignited upon entering the atmosphere, in consequence of their velocity, and are the ærolites, shooting stars, and meteoric appearances, which have been so constantly observed in all ages and all countries; one, which travelled within twentyfive miles of the surface, and cast down only a fragment, was proved to weigh nearly a million of tons, moving through our atmosphere at the rate of twenty miles per second. In November, when our earth seems more nearly to approach in its orbit these mighty relics of a perished globe, we have annually seen coruscations of surpassing brilliancy flashing athwart the heavens in every direction, probably from their opacity reflecting at that point, the light of the sun, and shining with the lustre of scattered stars. These are the remains of the Ruined World to which we have adverted. All other suppositions concerning their origin have been gradually proved erroneous; and this startling explanation of the fall of meteoric stones has the sanction of the most eminent modern geologists and astronomers. What, then, was the cause that led to this world's destruction? Who were its inhabitants? Had their progress towards the perfection of the arts and sciences been interrupted or completed? These are questions which, however difficult to solve, will force themselves the consideration of every thinking mind. Nay, was this the world on which the first stages of our being were passed the preparatory ordeal to fit us for our existence here, as this earth is but the precursor of happier and eternal ones hereafter? Who shall decide? We know that, to employ the emphatic language of Shakspere,

upon

"The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve."

And are we, then, but coining images from Fancy's mind when we thus pierce into the misty past, and penetrate the arcanum of the ANTE? No; reason and revelation alike teach us to believe what has been wILL BE; and thus literally finding sermons in stones," we may contemplate with instructive awe these mighty fragments of a shattered and ruined world.

CULTIVATION OF THE MIND.-To a mind properly disposed to contemplate the works of nature, no portion of creation is indifferent. In the crowded city and the howling wilderness, in the cultivated province and solitary isle, in the flowery lawn and craggy mountain, in the murmur of the rivulet and in the uproar of the ocean, in the radiance of summer and the gloom of winter, in the thunder of heaven and the whispering of the breeze, man still finds something to rouse, excite, or soothe his imagination, to draw forth his affections, or to employ his understanding. And from every mental energy that is not attended with pain, and even from some of those that are, as moderate terror and pity, a sound mind derives satisfaction, exercise being equally necessary to the body and the soul, and to both being equally productive of health, gratification, and pleasure.

Geva stood in silent dismay, overborne by the knight's passionate impetuosity. "I sought you not, Sir knight," at length she said, in low and faltering tones. "Heaven forgive you for bruising a broken spirit.'

Sir Grey, in his wrath, scarcely heard the words she spoke. "Yet once more," he cried, " and I have done. If you would not draw down my heaviest curse upon you, and the sternest punishment my power can inflict, never again appear before me; never, never again let me see your face, unless, indeed," he added, with a bitter laugh, "unless you can bring in your hand the ring that now lies deep in the river Lea. Till then, farewell!" And, turning suddenly his steed, he rode rapidly towards Bromley, and was soon out of sight, while Geva, throwing herself on the grass, wept till she was exhausted, the tears of passion, shame, and remorse.

ment.

We now pass to another scene, and enter a road-side inn, between London and Barking, and in its low spacious kitchen we find Geva diligently employed in the operation of cooking. There was a substantial round of beef roasting before the fire, and she was making the spiced pudding that was to complete the dinner, when Matthew, the waiter, rushed in, in a state of great excite"Oh, cook! cook!" he cried, "What's to be done? here's a grand gentleman, such as rarely visits the Bell and Platter, all velvet, lace, and feathers, with two servants coming, and he's in the very act of slipping through our fingers, and all because we hav'nt any fish; he hates roast beef, abominates spiced pudding, and even turns up his nose at a chicken. He wants fish, and fish he will have, if he goes to the Stars and Rushlight for it. "He must go, then," said Geva, quietly, "for there isn't even a herring in the house."

"Go!" exclaimed Matthew, "you be hanged for a goose; what do you mean ?-won't it ruin the reputation of our house? I say, cook," he went on, changing his tone, "don't you think you could coax up summat to look like fish ?-do, and I'll swear it's a new 'un just invented."

"No, I can't," replied Geva, "bnt, perhaps you can get some at East Ham."

"You might be a witch, cook," interrupted Matthew, who had been looking out of the window; "here comes Giles Sparrow himself, with a basket full of fish, I'll warrant."

At this moment the landlady entered, in a fever of anxiety on the same score. "A papist! a rampant papist, I'll engage," she bawled, "with his fish on a Friday. Why can't he take up with