The unostentatious, and apparently obscure holes and corners in which an enormous amount of business of different kinds is transacted, surprise one accustomed to the splendid counting-houses of provincial men of business.

Let his business call him to the office of a leading stockbroker: after threading his way through devious lanes and alleys, he arrives at a cul de sac, where a crib, more like a cobbler's bulk than a place of business, marked with the names of BULL, BEAR, & Co., indicates the place of business of that great firm. Entering, you find there is hardly room to turn round; a little railed inclosure, lighted by four oiled-paper-panes of glass, divides the crib; files of prices of home and foreign stocks, railway shares, and scrip, are suspended, in lieu of decorations, from the walls; a wooden clock, slowly ticking, solemnly warns us of the value of time, in a place where stocks rise or fall one-eighth per cent. per hour; an elderly gentleman, with an anxious investing face, seated on a box, is perusing, spectacles on nose, the money-article in a morning paper.

Your business is investment or speculation, no matter which. Mr. Bull, the man of parts of the firm, a cheerful, agreeable man, of good manner and address, takes your pleasure upon the subject. You inquire the price of certain stocks; Mr. Bull informs you, professionally, that he will "feel the pulse of the market." He disappears for that purpose; you amuse yourself, meanwhile, in attending to the remarks of the elderly gentleman, who deplores the abundance of money, with very much the same melancholy air with which we ourselves have often deplored its scarcity. Mr. Bear, the man of business, raising his head from the desk, and popping his chin over the railing, assures Mr. Muck-worm that money is a drug -a mere drug, that times neevr were so bad; and sorrowfully remarking, that he has an hundred thousand pounds lying idle at his banker's, buries his chin and his sorrow behind the railing.

At short intervals inquisitive heads are poked through the halfopened door into the crib, and the mode of salutation struck us as rather amusing. "How's Bolano's Scrip?" "How 's Spanish Actives?" "Portuguese Bonds stirring ?"-and other inquiries of the like nature, to which Mr. Bear, without raising his head, replies in figurative language, and the heads are immediately withdrawn.

A young lady makes her appearance, accompanied by her solicitor, and an exceedingly sweet-smelling, Adonis-like young gentleman. The lady is veiled, and so remains, a chair with difficulty having been poked from behind the railing for her accommodation. The solicitor and the man of civet, getting on either side of Mr. Bear, hold a sotto voce conversation. We can only catch a few broken phrases, of which "twenty-five thousand,” “in name of Mr. Alonzo Frederick Augustus Gubbins," "Court of Chancery," "Three-anda-Half," "marriage-settlement," "separate use," "India Bonds," "Long Annuities," "issue," are frequently repeated.

This happy pair having withdrawn, Mr. Bull returns from feeling the pulse of the market. He still preserves professional language, so that he might pass almost as much for a physician as a stockbroker. The market, he says, is feverish to-day; there is a "flush" of buyers, and sellers are firm; would recommend your waiting a few days, when he expects a crisis, and prices, he thinks, will become more natural.

OLD QUEEN JEANNE OF PAU.

BY LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

IN the Basse Plante of the town of Pau, which is an open grove, extending between the castle and the promenade called the Park, there is, on one side, not far from the baths of Henri Quatre and the fountain, a small cottage, where lived an old widow, named Jeanne. She had one son; but he had been away from her almost ever since he was grown up, first to serve in Napoleon's army, and since that, being married, and settled in Paris, she had rarely seen him, and none of her neighbours had done so at all, for the few visits he had paid her were secret, and no one knew of his arrival till he was gone.

Jeanne was a very singular person at all times; but of late years a notion possessed her brain that she was no less a personage than the Queen of Navarre herself, and that the castle belonged to her as a right. She had allowed this thought so to take possession of her mind that she was accustomed to dress herself in a costume as near that of Jeanne d'Albret as she could devise, and, seating herself by the mouth of the enormous well in the castle-yard, she would remain for hours answering the questions of strangers relative to the building, and detailing all the circumstances of the life of Henry Quatre so minutely that it was difficult to imagine she had not lived at the period she described. She never related the event of his death without the deepest emotion; and so agonised was she at times that she inspired pity. She always named him as her son, and spoke of his second wife, Marie de Medicis, with dislike, while his first, Marguerite, she merely named with regret.

She was a Catholic, and treated with great scorn the legends which are rife of Jeanne d'Albret having caused her Catholic subjects who would not conform to the new religion, to be imprisoned and starved in a tower, which is still shown.

"This tower," she would say, "which to all appearance has no opening, has indeed a dungeon never yet explored, and there many fearful secrets lie hid; but no victims were ever there immured by me, although if I chose to disclose facts, I could relate strange histories which I know, of what passed in its walls. There is only one person, however, to whom I am permitted to tell a certain secret, and give a certain treasure which I have found here, and I wait at this well till he arrives. The time of his appearance is near, and for that reason I attend constantly on this spot, hoping to meet him. When I have once told the mystery my mission is accomplished, and Jeanne d'Albret will be seen no more. I am doomed to exist in the body till that moment, but then my purgatory ceases. I shall recognise him the moment his eyes meet mine, and he will at once know me, though we have not met since the fatal day when I drew on the embroidered gloves sent me by Queen Catherine."

Of course these conversations of the supposed Jeanne d'Albret were only listened to as the hallucinations of insanity by the greatest part of her hearers, nevertheless there were some on whom her earnest assertions made an impression, and she was generally looked upon with a certain respect, mingled with awe, by all classes.

This was at a time when recent troubles in Spain had filled the town of Pau with Spanish emigrants, and, according to the usual hospitality of the English, who are the chief residents there, and have all the finest hotels, they were received and assisted with the greatest kindness and liberality.

One night there was a great assembly in the Rue du College, where all the most fashionable society was united. The rooms were very much crowded, for most of the guests had arrived, when there was a sudden sensation, produced by a whisper that a stranger was entering. All eyes were turned to the doors as they flew open, and the servants announced Don Juan Lehonza.

A tall, graceful Spaniard entered, with a very distinguished air and manner; and, as he made his bow to the mistress of the house, everyone was struck with the dignity of his deportment; he would have been very handsome but for a pallid hue which overspread his countenance, and in spite of his beautiful features rendered his face in some lights almost ghastly. He appeared to converse very little, and only in Spanish, which he spoke with the peculiar accent of the Basque provinces. After a time he approached the pianoforte, and sat down to the instrument. Scarcely had he struck a chord before he had convinced all the listeners that he was master of a most extraordinary talent. His execution was amazing, and his taste fascinating. As he played, his face lighted up with animation, and his dark eyes were brilliant to a dazzling degree. He seemed quite absorbed in his subject, and presently, in a manner quite unexpected, joined his voice to the music, whose sweetness thrilled the hearts of his auditors. He sang in the Basque language, to one of those strange, wild, moaning airs which remind one of the mournful laments of the Irish: the words had the following meaning, as far as their tenor could be understood.

Fly from me, fly! the bright stars shine.
But mark! amongst them is not mine!
The trembling leaves of yonder rose,
If thou but touch them will unclose,
But there I dare not turn my eye,
For at my with'ring glance they die.

The waves of Fate have o'er me roll'd;
My star has set; my doom is told.
The rocks of Destiny are dark,
And lurk to crush my fragile bark:
The surges sweep; the storm is high;
The bolt has fall'n,-fly from me, fly!

There was something so solemn and fearful in the style of his singing that a shudder ran through the company, and as he ended a shriek was heard, and one of the ladies sank fainting from her chair. She was taken into the balcony, where a magnificent moonlight scene was spread out far and wide. The extensive gardens of the hotel descended a long slope, which was terminated by the murmuring waters of the rushing Gave, that foamed and leaped over its rocky bed with a ceaseless sound, and now sparkled with the reflexion of innumerable stars, so large and distinct in the transparent blue sky of the south, that each one seemed a cluster of diamonds on fire, while the snow-mountains in the distance gleamed like giant shadows. The air soon recovered the fainting lady, whose emotion had so much overcome her, and she endeavoured to shake off the nervousness which had occasioned her ill

ness.

"It is strange," said she, "but to-day I had a long talk with old Jeanne d'Albret of the castle well, and she told me I should meet with something to-night which would have an influence on my future life. The awful tone of this stranger, and his peculiar countenance, so im

pressed me while hearing him sing, that I imagined he possessed some spell over me, and I became so terrified that I could support myself no longer. Who is he? We have never seen him before to-night."

"He is," replied the lady of the house, "a Spaniard of noble birth, obliged to quit his country, and, in fact, in such haste that he is destitute of everything, and he exerts his magnificent talent now, in order to support himself. It is very sad; but till better times arrive I fear it will be the case with many of his countrymen. He is of Guipuscoa, but has served in all parts of Spain, and is, as you see, a very distinguished man."

The young lady who had been so much affected sighed, and expressed her commiseration for his position, and, as she did so, to her surprise, she beheld him at her side in the garden. He bowed, and appeared greatly distressed at the effect his singing had produced, and became most eloquent in apology. His young admirer seemed by no means difficult to appease, and they were from these circumstances naturally led to converse with less reserve than first acquaintances generally do, so that by the end of the evening they had established an intimacy.

Therese de Mellin was from Provins, in Champagne, that antique and beautiful city of the red rose of Palestine, said to have been first introduced there by the troubadour, Count Thibault. There is something altogether eastern about this most singular place, and the character of its inhabitants is said to be different from that of the natives of other parts of France. They are sentimental, and indolent, and inclined to romance, as their fondness for their native roses seem to declare, as well as the delight they take in hearing the nightingale, which is said really to sing better in the groves of Provins than anywhere else.

There was something a little mysterious in her position; she had come to Pau for health, and was accompanied by an elderly gentleman and his wife, Monsieur and Madame Jubert, who were her guardians. She appeared to have a fortune, but no one knew precisely to what family she belonged. She was about eighteen, and very beautiful, and the affection which subsisted between her and her guardians seemed very tender.

Therèse was remarkably sensitive to outward impressions, was timid to an almost painful degree in trifles, though at times she showed resolution which surprised those accustomed to see her nervous agitations. She had a leaning to superstition, had great faith in miracles, and was a convert to the belief in mesmerism, then much in vogue.

Lehonza was just the sort of person to make an impression on such a mind, and in his presence she allowed herself to imagine that she felt an irresistible fascination, which she attributed to an inward sympathy, and when she found that his belief and impressions on all mystical subjects accorded with hers, the attraction was complete.

After the time of their first meeting, Lehonza was scarcely ever seen absent from the chair of Therèse at all the parties where they both appeared; and when he played and sang she had no ears or eyes for any other. It was evident to all that they were attached, and to her father the conviction brought anything but happiness, as he dreaded to control her wishes, yet he would by no means have desired such a son-in-law.

Pau is a place where the search after amusement never tires, and