ing, by a free translation, "a place for handsome the house required no other sign, everybody, except- | said of the two Greek polysyllables,-the one meaning such as ourselves, knew "The Porcupine." Matters are very differently ordered in Scotland. Every successive landlord brings his own sign with him, so that a house, if it be long used for a "public," in course of time fits on as many names as a modern swindler. In many cases, however, pictorial signs are despised; the words, " Foreign and British Spirits," following the name, are considered to be quite sufficient for all ordinary purposes. Occasionally a more aspiring landlord ventures to add, "Entertainment for Man and Beast;" not meaning, however, to insinuate that Foreign and British Spirits are to be understood as the one and the other. Our town landlords, in departing from the stock signs, cannot be complimented on the display of a much superior taste, although occasionally they also show wit: the following appearing in a Manchester pane of glass: "Fine Old Tom, twopence per smack"-Anglice, gin at twopence a glass. We also meet with a Waverley, a Byron, or a Sir Walter Scott Tavern ; but far oftener with a Sam Weller, a Victoria, or an Albert-indeed the profusion of the last mentioned is somewhat notorious. It may be meant as an expression of loyalty; but foreigners would be disposed to think it more like an illustration of toadyism-an embodiment of that worship for rank and wealth for which, as a nation, it is said that we are distinguished. Chimney sweeps give their grim patronage to the fine arts. They generally delight to exhibit on their sign boards a representation of a biped, dressed in an excessively bright blue coat, carrying a ladder on his shoulder, and followed by a couple of young soetbags, proceeding, by a very tortuous path, towards a house, meant to represent a gentleman's country residence, from which the smoke appears to be ascending in an exceedingly pleasant manner, betokening very absurdly no need of the able services of the sable artificer. One of these worthies, in the city of St Mungo, in addition to the usual pictorial embellishments, has his board garnished with the following effusion: Thomson Blak, he do live here, To sweep your chimneys not to deere; Hell put them out at your desire, More laconic than this was the following, which we Surely they're fools who would endure Another which we shall give, and for which we are were these lines, If Absalom had worn a wig, He ne'er had hung upon a twig. Of late years, shopkeepers have pressed into their service every high-sounding word which they thought would suit their purpose; consequently emporiums, marts, repositories, saloons, galleries, &c., have multiplied exceedingly. Still more recently cosmocapelions," "pantechnethecas," and other jaw-breaking and tongue-torturing words have been added to the collection; and were it not that the infliction has come gradually upon us, we would be startled to find ourselves in such imposing company. In some instances the intelligible part of these fine titles are ludicrously misapplied, which cannot however be : Haberdasher and Grocer. Licensed for Tea and Besides these matters, the gentleman also dealt in butcher meat, stationery, and toys. This reminds us of one of these general dealers "Willie a' things," as they are called in Scotland, who kept a shop in a small country town on the borders. He dealt in all imaginable, and not a few unimaginable things, and prided himself not a little on the variety and completeness of his stock. On one occasion a gentleman of the town made a bet with a stranger that he could not take Willie at a loss for any portable article, no matter what it might be. The wager was made, and the party proceeded to the shop to decide it. Accordingly, he demanded to be favoured with a coffin, and although this was almost the last article that might be expected in such a place, Willie did not appear to be at all non-plussed, but coolly dragged down from his garret a sable chest, which had by mistake been made of a wrong size. Messages run down this Closs at Sixpence an Hour by John Ross. Now we can imagine few things more hopeless than for Mr Ross to expect that he will find people so foolish as to employ him to run messages down a "closs" at the extravagant rate of sixpence an hour; if for no other reason than the gratification of the curious, he ought to mention whether he charges an extra rate when employed to run up "the closs." On shop in Edinburgh we noticed the following a few days ago, in all the glory and glitter of gilt letters a Dairy Butter and Weekly Eggs. THE TORCH. Of hen and duck eggs we have had some slight experience, but as regards "weekly" eggs we plead utter ignorance. We do think that were the party who makes this announcement to advertise for exhibition "a Live Weekly," he would be more successful than even the Irishman was with his wellknown exhibition of "a Worser." If he takes this hint we shall look for a complimentary ticket. But there is no end to the eccentricities of sign boards. They will tell us that John Milton is an undertaker; Samuel Johnson, a dealer in marine stores; Walter Scott, a carpenter; John Knox, a cork-cutter; David Hume, an umbrella-mender. Or they will furnish us with illustrations of "the fitness of things" by informing us, as at Bristol, that Mary Ann Halfyard is a milliner, or, as at Leith, that James Cows keeps a dairy. Of a surety the schoolmaster has been at work upon sign boards as at a labour of love, and that he has not forgotten himself by the way, let the following from the village of Halton Eastern, near Skipton-in-Craven, stand in evidenceWatkinson's Acadamy. Whatever Man has done, Man may do. also Dealer in Groceries, LE POISSON D'AVRIL. AN ORIGINAL TALE. BY FRANCES BROWN. Author of the "Star of Atteghei," &c. We know not by what institution of the golden age the first day of April was rendered sacred to Folly; but so it has been in the most remote times, and in widely-separated nations. The April Fool of our Saxon ancestors found its resemblance in Le Poisson d'Avril of their more polite, though not always friendly neighbours, of the continent. And it is a curious fact, that the Counts of Claroville, a noble house of Normandy, adopted as their arms a fish, with the April sobriquet as their motto, which circumstance is said to have originated in the following story. It was at the close of the desolating war of the League, when the Gallic land rested beneath the sceptre of him who still reigns in her songs-the gallant Henri Quatre -that Count Raymond de Claroville returned in peace to the ancient castle and wide domain of St Quintin, possessed in right of his lady, the only daughter and heiress of Philip, fifth Count de St Quintin, who fell fighting for King Henry at the siege of Rochelle. Count Raymond had also served the house of Navarre, though not a Huguenot; but his fortunes in the war had been varied, and often adverse; and now, when peace was come at last, he returned to the long deserted castle, to the great joy of his numerous vassals; for the large village of St Quintin was all his own, and even in those days the feudal rights were strong. But what was most strange, though the peasantry had been for many generations vassals of her house, small was their love for the Countess de Claroville. It was said that few of her dependants rejoiced to see They had been married sixteen years; but there was neither heir nor heiress to inherit the united estates of heavily on the mind of Lord Raymond, but seemed by Claroville and St Quintin-a circumstance which weighed no means regretted by his lady. There was a story among the old retainers that she had been an unwilling bride, and compelled by a threat of her father, who was bent on the match, that if she did not marry Lord Raymond he would will away her hereditary estate, agreeably to the terms of the contract made with the family of Count Claroville, when, according to the wisdom of "the good old times" they were affianced in their infancy; and whether it was that the lady's pride could not bear to be stript of so great a heritage, or that she disliked the convent, which was her only alternative, with great pomp and splendour at her father's castle, certain it is, that Count Raymond and she were married where she had reigned alone almost since the death of her mother, which occurred early. The Lady St Quintin had been of Spanish, or rather it was thought of Moorish, blood, and strongly attached to the Romish cause, which created many disputes between her and Count Philip, who had always been attached to the Huguenots and the honse of Navarre: yet an old confidential nurse, when dying, confessed that her mistress was a Saracen at heart, and had taught her daughter the same faith from ancient Arab books, which it was believed the lady studied oftener than her manual, though apparently a very rigid Catholic. The Countess Claroville, indeed, possessed much of the Eastern form and feature, which was said to distinguish her mother. She was tall and finely formed, but dark in complexion and age, and her locks had once been richly raven; but they had grown early dim and gray, and the expression of her countenance, though wondrous proud and stern, had at times a mixture of hopeless sorrow in it, as if for something loved and lost long ago, and sought for now in vain. There was indeed a whisper of an old love, known in her maiden days, and a youth whom she met in the woods of St Quintin, when her father was abroad at the wars, and she was queen of his castle; but who the lover was, or what was the end of their meetings, none could tell, for no vassal knew. But there was a forfeited life and lands by an act of treason, in slaying bold bandit, supposed to be a noble Breton, who had one of the royal foresters, and who consequently had gone with his sword to the woods and highways of Normandy, where his followers were many, and soon set both king and court at open defiance, living as they could through the troubled times of the League, the terror of the rich, and the protection of the poor. The bandit was shot at last in mortal fray with the armed retainers of the then young Count Claroville, who received King Henry's thanks for ridding him of such a troublesome subject. And some had linked the lady's name with that of the Breton bandit; but whether it was the memory of dear blood shed, or her mother's hidden faith, or her own professed attachment to the cause of Rome, and Count Raymond's leanings to the Huguenots, certain it was, she loved him not, and the count was a childless husband, and an heirless lord. Yet De Claroville was noble in weather had roughened and bronzed the once fair brow, birth and bearing, and comely still, though war and where time, or it might be care, which has often pressed so heavily under knightly helmets, had traced some early furrows beneath the dark brown hair. In youth, he had been known among the gayest gallants saw or wedded the heiress of St Quintin, there was one of his day, alike in list and banquet; and long before he in his father's castle, gay of heart and fair of face, though an orphan and a portionless maid, more loved than she with all her dark beauty and broad lands. But the family contract forbade their union, and the church had of Toulouse in earlier times, though they fought against banned their love (for the Clarovilles, like the good lord Rome, had never forsworn their faith). Ambrosine de to a distant convent in Provençe, her mother's country, Lavelle was his cousin. The girl retired in early youth and many wondered, for Ambrosine had not the heart of a nun, but she went suddenly, and died while yet a novice; and then Count Raymond went to the war, but returned just three years after, to wed his wealthy and affianced bride, whom, if he did not love, he seemed to care for more at least than she did for him. We know not if it were that his lady slighted, or his prince required his company; but Count Raymond's visits to his home had been but brief and few. The countess had never shared his perils, and now that he returned at last, she seemed not to share the joy of his arrival, though it was great and general; for Count Raymond was esteemed by all who knew him, in spite of a temper that blazed like kindled stubble on the first provocation, but soon burned out its anger, which was far less feared even by his dependants than the silent pride and cold sternness of his lady, of whom, notwithstanding the haste of his own wrath, the count himself stood somewhat in awe. Time passed on, and the villagers of St Quintin sowed their corn and dressed their vines, content and happy under the sway of their good lord; but about a month after his coming, there arrived amongst them a stranger, much more interesting at least in the eyes and hearts of the younger peasants. This was a girl about nineteen, fair and slight, with shining curls and sunny eyes, whose glance had seen no sorrow. She came with a good cheerful dame of the prudent age of fifty, whom she called mother, though there was no resemblance between them like that of a parent and child. The dame might have been fair in youth, but her face and mind were of the village order, whilst the girl, whom she called daughter, had a brow and air that would have graced nobility. Besides, she could read and write, and play the lute, rare accomplishments in those days among the peasant girls of Normandy; and her speech and manner had a higher tone than those common to villagers. Her name was Claire, and that of her mother Marie, and they seemed to have no other. Nothing was known of their history, but that they came from Provençe, and long before their arrival, a cottage had been prepared for them by strange workmen, at the command of Lord Raymond, who, kind as he was and liberal to all his vassals, seemed to take an extraordinary interest in their affairs. The peasants marvelled why and wherefore; but at last the mystery was explained; for a shepherd, who had been out late and long in search of a stray lamb, chanced to pass the cottagewhich was situated in a sweet but rather lonely nook, at a short distance from the village-as the old church clock chimed midnight, and saw by the light of the moon young Claire and a stranger, wrapped in a dark mantle, emerge from the door. As the shepherd advanced, the stranger whispered "Good night," and walked hastily away; but the night was breezy, and as the wind blew aside his mantle, the shepherd discovered the dress and features of Count Raymond. Villagers could gossip even in the feudal times, and before another day, it was whispered over St Quintin, that the count found a recompense in the cottage for all the coldness or aversion he experienced in the castle; but the countess was not to be trifled with, and therefore secrecy was his best policy in such a business. In spite of all such tales, the young men of the village loved to linger about the cottage, and tried to meet Claire on her way to church, or to secure her hand in the village dance. Many rivalries were caused, and some courtships broken off, in the first month of her stay at St Quintin; and it was said that she had more than one suitor with good and serious intentions. But Claire seemed to think little of them or their offers. She sat spinning all day beside her mother, and her only amusement seemed to be looking out from door or window far away for the coming of some one expected-perhaps it was Lord Raymond-or singing to her lute with a low sweet voice, songs, which she said she had learned from a Breton minstrel wandering in her own Provence. The music was sad and wild, like all the Breton songs that come down from the old Celtic people and the Druid times, as the voice of a race passing away. It was in the sunny days that come at the close of breezy March, the early leaves were in the woods, and the young corn was green, and the fête of our lady was | near, when a noble knight came with his lady and a gallant train, to spend the festive season at the castle of St Quintin. The stranger was known as the Count Fitzhubert, and Lord Raymond welcomed him and his with greater joy and more distinguished honours than he was wont to dispense to even his noblest guests. Fitzhubert was indeed a gallant goodly knight, though somewhat past the radiant days of youth. His dame, of Italian blood, seemed scarce less haughty, but far less fair than the Lady St Quintin, who showed her all courtesy as a guest. Though their meeting was like rival queens, in an hour of peace, and neither seemed much at ease, yet the countess did the honours of her house as if she knew her visitors were those that had not many equals. The fête of our lady came at last, and the peasants who had in the morning thronged the church with devotion worthy of the land of the first crusaders, in the evening assembled in their village green, round the old oak tree, wreathed with dark-green ivy, and hallowed by a wooden image of the Virgin, which stood at its foot, and had heard the prayers and dances of St Quintin from generation to generation since the days of Rolla. Young and old, maid and matron, all were in their best apparel and rustic fashion of the time. The young, crowned with garlands of the earliest flowers, danced to the sound of pipe and symbal, and the aged, seated beneath the oak of their fathers, felt their youth return for a moment, as they gazed upon the merriment, and forgot the winters which had made them gray. There too, in a rustic pavilion overlooking the festive scene, sat Lord Raymond and his noble guests, with a gay and numerous train of damsels, squires and pages, for none were absent but the countess, who had attended no festival since the tournament on her eighteenth birth-day, in which the Breton bandit, as the victorious knight, received from her hand the prize, a bracelet woven of mingled pearls and her own then shining hair, and her ladyship's confessor, Father Paul, who was under a vow never to look upon a dance since his superior found him with a lay brother footing it merrily down the centre aisle of St Gregory of Tours, on the vigil of Christmas, while a wine-flask nearly empty, on the steps of the high altar, too plainly told the cause of the good capuchins' mirth. Well it was for the good father's vow that the merriment of the scene was too distant to reach his ears, for few eyes or hearts, even of frozen age, could resist its influence, which gradually became more and more powerful as the evening wore on, till many a gray head left its place, and many a prudent matron caught the spirit of their spring time once again, and mingled with their children in the wild but joyous maze. The spirit of the hour reached the pavilion also. Pair after pair left their dignified seats, till not only the young pages but the hardy squires and courtly damsels were moving hand in hand with the village youths and maids of St Quintin. "By the mass, we are the only unhappy here," cried the Count Fitzhubert, glancing at his Italian bride, "Come, Marie, and good Lord Raymond, let us join the dancers." 66 Nay, I am not used to dance with peasants," said the dame coldly, but Fitzhubert heard not her reply, for at that moment his eye was caught by a girl who had just entered the assembly in company with a discreet matron -it was Claire of Provençe and her mother. That incident seemed to decide the question with the count, for without hazarding another invitation to his consort, he stepped lightly from the pavilion, and the next moment was bending, in courtly fashion, before the beautiful peasant, and in knightly terms requesting her hand for the dance. After some parley this was obtained, and as they moved among the joyous crowd, all eyes were turned, some in admiration, some in envy, on the graceful cavalier and his fair though lowly partner. But there was one eye that seemed as if it could scorch them both with its glance of furious jealousy. The Lady Fitzhubert followed their every motion with an intense but wrathful gaze. In vain Lord Raymond strove to persuade her to join with him in the rural festivities. Her cold and haughty answer was still that she had not been used to dance among peasants, and once she inquired who that bold and forward damsel might be who dared to dance so freely with her husband. Lord Raymond's glance flashed with a strange fire at the question, but the fierce emotion changed to something like deep sorrow as he answered, “She is a maiden of unknown birth, but her merit is great, and her fame without a stain." "It is well" said the jealous Italian, "but methinks her partners in the dance should be chosen in her own condition. But yonder comes a minstrel, followed by a friar. My lord, are they of your retainers?" The lady, who had thought proper thus to change the subject, now directed Count Raymond's attention to two strangers, who stood on a rising ground at some distance gazing on the scene. The elder of the pair was a friar, evidently of the mendicant order, and though bowed with age his figure was still tall, and there was much of dignity in his air and appearance; but his brow was furrowed, and the expression of his countenance sad and careworn, and he seemed to remonstrate with his companion earnestly, but in vain. He was a tall fair youth, with dark curling hair, and frank handsome countenance, and in spite of his minstrel garb, and the small harp which he carried in the fashion of the troubadour, there was a martial air about him that spoke of tents and arms. His gaze seemed rivetted on the scene before him, and well it might, for even old Normandy had few such prospects. Around lay a wide plain, bright with the evening sun, and burdened with growing corn, unparted by lane or hedgerow. In the midst lay the low roofs and tall church spire of the village of St Quintin, and over all rose the ancient castle, with keep, and turret, and battlement, and a far wilderness of dark spreading woods beyond, where a broad river swept on through shade and sunshine to the sea; and low, almost at the stranger's feet, lay the village green, with its loud and rustic merriment. His glance ranged for an instant over its gay groups, and then catching sight of Count Fitzhubert and his partner, he darted from the friar, who evidently wished to detain him, and bounded, harp in hand, to the very midst of the green, just as the count was conducting Claire to a seat of the smooth green turf, with many a fair and flattering speech, that better befitted a court ball-room than a village dance. Fitzhubert had by this time grown warm on the subject, and attempted to raise her small snowy hand in knightly fashion to his lips, but it was hastily withdrawn, and the young girl's look grew severe, and something of rebuke was in her tone, as she said "Nay, nay, my lord; a peasant maiden's hand may not receive the homage of lips on which the high and nobly born have a stronger claim." The count looked up in surprise, and caught the dark jealous eye of his lady gazing upon him from the pavilion, and at the same moment the hand refused to him was clasped in that of the young Breton minstrel with a glad but quiet greeting. Fitzhubert muttered something about the queen and unlucky stars, but Claire heard it not; she had no ear but for the minstrel. A few low whispered words passed between them, and the Breton cast a fierce look on the count, who thought he had seen his face before, as the stranger evidently recognised him. "Favour me with your name, young minstrel," said he, "for methinks we have met ere this, though I cannot remember where." "My name is Gaston de Marmont," said the Breton, "and we met before in the woods of Gascony, when your lordship had other work than the present on your hands. But come, Claire, let us join the dance." And before Fitzhubert could interpose a word, the pair were gone, and for that evening, and perhaps for ever, the count felt he was done with Claire; yet he lingered a moment to mark how joyously the young girl moved beside her humble partner, and then, with a long low sigh, the count turned his steps to the pavilion, for he was not the man to intrude his attentions where they were unwillingly received. It was the day which the wisdom of our ancestors con | secrated to frolic and folly, and the Count Fitzhubert was pacing along on the lofty terrace of the castle; but often he turned his eye in the direction of the village, and muttered to himself, with a dissatisfied air, "How long the knave lingers." But his countenance brightened as Jaspar, his young and trusty page, came quickly up, with a face full of intelligence. "Well, Jaspar," said the count, "what hast thou discovered regarding the maid and her strange lover?" "Only this, my lord," said the page, "that the Breton is lingering yet about the village, and the peasants have it among them that the maid steals forth to meet him in the twilight, under the shadow of the old vine that grows behind the cottage; but their meetings are in secret, it is said, because of Lord Raymond, who frequents the house, and is known to have taken a marvellous care of both the maid and her mother." "Ha!” cried Fitzhubert, is that the game, Jaspar? I would not have dreamt of this, there is so much purity in her bright young eyes; but I have a great mind to play off a jest befitting the day,-thou knowest it is the 1st of April,-on both Lord Raymond and the Breton, the saucy varlet, I cannot forget the scorn he showed me at the village dance. Strange that the girl should have preferred his hand to mine! Here, Jaspar, thou shalt be my messenger; take this signet ring, which Lord Raymond dropped while walking with me here a few minutes ago. He is gone to entreat his lady for an Arabian manuscript which I have long desired to see, and before he returns for the dame, if I guess rightly, lends no very indulgent ear to him-our business will be done. Haste, then, and carry this ring to the young Breton, wherever thou canst find him, as a token that the owner desires to speak with him on important matters affecting the peace of his only daughter. Say that the heiress is dying for love of his fair face, and bid him lose no time; for as he is a stranger in the village, he may not know that De Claroville is childless, and it will be a noble trial of both the minstrel's truth and the lord's temper. Yet, by my honour, it shall not go too hard with the Breton; for I remember well, when disarmed and unhorsed in that unlucky encounter with the troops of Guise in Gascony, how the youth spared my life when he might have taken it; though he knew not then the chance would have been the making of his fortune, as it shall. But for the fête of our lady, I must have the jest. Now go, Jaspar." Away flew the page swifter than his steps might have been on a better errand, and as Count Raymond, with his lady and guests, were seated in the banquet-hall and their morning repast just finished, the young Breton minstrel, with his faithful harp, bowed before the noble company, and presented Raymond with his signet ring. "Thanks; but where found you this?" cried De Claroville in surprise. The young Breton looked confused for a moment, and then answered boldly, "My lord, it was given me by your own page, with a message that your lordship desired to speak with me in private on matters affecting the peace of your only daughter." "Knave," thundered the count; "thou liest; I never sent such a message." "Count Raymond de Claroville," said the Breton, stepping back, and half drawing a bright rapier from beneath his garment, "if I have come to your hall unsent for, it is because I have been deceived; and were the tale true which was told me by the varlet, whom, with God's help, I will chastise as soon as I can find him, I tell the Count Raymond that the heiress of all thy broad lands would be of small account in mine eyes compared with a maiden who had no portion, and none to call father." "An heiress! an heiress!" shouted Lord Raymond, "who told thee I had an heiress? Man, I have no child," he added in a lower tone. "But who is the maiden of whom thou speakest ?" "Her name is Claire, Claire of Normandy they called her in Provence, where I first saw the light of her smile, and Claire of Provençe they call her here. To me she hath no other name, and I have nothing to offer her but a fallen though a once noble one, besides my heart, and harp, and sword-all of which are at her service. And | amined the trinket, and admired the beauty of the worknow, count, farewell; and, noble company, forgive this unwilling intrusion.” "Stay, stay," said Lord Raymond, in whose face some strange emotion seemed struggling; "excuse my haste, young minstrel, and tell me who art thou?" "My name is Gaston de Marmont," said the youth: "my father was a noble Breton; but the stain of treason and forfeiture lies on his name and lands. Ill betide the cruel laws and tyrant king that condemned him. I am his only son, brought up by a good uncle, who, being a friar himself, would make a monk of me; but, in good sooth, I prefer the harp to the cowl, and the sword to the rosary; and have foresworn the church, at least till my youth is over, for a maiden's smiles; and the holy friar having nothing better to do, haunts me from place to place like a shadow: in proof of my words, noble count, see, here he comes." As the minstrel spoke, the same old friar, in the garb of a mendicant order, who had come with him to the village, entered the hall, and, with a slight obeisance to the company, walked directly up to Count Fitzhubert, who sat an amused and deeply interested spectator of the scene. The friar fixed upon him a keen and earnest eye, whose cold clear light years had no power to dim, and then, in a low but distinct tone, said, "Count Fitzhubert, since such is the name thou hast chosen now, rememberest thou who passed with thee through the vaulted passage beneath the royal palace, to hear the last words of the dying King Charles, and tempt the power of Catherine de Medicis?" Fitzhubert started, and a crowd of dark old memories passed across his brow, as he said, "Yes, good father, I remember it well: and art thou, then, De Marmont?" "The same," said the friar, "and the brother of the Breton bandit for whose death your highness seemed so thankful, and for whose soul's sake, as well as that of my country, ruled over by heretics and traitors, I have taken upon myself this holy garb and the vows of a perpetual pilgrim." "But what wouldst thou with me?" said the count, for the friar's last words seemed rather unpalatable. "This only," said the friar, "that, by the power given thee, thou wouldst command this youth, whose soul I would save from the sins of his sire, to enter into the service of the holy church, and become a monk of the order of St Francis; and be assured the deed will forward thy interest with the see of Rome." The count's look grew thoughtful, and he turned to the friar, saying," What says the youth himself?” "That I am not a monk, my lord, and will never be, for all the counts in Normandy, nor Henry of Navarre himself, if he should command it, with the Pope and all the friars of St Francis in his favour; of which there seems little chance, for our holy father in Rome hath little love to a turncoat Huguenot." "Thou art a bold knave," said Count Fitzhubert, laughing; for the frankness of the youth seemed to have won his good-will; but I owe thee a service, and since thou art nobly born, methinks a sword and helmet would suit thy spirit better than either cap or cowl." "Thou wilt not grant my request, then?" said the friar sternly, as he turned to go. 66 Stay," said Count Fitzhubert; is the young man well descended on both father and mother's side?" The friar vouchsafed no answer, and had already passed from the hall. "Noble count," said the Breton, since thou hast such an interest in my pedigree, of my mother I can tell thee nothing, save that the good friar told me that I was born in lawful but secret wedlock, and she was a lady of high birth; but I never knew her name, for he said the secret would embroil some of the noblest families in the province: and the only memorial I have of that unknown mother is this bracelet, which she once bestowed as a love gift on my father; and his dying commands obliged the friar to surrender it to me as soon as I had reached fifteen, and I have kept it long, but found no owner.' As he spoke, the young Breton placed in the hand of the count a bracelet of woven hair, with bright large pearls shining through its glossy blackness. Fitzhubert ex manship and still lovelier hair of which it was made ; but Lord Raymond's eye was fixed upon his lady-her calm stern countenance seemed working with deep and violent emotion, which she in vain endeavoured to suppress, ever since the young Breton entered the hall; but when she caught sight of the bracelet, the countess started from her seat, and rushing wildly to the minstrel, clasped him in her arms, exclaiming, "My son, my son! pardon thy mother; that in her accursed pride she dared to defy the voice of nature, and leave thee thus long unclaimed, even when thine every glance and tone brought back upon her soul the first, and oh, my child, the last love of her unblest years." The company sat astonished at this unexpected scene; but Lord Raymond, suddenly rising, took the countess by the hand, and said, "Eveline, why hast thou not told me this? How many years of concealment and regret it might have saved us both; for I, Eveline, I also have a daughter, the cherished child of my cousin, Ambrosine de Lavelle. We have been long strangers, henceforth let us be friends, Eveline. It was not my hand that shed thy Breton's blood, but a false vassal, who fired upon him from behind. Now, thy son shall be my son, and my daughter-Oh, young man, she is Claire of Provence." "We shall have a wedding," cried Count Fitzhubert; "by my knighthood but we shall; but I have yet a word to speak with thee," said he, turning to young Gaston, who still hung upon his mother's neck. Kneel, young man; it is Henri Quatre who commands thee." The youth mechanically obeyed, and the king-for it was indeed the long remembered Henri-struck him slightly with the sword of Navarre, exclaiming, "Rise, Sir Gaston de Marmont, to inherit the land and honours of thy father's ancient race; nor shall we leave this place till a goodly bridal hath united the lands of St Quintin and Claroville for ever in the descendants of Gaston de Marmont and Claire of Provençe. Also, it is our pleasure,” added the king, as Gaston murmured his thanks," as we have some hand in the discoveries of this happy day, that, in commemoration of it, and to save the heralds trouble, thine arms, Sir Gaston, shall henceforth be, Le Poisson d'Avril." STRANORLAR, April 1846. GLACIERS. A GLACIER may be compared to an icicle depending from the snow-covered roof of a cottage, which gradually becoming thawed by the sun's heat, conveys the water of the melted snow in a trickling stream to the ground below. In those high mountains which extend beyond the line of perpetual congelation, a considerable part of their summits are covered with snow during the whole year. The glacier commences at the base of this snow-line, and extends downwards somewhat like the icicle we have just compared it to, occupying the hollow ravines on the sides of the mountain, and extending into the valleys, sometimes from 1000 to 2000 feet from the situation of the snow-line. The upper part of the glacier ed snow, which is called by the French névé, or firn consists of a mass of consolidated and partially-meltby the German Swiss. Between this mass and the true glacier there is often interposed a precipice, over which the snow is, as it were, shot, and below this the real glacier commences. The glacier consists of a vast mass of half-melted ice, which is slowly propelled along the whole length of the ravine until it comes to the plain, where, from its foot, a stream cier there are a series of clefts or cracks, crossing of water issues. Along the whole length of the glathe length of the mass in a waving manner, assuming a curve forwards in the centre of the mass, but, towards the edges, running more parallel. These waving fissures indicate the onward motion of the |