ladder, yet one that appeared very brilliant in its highest steps. He intended to do all this by his knowledge of human nature and of the world. He has had very little book learning, having never been at any better academy than our village grammar-school, but he has highly educated himself from observation of men and things; and by the aid of a good library he easily enriches his speeches with classical references and quotations. It is very easy indeed for a clever man to make the world believe that he is well read, if he can afford to have a good library, and to get it well indexed. Mr. Marysole is the son of a small farmer, and his rise in life is really quite wonderful. But in England, talent, accompanied by good luck, is permitted completely to atone for an obscure parentage and family connection. But, nevertheless, some of nature's very great men feel the remembrance of the little parlour at the back of their father's drapery or grocer's shop rather irksome and annoying. There seems to be such a very great difference between their present height and this low depth, and they have a sort of flickering fancy that the difference will be criticised in a polite way. It is this fancy which makes them hold up their heads unnaturally high, as if to wither the criticism into dust whilst it is in seed. Mr. Marysole would have given very much indeed-even some of his talent-to have had a father and grandfather that he could have mentioned with pride at Liberal dinner parties. If some of our self-raised bishops are not superior to weaknesses of this kind, we cannot expect self-raised lawyers and M. P.s to be so. It is the same sort of feeling which a clergyman of the Church of England has who has been prepared for his office at St. Bees, or some other inferior college. The humbling consciousness of it rises in him at dinner parties and at tea parties, and especially at visitations and other clerical meetings when for want of either the red or white master's hood, he feels almost as if his back were naked. Mr. Marysole's consciousness of the threelegged stool upon which, when a boy, he saw his mother so often seated milking in the cow-house, rises in him in a similar manner when he happens to be seated at a ministerial dinner by the side of an honourable baronet, or at short angles from a peer wearing across his chest the riband of the Garter. But he is far too strong a man in every respect to brood over remembrances of this kind. They cause him a momentary pang, which is followed by a more braced determination to lift himself to such a height in the world that the things behind will be completely lost sight of by himself and others. Human nature is very curious and divergent, for when Mr. Marysole comes down to address his constituents-many of whom are so familiar with the small dairy farm referred to, that it supplies them morning and evening with their necessary milk-he rather boasts of the obscurity of his origin, and prides himself on being a self-raised man. That eyeglass of his tells him that it is decidedly the best way of dealing with the assaults, personal and otherwise, of a mean organ of Mr. Disraeli's, which hangs out in a rusty street at the back of some corn warehouses, but nevertheless contrives to get itself pretty well read, and develops into a second edition whenever it attacks Mr. Marysole. Once, an injudicious Liberal paper in a neighbouring town tried to touch up with some varnish Mr. Marysole's pedigree, speaking of his father as if he had been a gentleman farmer, cultivating his own land. Now, this was very unfortunate, as the extent of Mr. Marysole's freehold was about one acre and a half of roadside land, reclaimed from an old moor that had been used chiefly as a stone quarry, and which certainly would not have fattened either a sheep or a lamb. This gave the editor of the Conservative organ at the back of the corn warehouses a splendid opportunity. It seemed to him like ready-made venom in which to dip his pen; and I feel certain that if at the moment of its discovery Mr. Marysole had seen his countenance through his eyeglass, he would have felt one of those momentary pangs which occasionally came upon him when his position, political or social, was at all menaced or undermined. Mr. Marysole, senior, and Mrs. Marysole, senior, had long retired from the dairy farm on a liberal annuity, settled on them by their distinguished son; but he never ventured to introduce them into his circle, on account of their phraseology and a squareness of figure and form which no amount of retiring allowance was able to smooth down and polish. But they were highly respectable people, thoroughly good and kind and honest, contented and grateful in that station in life in which Providence had placed them. They looked upon their son as a demigod; and he was always kind to them, and carefully hid from them any perceptions that he had of their want of polish.. Though the member for Ironopolis' sparkling and aspiring mind led him out far away from the simplicity of domestic interests, he had a strong background of what might be called blood feeling; and he returned at intervals from the broad world to the parental bosom, to show that he acknowledged it to be the fountain whence he had sprung. He came, bringing his sheaves with him telling the good old folks of all his doings in the Parliament House, as the sons of Jacob told their father of the glory of Joseph in Pharaoh's palace. He also brought them more material pleasures to be derived from capacious hampers containing hams and Wensleydale cheese. His eyeglass told him that these were presents suitable to the tastes and associations of their former life. Mr. Marysole also returned at intervals from St. Stephen's to some other domestic ties. He had, at the age of twenty-two, united himself in marriage to a lady who was considered at the time by his family to have given him a decided elevation in life. She was the only child of a farmer, who was of a saving turn, and left her about £7,000. She was an orphan, and lived, at the time of her marriage, with an uncle and aunt, who cultivated a farm about a mile and a half from that of Mr. Marysole, senior. She was fairly educated; but she had a chubby look about her, and a half-waddling gait, that made her difficult of presentation in the circles in which her husband generally moved. He was not an ungrateful man, and he constantly remembered that, through that £7,000 of hers, he had become a partner in almost every limited liability company in the district of Ironopolis. That £7,000 had grown into a tree with branches, larger than that which any grain of mustard seed produces. Mr. Marysole was now a very rich man indeed, and also derived a large professional income from his senior partnership in the firm of Marysole and Springbrok, who did the legal business of nearly all the merchant and manufacturing princes in the neighbourhood. He was a distant relation of Mrs. Timepiece; but she was not particularly proud of it, and now and then dived, in a good-natured way, into histories of his early life. Perhaps, if he had been born a gentleman, he would have been a Conservative. Risen men are almost always Liberals. In the outset of their career, having nothing to conserve, it never occurs to them to be Conservative. It is in the future that they expect to cast their anchor. It The past has no hold upon them. looks to them something like what Egypt looked to the memories of the Israelites after they had crossed the Red Sea. It would be good policy if the Conservative whip were to show these plebeian men of genius, at an early period of their legislative career, that there is a land of Goschen behind the Tory benches as accessible as that behind the Whigs. Men like Mr. Marysole have an idea that Toryism is a soil in which genius is frosted in the bud. Mr. Marysole has become a Churchman now that he is great and rich. His family have been Dissenters since John Wesley's time, and he gives most liberal subscriptions to every branch of Nonconformistism, from Congregationalists down to Primitive Ranters. It is a net by which he encloses a great multitude of fishes at election times. Mr. Marysole knows the value of money as well as Mrs. Timepiece; and he knows the value of tact, which she does not. He does a great business in shaking hands. No fist is too greasy for grip; and at polling times he has a kiss, ready and natural-looking, for almost every baby in Ironopolis. Sometimes it seems almost as if he had eyes in the back of his head, for he goes through a conversazione leaving every one satisfied with themselves and himself. I don't think he will be Premier; but however disappointed he may be in this and other respects in the years to come, it will not be seen from word or look by the public. It is about as wise for a leper to show his spots, as for a disappointed man to show to the world his sores; and this Mr. Marysole's eyeglass has told him long ago. How GASTEIN. A HINT TO TOURISTS. OW it is that more English do not visit this most charming spot every year, I cannot tell. It is well known to all Germans and Austrians, and is filled with any number of them each season. Last year everybody on the Continent was there except the French; any number of Fürsts, Herzogs, Grafs, and barons, besides greater and more unapproachable "swells "-among them the Emperor of Germany, the King of Greece, Von Bismarck, Von Beust, Von Moltke, and others, the Emperor of Austria "lying off" at Salzburg, as there was not a whole hotel vacant for him. This year there will be much the same set, so that any visitor will have a chance of seeing more of the great men of Europe in three weeks than he would otherwise do in a lifetime; and our old friend the British snob may be able to bob against a prince, and, in recoiling from him, to tread on a duke's toes. Has the reader ever been at St. Moritz that Swiss watering-place which has been lately so much the rage? If he has, he will thoroughly appreciate Gastein, which is decidedly prettier, and which, though at least twice as fashionable and not half as large, was never inconveniently full, or wanting in accommodation, and which may be as cheap or as dear as he likes. But no more on this head, comparisons being, as Mrs. Malaprop says, "odorous." “Gastuna tantum una," says the old proverb-" there is but one Gastein;" and I believe the old proverb is right. Is there any other place of which the water will revive a flower which has been faded for two days? Many old men go there every year, in hopes of being similarly revived; but I have never heard of any woman confessing to have been guilty of such a weakness. "On the beautiful blue Danube,' indeed," thought I, as I went in a steamer on that river from Passau to Linz. "What bosh these song writers expect one to believe." And being disgusted with the river-which is, indeed, as yellow as the Hooghley-and mindful of Pope's saying, that "The proper study of mankind is man," I turned my attention to my fellow-passengers, and soon found an interesting pair among the motley crowd. A tall, bearded young man, evidently in delicate health, was accompanied by his wife, perhaps not of long standing, as she appeared very attentive to him: a person of a style which has lately pleased me very much-robust, with black hair and eyes. And, indeed, I am getting very sick of our long-drawn-out females, and our glut of that eternal light hair. I easily got into conversation with the pair, and ascertained that they also were going to Gastein. Then we separated, and I went to take my solitary tour in the Tyrol. But let not the reader here tremble. I am not going to bore him with descriptions of places he has never seen —not even of Salzburg, the home of Mozart. But I should not have enumerated Von Moltke among my unapproachable "swells," as I found him particularly accessible;—a plain, unaffected soldier, content with a bedroom and sitting-room, and no servant (a contrast to a minister's suite of apartments and crowd of domestics), wooden and stift certainly, but not unkindly; a tall, freshcomplexioned elderly man, profuse in gesticulation, and not deficient in conversation: quite different from our idea of him. How often have I heard him alluded to in England as "the man who can be silent in seven languages!" Silent! Not a bit of it. I should rather say "the man who knows how to keep his own counsel in all the seven." When I took my leave, he expressed his satisfaction at having seen me in far better English than I spoke to him; while his features were lighted by a smile which looked as if it had been carved out of wood. As regards the Imperial Majesties of Germany and Austria, and their ministers, I would refer the reader to their portraits, which are all very like. The lineaments of the head of the House of Hohenzollern can, indeed, be seen in any pothouse throughout Germany; and everybody in the empire must be familiar with that broad, handsome countenance, heavy white moustache, and stalwart form. On leaving Von Moltke, I came across my friends of the steamer. Of course, we were delighted to meet, and I, in particular, to see the lady; not that I had, in any way, forgotten my Lilla, but we all know what place is supposed to be paved with good intentions. One morning, sitting outside their hotel, the rain came on; and I volunteered a legend of Hof-Gastein, told me by Dr. Pröll. The lady was eager to hear it (which quite decided me), and the gentleman, throwing himself on a chaise longue, was all attention. "You know," said I, in my best German, "that this place was known to the Romans?" "Yes, yes," said the lady, with emphatic vivacity. "Consequently," continued I, with a gratified smile at her eagerness, "you will quite understand me when I say that the young man and young woman of my story were very recent-only four hundred years ago. Still, people used in those days to be affected by a passion which is now, I am informed, quite rococo, and in the very worst style." "I listen attentively," burst in the lady; "but I am sure you do not think it can ever be rococo, while young men and young women exist." "You know more about those things than I do," said I, sentimentally. "Well, it is an old and often repeated story: the youth was ordered to the war, and both of these oldfashioned people were disconsolate. Still, he dared not propose, knowing that her mercenary father would never consent; and so the poor boy had to depart, with a heavy, heavy heart. During his absence, old Weitmoser, the gold merchant, proposed, and was eagerly accepted by the father; but the girl, mindful of her poor lover, held out stoutly, and vowed she would never consent. But at length she was bullied into having him; and shortly after she heard of the approaching return of the young man, which caused such anxiety and self-reproach that she fell ill, and Herr Weitmoser watched by her bedside until life was evidently extinct, when he consented to her lifeless form being carried away, and laid out in the little church you see opposite. We may imagine the young man's feelings when he returned, looking forward anxiously to meeting the girl whom he loved, and hearing that she was dead. In grief and despair, he went to the church, and saw there the object of all his hopes and all his thoughts, laid out on a bier, pale and motionless. In an agony, he pressed one last fond kiss on her lips, and, as he did so, her eyes opened, first to his horror, then to his unspeakable delight. She had been in a trance. Here the legend abruptly stops; nor is further mention made of him or of her, or of what old Weitmoser may have thought of the whole affair." "Sir," said the baron, "I know not which "What are Madame la Baronne's views of the young lady, and does she admire marriages of convenience?" "Certainly," said Madame, "my judg ment is in favour of both, but my feelings are against them." "Surely," replied I, "one should go by feelings in such cases." Here the baron got up from his chaise longue, and left the room. "They are dangerous guides," said the baroness. "What do I hear? Dangerous guides! Would you, a young woman, think of the danger in a case of the heart?" "Sir Geoffrey, I know nothing of those things, and such a case is not likely to happen to me now." While I bowed silently, I feared that I might have gone too far. "What a lucky man," thought I, "is the baron, to be able, whenever he likes, to have any number of soft nothings said to him in that German, which sounds so soft and charming in an undertone, from a young woman's lips. A very different tone is assumed to me." But then came the thought, "Perhaps it is a marriage of convenience, and she does not care about him." Who knows? I had but little reason for the supposition. The next day we started on an expedition, which had been before planned, to Nassfeld and a waterfall beyond it. As we had predicted, the ride to Nassfeld had quite knocked the baron up, and so we had to go on to the waterfall without the obstinate man, leaving our horses behind, and trudging onwards on foot, as was necessary. A man from Nassfeld pointed out the path to us, and pointed it out, as I suspect, wrongly. Be that as it may, one of those blinding snow-storms, which are common in the Tyrol even in the summer time, came on, and, after wandering about till we had most completely and hopelessly lost our way, we were glad of shelter for the night in a wooden country house. Here was a situation for a novelist! And, indeed, I might have made it into one, but for the provoking stiffness and ceremony of the lady, who was much more formal to me than at starting. After a most unappetis ing supper, chiefly of black bread, we turned into what we were lucky to get a room each, at opposite sides of the salle à manger. I presented the lady with a wedge, which I had hewn out of wood, to put under her door from the inside. As I turned into bed in my room on the other side, I thought to myself, "Here is a situation! Suppose the baron is a jealous husband! It is natural that he should be So. Well, I must make the best of a rather unfortunate predicament, and do my best to allay his anger. She is certainly very handsome, and her downright Teutonic manner and her German are very engaging. Yes, she is handsome, certainly, and so like my Lilla-so like my Lilla; quite reminds me of her." And here I fell asleep. As I awoke, there stood before me in the gray daylight, Lilla, my well-remembered Lilla, looking at me or rather, through me-with those solemn brown eyes which I knew so well. Being too sensible to be alarmed by a mere spectral illusion, such as has presented itself to other men on awaking from sleep, and such as would be doubly likely to present itself to me, who had had the original before my thoughts so often, my only idea was "How can I ever have thought of comparing any woman with my Lilla? Who is there in the world who could be like her?" Consequently, when the baroness appeared, I was quite disenchanted. "My goodness!" thought I, "what can I ever have seen in this tumbled and tossed figure?" and with relief I followed a man who had been sent by the baron the night before to lead us back to him. The entire absence of anything at all like jealousy on his part taught me that he looked on his wife as being above suspicion, which I am sure she was. This timely reminder made me more eager than ever to be united to Lilla. After all, I was only a man, and a very weak man. I might be tempted to forget her again. And so I left Gastein before my course was finished, regardless of the wound for which I had come not being healed. In one, the good men fail, the bad succeed; And woman's faith beats down our faith in truth, While the unheeded hours pass by and go. There beauty fades not, smiles change not to tears, Mirth never palls, and wine doth not destroy; Love is immortal, manhood has no fears, No cloud is there 'tween sunshine and our joy. Oh, world of fiction!--all unreal, yet trueAnd for thy chiefs, what crown of praise is due, If any crown is dear to them we greet? The kings and statesmen pass across the stageThey vex the world and us-and then they die : Forgotten soon, save where on history's page Dry lists of dead men's names make schoolboys sigh. What fit thanks can we frame our debt to meet? But these, our writers-when one dies, the hours Are hushed awhile, because they could not save; And smiles and tears, like sunshine crossed by flowers, Arch an eternal rainbow o'er his grave: Never forgotten-yet we mourn his loss, As of some friend long-loved and deeply tried, Or as of sunshine that has lain across So long, we deemed it ne'er would leave our side; Therefore, when tidings came, how in fair spring Death had seized one whose heart no winter knew, Great sadness fell on us, remembering Days of our youth when things seemed fair and true; When we lay, deep beneath the apple shade, Of revelry and Ireland, sword and gown- Of hardihood that trampled danger down-Proctors and doctors, undergrads, dragoons, Vivandières and priests, and muleteers gay; Groves dear to maidens, soldiers, stars, and moons, Swept past our faney in their wild array. And is he dead, who told so well-whose pen Grew wise, but never dull-whose laughter rang, If not so loud, as genial still as when Among his Dublin monks he drank and sang? Farewell, Charles Lever! Could fate overlook, But for one other work, thy fruitful days! Farewell! the world is gloomier. Ill we brook To lose thy voice in Joy's small choir of Praise. It was a matter of course that the name of Charles Lever should be included in our list of eminent men of letters for a series of |