WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE.
The greatest English statesman of the time is by descent a Scotchman, his father having removed from Scotland to Liverpool, in England, where he became a wealthy merchant, and where in 1809 his second son, William, was born.
At his first school the young Gladstones (as the name then was) was considered very stupid at arithmetic; but he must soon have overcome this failing, for at the University of Oxford he took the highest honors in mathematics as well as in classical studies, and as a statesman he has handled the enormous revenues of the British Empire with wonderful skill.
At twenty-three years of age Mr. Gladstone became a member of Parliament, and during the half-century that has elapsed since that time he has only been without a seat in the House of Commons for a few months. At thirty-four he became a member of the cabinet, and in every succeeding cabinet, when the Liberal party has been in power, he has had a seat.
He has twice been Prime Minister—an office which can be held only so long as the Minister is supported by a majority of the members of the House. This office he still holds; and though he is said to be anxious to retire from public life, he is so far superior to any other statesman in the Liberal party that he must remain at its head as long as health and strength will permit.
Although he is now seventy-two years of age, Mr. Gladstone is still a young man so far as work is concerned. It is said that he does the work of two men, and as if to prove the fact, he holds two offices in the government of which he is the head.
He is a powerful speaker, and has frequently spoken in Parliament, and once in the open air, for four hours without a break. The fact that he held the attention of his listeners for so long a time is the highest tribute to his powers as an orator.
When Mr. Gladstone wants rest, he reads Homer in the original Greek or writes a book, and for recreation he cuts down trees in his beautiful park at Hawarden, in Wales. Abraham Lincoln in his youth was a rail-splitter; Mr. Gladstone in the fullness of his years is an expert lumberer.
THE NEW LOVE.
[A BATTLE OF ICEBERGS.]
BY DAVID KER.
"Well, Jack, my boy, d'ye see anythin'? Keep a bright lookout, you know, for we all looks to you!"
"Come, don't make fun o' me, Bob! P'raps I'll have as sharp eyes as yourn afore I'm half your size."
Anybody might well have wondered to hear a child's voice speaking from the mast-head of a North Sea whaler, and still more surprised would he have been at sight of the figure from which that voice proceeded.
There were two persons in the "crow's-nest," as the lookout post of a whaler is called. This is simply a big cask firmly lashed to the mast with small ropes, and supported by two pieces of stout planking.
One of the two watchers on this occasion was a grim old sailor, with a voice as harsh as his face, which, roughened by the storms of fifty years, and framed in short iron-gray hair and whiskers, looked very much like the battered figure-head of some weather-worn old ship. His companion was a little boy of ten, whose fair hair and round ruddy face appeared quite babyish beside the granite-hewn visage of the "old salt."
But young as he looked, Jack Raikes was no baby. Those blue eyes of his were as sharp as any on board; and to run up the weather-rigging in a stiff breeze, climb to the mast-head and hang his cap on it, was mere play to "little Jack," as the sailors affectionately called him.
"So, my lad," said Bob Watson, laughing, "you thinks your eyes'll be as good as mine afore long. Well, you're a sharp-sighted 'un for your age, you are, but I don't know as how you're quite up to me yet. Come, s'pose we tries which'll sight a whale fust?"
But the smile suddenly vanished from the old sea-man's face, as a gleam of sunshine fades into a rising cloud. He arched his hand over his eyes, and gazed fixedly to the northward, his look becoming graver and graver with every moment, until Jack was quite startled.
"What's up, Bob? Anything wrong?"
"Can't say yet, lad, but I'm afeard so. Let's have another look. Yes, it's just as I thought. God help us!"
And putting both hands to his mouth, he shouted at the top of his voice:
"Deck, ahoy! Look out for ice!"
The men, who were lying idly about the deck, sprang to their feet at once, and there was a sudden bustle which showed that the warning had been heard and understood.
"Where away?" hallooed the Captain.
"Right ahead—two on 'em—bearin' down upon us!"
The Captain's hard mouth set itself a little tighter, but that was all. He threw a quick glance to windward, and then shouted to the steersman, "Keep her away a point or two!"
"Ay, ay, sir!"
There was no sign of fear in either Captain or crew—only a grave, subdued look on every face, which showed that they fully understood their danger, although it could not terrify them. And yet the peril was one which might well have dismayed the bravest man alive. Once caught between the two approaching mountains of ice, the vessel would be crushed like an egg-shell, and she and all her crew sent to the bottom together. Nor did there seem to be much chance of escape. The wind was light, and what little there was of it was driving the ship straight toward the icebergs as they drifted with the current. Unless they should change their course, or the wind shift suddenly, the doom of both ship and crew appeared certain.
Little Jack had caught sight of the advancing masses almost as soon as his old friend, and the sudden paling of his ruddy cheeks showed how fully he understood the situation. He looked wistfully up in Bob's face, as if to ask whether there was any hope for them, and the old sailor, mindful of his little pet even in the teeth of that deadly peril, answered, as cheerily as ever: "Well, Jack, my son, them two lubbers is a-tryin' hard to outmanoover us, ain't they? But you jist see if we don't git the weather-gauge on 'em yet!"
By this time the icebergs were near enough to be plainly visible from the deck, and the sudden chilling of the air by their approach, like the coldness of coming death, was felt by every man on board. Onward they came, those great cathedrals of frost, slowly, steadily, mercilessly, like the march of a destroying army.
And all the while the sea around them was blue and bright, and the sun shone brilliantly in a cloudless sky, and the great battlements of ice glowed like living rainbows with every variety of gorgeous coloring—blue, red, green, and gold. And so, with all the beauty and splendor of life around them, the doomed men stood silently awaiting death.
Old Bob set his teeth hard, and pressed his hand firmly upon little Jack's shoulder.
"'Tain't for myself as I minds it," he muttered, "for my time's pretty nigh up; but it do seem hard for this little chap to be cut off in his fust blossomin' like. If my life could go for hisn, God knows I'd give it gladly."
And now, as if to destroy the last chance of escape, her terrible assailants parted suddenly, the one bearing down upon her port and the other upon her starboard quarter, as if to shut her in between them. Even the iron-nerved Captain changed color, and flung down his speaking-trumpet in despair. But just as all hope seemed gone, the long-hoped-for shift of the wind came.
"Starboard your helm!—starboard!" roared the Captain, instantly.
"Starboard it is."
One quick turn of the helm, and the vessel glided past the nearest berg, so close that one of the projecting ice points scraped her taffrail. Even that slight contact with the mighty mass made her whole frame quiver from stem to stern; but the danger was past, and the crew breathed freely once more.
"Now, my boys," shouted the youngest of the men, "stand by and see them two have it out by theirselves."
It was even so. The two destroyers, balked of their prey, were rushing straight upon each other. The wind had lulled again as if holding its breath for the coming battle, and all was as still as death, when the two moving mountains clashed together.
There came a crash to which the loudest thunder would have been as nothing, and the smooth sea boiled up into huge waves, dashing the vessel about like a toy, while the very air was darkened with flying splinters of ice. When the rush passed, the contending icebergs were seen to be at some distance, swaying dizzily to and fro like two living combatants reeling under a heavy stroke.
"At it again, old fellers!" cried young Simmonds; "that first bout don't count neither way."
Again came the terrible shock, followed by a fierce, grinding crash, as a huge pinnacle of ice, heavy enough to sink a hundred-gun ship, fell thundering into the sea.
"Port your helm!—port!" shouted the Captain.
"Port it is," answered the steersman, coolly, and the vessel sheered off.
She was not a moment too soon. Hardly had she got clear when the nearest iceberg was seen to lurch heavily forward. For an instant it rocked violently to and fro, and then plunged down into the sea, with a noise that might have been heard for miles.[2] The billows cast up by its fall tossed the strong ship aloft like a feather, flinging all the crew upon their faces; and for a moment sea and sky were all one blinding whirl of foam.
There was a moment of awful silence, when nothing could be heard but the groaning of the ship's timbers and the awful roar of the waves.
Then, as the frightened men rose to their feet, Bill Simmonds cried out, "We ain't dead this time, anyway."
But old Bob Watson drew little Jack to his side, and whispered to him:
"Jack, lad, when ye say yer prayers to-night, don't forget to thank God for savin' us, for if 'twasn't for that shift o' wind, all our lives warn't worth that."
[AN OLD-FASHIONED AMUSEMENT.]
In by-gone days it was quite the fashion for learned and clever people to amuse themselves by forming anagrams on the names of their acquaintances or on those of the celebrated public men. Isaac Disraeli, father of the late Lord Beaconsfield, mentions the custom in his book about the Curiosities of Literature.
It was considered a delicate compliment to send an anagram to your friend. One polite Frenchman, a poet, as it happened, sent his lady-love, whose name was Magdelaine, a budget containing no less than three dozen quaint and witty anagrams.
And now perhaps you would like me to tell you what an anagram is, and how it is made. It is a simple playing with letters. You take any word or sentence, and you make other words and sentences from it, using all the letters in the original, and changing them about as you please, so long as you make sense, but not using any others. You may not omit an a or an o which chances to be in your way, and you may not borrow a t or an s from the rest of the alphabet to help you out of a puzzle. You must use only the letters in the name you have selected.
Galenus transposed becomes Angelus. I ought to tell you here that there are exceptions to the rule requiring you to use only the letters given in any name. In old times i, j, u, v, w, and sometimes c and k, were changed around by people to suit their own convenience, and so, rather than lose the making of a very good anagram, you may take some liberties with those particular letters.
On a rainy spring evening, when you are all at home together, it would be charming to try this antiquated game of wit. Get out the sheets of note-paper and the pens, and let everybody help. I would not be astonished if even grandpa were to take a share in the fun.
Let me give you some illustrations. Queen Elizabeth was noted during her long reign for her wise government at home, and her courage in defying her enemies of other lands. She was always surrounded by courtiers who liked to please her, and in her day it was thought more elegant to write in Latin than in plain English. One of the noblemen made this anagram one day after dinner:
Elizabetha Regina Angliæ—
Anglis Agna, Hiberiæ Lea.
Of course this Latin does not bother the big boys, but for the benefit of little Puss in the Corner, I'll translate it. It means that Elizabeth, the Queen, was a lamb to the English and a lion to the Spanish, which the latter no doubt thought was true when the great ships that composed their wonderful "Armada" went to pieces on her coast.
In very, very old times there was an idea that an anagram really possessed the power to tell a person's character. But that was mere nonsense. It is only a dainty trifle, like a cross-word, an acrostic, or any other puzzle.
There was once a Lady Eleanor Davies, who annoyed the community by preaching in the streets of London. She was very likely insane, but she thought herself a prophetess. The police arrested her, and she was taken before the English Court of High Commission to answer for her misbehavior.
She said she knew God wished her to preach, because she had found in her name this anagram:
Eleanor Davies—.
Reveal, O Daniel.
Now she ought to have had here an s, and she had an l to which she had no right, so her anagram was not correct. It rather impressed the by-standers, though, and the judges would have found it hard to persuade the poor lady to promise to keep still in future, if she had not been crushed by another anagram which somebody made up on the spot,
Dame Eleanor Davies—
Never so mad a ladie!
From that moment she yielded to her fate.
Nobody was ever more hated than Napoleon Bonaparte in England in the beginning of this century. Therefore he was a popular man who was the author of this:
Napoleon Bonaparte—
Bona rapta leno pone.
"Rascal, yield up your stolen possessions."
There are two very good anagrams on two of Napoleon's conquerors, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, and Horatio Nelson. The first is, "Let well-foiled Gaul secure thy renown." Gaul is the ancient name of France. The second is in Latin:
Horatio Nelson—
Honor est a Nilo.
"There is honor from the Nile." The battle of the Nile was the first in which Lord Nelson won a great victory, when he was highest in command.
Many of you have read in history, and in the novels of Sir Walter Scott, about that unfortunate Prince, Charles James Stuart, who was called the Pretender. The brave Highlanders rallied around him, and gave their lives and fortunes in the attempt to restore him to his father's throne, partly because they had great faith in two anagrams. One was:
Charles James Stuart—
He asserts a true claim.
The other,
James Stuart—
A just master.
Alas, for "bonnie Prince Chairlie!" the charm was in vain. He never sat on England's throne. He died without a kingdom, a broken-hearted man.
The question asked by the Roman Governor, Pilate, of our Saviour, who stood before him a prisoner, "What is truth?" is, in Latin, "Quid est Veritas?" It has been rendered, "Vir est qui adest," the Man who is before you.
You remember Florence Nightingale, who went with a band of nurses to take care of the poor soldiers wounded in the Crimea, or sick with fever in the wretched camps of the allied armies. They called her "the lady with the lamp," and all England—yes, all the world—loves her. Is not this a pretty anagram on her sweet name:
Florence Nightingale—
Flit on, cheering angel?
It is curious what pat anagrams you may make on certain words which relate to things. For instance, Presbyterian, by a shake like a turn of the kaleidoscope, is "best in prayer," and Penitentiary, "nay, I repent it." Old England easily becomes "Golden Land," and what could better describe the state of busy editors than "so tired" of reading and writing? Astronomers are "moon-starers," of course; and is not the telegraph "a great help"?
We wonder who will succeed best in this anagram building, father and mother or the young folks? If some of the latter succeed in making very happy anagrams, they will not regret their revival of this old-fashioned amusement.